“You are the best judge, ma’am, of what will most contribute to your happiness,” rejoined the counsellor, after a brief pause. “In the ignorance in which we are kept of the past, I might well add, the _only_ judge; though it is possible that your female companions know more, in this respect, than your legal advisers. It is proper I should say, once more, and probably for the last time, that your case will be greatly prejudiced unless you enable us to dwell on your past life freely and truly.” “I am accused of murdering an unoffending female and her husband; of setting fire to the dwelling, and of robbing them of their gold. These are accusations that can properly be answered only by a complete acquittal, after a solemn investigation. No half-way measures will do. I must be found not guilty, or a blot rests on my character for life. My position is singular—I had almost said cruel—in some respects owing to my own wilfulness——” Here Anna Updyke pressed closer to her friend’s side, as if she would defend her against these self-accusations; while Marie Moulin dropped her needle, and listened with the liveliest curiosity. “In _many_ respects, perhaps,” continued Mary, after a short pause, “and I must take the consequences. Wilfulness has ever been my greatest enemy. It has been fed by perfect independence and too much money. I doubt if it be good for woman to be thus tried. We were created for dependence, Mr. Dunscomb; dependence on our fathers, on our brothers, and perhaps on our husbands”—here there was another pause; and the cheeks of the fair speaker flushed, while her eyes became brilliant to light. “_Perhaps!_” repeated the counsellor, with solemn emphasis. “I know that men think differently from us on this subject——” “From _us_—do you desire me to believe that most women wish to be independent of their husbands? Ask the young woman at your side, if _that_ be her feeling of the duties of her sex.” Anna dropped her head on her bosom, and blushed scarlet. In all her day-dreams of happiness with John Wilmeter, the very reverse of the feeling now alluded to, had been uppermost in her mind; and to her nothing had ever seemed half as sweet as the picture of leaning on him for support, guidance, authority, and advice. The thought of independence would have been painful to her; for a principle of nature, the instinct of her sex, taught her that the part of woman was “to love, honour, and obey.” As for Mary Monson, she quailed a little before the severe eye of Dunscomb; but education, the accidents of life, and possibly a secret principle of her peculiar temperament, united to stimulate her to maintain her original ground.