"I dare say we should, dear Raymond," said Jenny; "but I cannot feel that it is the right thing, while I have not _that_ feeling for you which overpowers everything else; it seems to me that I ought not to give up my place at home. Papa depends on me a good deal, and they both will want me more and more." "Less than my mother." "I don't know; and they are my first duty. I can always come to your mother when I am wanted, and I know in your secret soul you prefer me on those terms." He made no answer, only when passing the lodge he said, "Will you consider it a little longer, Jenny?" But this only resulted in a note:-- "DEAR RAYMOND,--Considering only shows me that I must be Archie Douglas's now and for ever. I can't help it. It is better for you; for you can find some young girl who can wake your heart again, as never could be done by your still affectionate J. B." Raymond and Jenny had met so often since, that the matter was entirely past, and no one ever guessed it. At any rate, Rosamond, the most ready to plunge into counsel to Cecil, was the least likely to have it accepted; Rosamond had foibles of her own that Cecil knew of, and censured freely enough within herself. That never-ending question, whether what became the Colonel's daughter became the clergyman's wife, would crop up under endless forms. Rosamond, in all opinions, was good-natured and easy, and always for pardon and toleration to an extent that the Compton code could not understand. She could not bear that anybody should be punished or shut out of anything; while there was no denying that, now the first novelty was passing, she was very lazy as to her parochial work, and that where her feelings were not stirred she was of little use. Julius seemed shamefully tolerant of her omissions, and likewise of her eagerness for all gaieties. He would not go himself, would not accept a dinner invitation for any of the three busy nights of the week, and refused all those to dances and balls for himself, though he never hindered Rosamond's going. She used absolutely to cry with passionate entreaties that he would relent and come with her, declaring that he was very unkind, he knew it took away all her pleasure--he was a tyrant, and wanted her not to go. And then he smiled, and owned that he hoped some day she would be tired of it; whereat she raged, and begged him to forbid her, if he really thought her whole life had been so shocking, declaring in the same breath that she would never disown her family, or cast a slur on her mother and sisters. It always ended in her going, and though never again offending as by her bridal gown, she seldom failed to scandalize Cecil by an excess of talking and of waltzing, such as even Raymond regretted, and which disabled her for a whole day after from all but sofa, sleep, novels, and yawns. Was this the person whose advice the discreet heiress of Dunstone was likely to follow?