I will not suppose that any of my readers are superficial persons; and only superficial persons need be told that Alice Carter was a young woman of unusually strong judgment and sound sense. And, further: all persons like her are similarly characterized. Doubtless, a sense of humor is not necessary to the chemist or the naturalist or the mathematician,—to one pursuing a special branch of knowledge; but in that science of sciences, the knowledge of men and things, no eminence is possible without it. ’Tis the blind who fall into pits; and the man who cannot see the absurd in others can in nowise himself escape being ridiculous. I know of but one bird with long ears; and he looks exceeding wise; but let him but venture forth from the twilight of his hiding-place into the full glare of day, and the first school-boy that passes whistling by, shall knock him on the head. And so, among men, the most solemn owl is ever the most solemn ass. Yes, our little Alice of the merry-glancing hazel eyes was a wise virgin and of exceeding tact; but when she warned her friend against falling in love with the Don, she blundered,—blundered most grieviously when she planted in Mary’s mind the idea that he was not indifferent to her. She loved Mary dearly, with a love securely based on similarity of principles and dissimilarity of temperament, and cemented by the closest association from their very infancy. She admired her, too,—admired her gifts, the unusual range of her womanly culture, her enthusiasm for all that was high and noble, the glowing beauty of her language when she discoursed of anything that kindled her blood. At such times she would sit gazing upon Mary’s face, illumined as it was with a beautiful enthusiasm, and feel that she herself was almost despicable. Yet a reaction always came. Mary was not what is called practical. Her head was among the stars, as it were, while her feet were stumbling along the earth; and Alice revenged herself upon her goddess, for her enforced worship, by playing upon her foibles and blunders with an incessant spray of delicate and sparkling raillery. Even the school-girl love-affairs that they had had when about twelve or thirteen years of age had been characteristic of the two friends. Mary’s youth rejoiced in the aristocratic name of Arthur, while Alice’s lad was known as plain Harry. Arthur was curly-haired and pale of face, and generally had, as he sauntered to school, some novel or other concealed about his person. Harry was a brisk, bullet-headed chap, champion knucks’ player of the school; while, at mumble-peg, his stubby, upturned nose allowed him to rise superior even to defeat. “I can’t see, Alice, how you can fancy a boy with a pug nose,” said Mary, one day.