When at last we were seated about the table, Mr. Seymour asked grace, and this with such show of reverence that I was awed by it as something new and strange. For such a thing was not usual, you must know, in the new country. Not that men were lacking in respect for religious observances; on the contrary, but time pressed, and, moreover, it was thought that such delicate matters should be left to those trained, so to speak, in things of that nature. On occasion, to be sure, the more venturesome would, if asked, raise their voices openly; but such practices were cause rather of wonder at the courage they evinced than desire to emulate them on the part of the more timid of the community. Mr. Seymour’s custom, however, seemed to me to be so good and reverent that I determined if I ever grew to man’s estate to do the same; but such resolves, however commendable, are rarely followed, for when I came to have a home of my own, and children sat about the table, I put it off, as weak men ever do in cases of this nature. For a long time the dinner promised to be without speech, all seeming to be oppressed at the step that had been taken—a step that would, for good or bad, color forever the life of at least one of their number. At last Mr. Seymour, looking across to where I sat, said, with an encouraging smile: "I hope, Gilbert, you don’t feel any regret at what has been done?" "No, sir," I answered; "why should I?" "Nor have any disposition to turn back?" "It would be too late for that, I’m afraid, even if I wanted to," I answered. "Aunt Jane would never forgive me so great an offense." "No, not too late, if you regret the step. The blame for what has been done is all ours, and no part of it would rest on your head," he answered, kindly. "I don’t regret it, but I’m sorry for Aunt Jane," I answered; for, however loth I was to live with her, she was entitled to my respect, if not my love. So much, I thought, I owed my father’s memory. "Well, you may be sorry," Mr. Seymour answered. "We all admire your aunt, and if she would unbend a little and let her face relax into a smile on occasion, she would be a most attractive and lovable woman; but immersed in her thoughts, and formal of manner because of it, she is like the icebergs one sometimes meets in midocean, she is so cold and inaccessible." "It’s her way, and doesn’t mean anything, mother always said," I answered. "Perhaps so; but age does not change or soften her way, as it does most people. Your Uncle Job may not prove as watchful a guardian as she would have been, Gilbert, but your heart will be the warmer and your figure the more supple for the freedom," Mr. Seymour went on. "I’m sure I shall be content," I answered, looking at Constance, not finding it in my heart to say I could be happy with any one away from her.