I am afraid I did not think very much about Mary when we were married. Of course I meant to do my duty by her: that goes without saying. And her resistance and dislike did not make me angry. They rather amused me. It seemed so odd that she should think herself of consequence enough to be so deeply offended. She, a girl, with all her life before her--fifteen--of no present importance to any mortal, though no doubt she would ripen into something after a while. When Mr Peveril distressed himself about what he called her want of respect to me, I used to smile at him. He would have made her love me by force had that been possible--as if her little sullenness, poor child, made any difference! It was quite natural, besides--only foolish, if she could but have seen it. She was a naughty child, and she thought herself a virgin-martyr. I hope it is not wicked of me to be amused by that virgin-martyr look. I know it so well. I have seen it over and over again in all sorts of circumstances. To say a tragedy-queen is nothing. There is a sublime patience, a pathos about your virgin-martyrs, which far outdoes anything else. Poor little Mary! if I had not seen that she was quite happy in her own thoughts, even when she thought herself most miserable, I should have taken more notice of it. I can’t tell what she was always thinking about--whether it was some imaginary lover or romance of her own that she kept weaving for hours together; but it kept her happy anyhow. She was very provoking sometimes--never was there such a spoiled child. She balked me thoroughly in one thing, and would not let me be her governess as well as her stepmother; which was what I wished. How often should I have liked to box her little impertinent ears, and then laugh and kiss her into good-humour! But in that point there was nothing to be done. I had to leave all to time, in which I hoped--without, alas! having the least thought, the least provision, how short my time was to be. You will see that I am not one to linger upon my private feelings. I have said nothing to you about my happiness. I can say nothing about my grief. The beautiful life stopped short--the light went out--an end seemed to come to everything. I cannot say more about it. Everything ended--except one’s pulse, which will go on beating, and the long hours and days that have to be got through somehow, and the bread that has to be eaten in spite of one’s self--and has to be earned too, as if it were worth the while. * * * * *