Mrs. Woodward, nevertheless, had her own sentiments on the matter, which were not quite in unison with those of her daughter. But then she was not in love with Alaric, and her daughter was. She thought that Alaric's love was a passion that had but lately come to the birth, and that had he been true to his friend--nobly true as Gertrude had described him--it would never have been born at all, or at any rate not till Harry had had a more prolonged chance of being successful with his suit. Mrs. Woodward understood human nature better than her daughter, or, at least, flattered herself that she did so, and she felt well assured that Alaric had not been dying for love during the period of Harry's unsuccessful courtship. He might, she thought, have waited a little longer before he chose for his wife the girl whom his friend had loved, seeing that he had been made the confidant of that love. Such were the feelings which Mrs. Woodward felt herself unable to repress; but she could not refuse her consent to the marriage. After all, she had some slight twinge of conscience, some inward conviction that she was prejudiced in Harry's favour, as her daughter was in Alaric's. Then she had lost all right to object to Alaric, by allowing him to be so constantly at the Cottage; and then again, there was nothing to which in reason she could object. In point of immediate income, Alaric was now the better match of the two. She kissed her daughter, therefore, and promised that she would do her best to take Alaric to her heart as her son-in-law. 'You will tell Uncle Bat, mamma?' said Gertrude. 'O yes--certainly, my dear; of course he'll be told. But I suppose it does not make much matter, immediately?' 'I think he should be told, mamma; I should not like him to think that he was treated with anything like disrespect.' 'Very well, my dear, I'll tell him,' said Mrs. Woodward, who was somewhat surprised at her daughter's punctilious feelings about Uncle Bat. However, it was all very proper; and she was glad to think that her children were inclined to treat their grand-uncle with respect, in spite of his long nose. And then Gertrude was preparing to leave the room, but her mother stopped her. 'Gertrude, dear,' said she. 'Yes, mamma.' 'Come here, dearest; shut the door. Gertrude, have you told Linda yet?' 'No, mamma, not yet.' As Mrs. Woodward asked the question, there was an indescribable look of painful emotion on her brow. It did not escape Gertrude's eye, and was not to her perfectly unintelligible. She had conceived an idea--why, she did not know--that these recent tidings of hers would not be altogether agreeable to her sister. 'No, mamma, I have not told her; of course I told you first. But now I shall do so immediately.' 'Let me tell her,' said Mrs. Woodward, 'will you, Gertrude?' 'Oh! certainly, mamma, if you wish it.'