_Father._--I don't know that it has been all in vain. But it is quite possible she does not understand me. She fancies, I dare say, that I believe every thing without any trouble, and therefore cannot enter into her difficulties. _Mother._--But you have told her many and many a time that you do. _Father._--Yes: and I hope I was right; but the same things look so different to different people that the same words won't describe them to both; and it may seem to her that I am talking of something not at all like what she is feeling or thinking of. But when she sees the troubled face of Percivale, she knows that he is suffering; and sympathy being thus established between them, the least word of the one will do more to help the other than oceans of argument. Love is the one great instructor. And each will try to be good, and to find out for the sake of the other. _Mother._--I don't like her going from home for the help that lay at her very door. _Father._--You know, my dear, you like the Dean's preaching much better than mine. _Mother._--Now, that is unkind of you! _Father._--And why? [My father went on, taking no heed of my mother's expostulation.] Because, in the first place, it _is_ better; because, in the second, it comes in a newer form to you, for you have got used to all my modes; in the third place, it has more force from the fact that it is not subject to the doubt of personal preference; and lastly, because he has a large, comprehensive way of asserting things, which pleases you better than my more dubitant mode of submitting them,--all very sound and good reasons: but still, why be so vexed with Wynnie? [My mother was now, however, so vexed with my father for saying she preferred the Dean's preaching to his,--although I doubt very much whether it wasn't true,--that she actually walked out of the octagon room where they were, and left him to meditate on his unkindness. Vexed with herself the next moment, she returned as if nothing had happened. I am only telling what my mother told me; for to her grown daughters she is blessedly trusting.] _Mother._--Then if you will have them married, husband, will you say how on earth you expect them to live? He just makes both ends meet now: I suppose he doesn't make things out worse than they are; and that is his own account of the state of his affairs. _Father._--Ah, yes! that _is_--a secondary consideration, my dear. But I have hardly begun to think about it yet. There will be a difficulty there, I can easily imagine; for he is far too independent to let us do any thing for him. _Mother._--And you can't do much, if they would. Really, they oughtn't to marry yet. _Father._--Really, we must leave it to themselves. I don't think you and I need trouble our heads about it. When Percivale considers himself prepared to marry, and Wynnie thinks he is right, you may be sure they see their way to a livelihood without running in hopeless debt to their tradespeople.