“All that may be true, but avoid what is termed a woman of independent spirit. They are usually so many devils incarnate. If they happen to unite moneyed independence with moral independence, I am not quite certain that their tyranny is not worse than that of Nero. A tyrannical woman is worse than a tyrannical man, because she is apt to be capricious. At one moment she will blow hot, at the next cold; at one time she will give, at the next clutch back her gifts; to-day she is the devoted and obedient wife, to-morrow the domineering partner. No, no, Jack, marry a _woman_; which means a kind, gentle, affectionate, thoughtful creature, whose heart is so full of _you_, there is no room in it for herself. Marry just such a girl as Anna Updyke, if you can get her.” “I thank you, sir,” answered John, colouring. “I dare say the advice is good, and I shall bear it in mind. What would you think of a woman like Mary Monson, for a wife?” Dunscomb turned a vacant look at his nephew, as if his thoughts were far away, and his chin dropped on his bosom. This abstraction lasted but a minute, however when the young man got his answer. “Mary Monson _is_ a wife, and I fear a bad one,” returned the counsellor. “If she be the woman I suppose her to be, her history, brief as it is, is a very lamentable one. John, you are my sister’s son, and my heir. You are nearer to me than any other human being, in one sense, though I certainly love Sarah quite as well as I do you, if not a little better. These ties of feeling are strange links in our nature! At one time I loved your mother with a tenderness such as a father might feel for a child; in short, with a brother’s love—a brother’s love for a young, and pretty, and good girl, and I thought I could never love another as I loved Elizabeth. She returned my affection, and there was a period of many years when it was supposed that we were to pass down the vale of life in company, as brother and sister—old bachelor and old maid. Your father deranged all this, and at thirty-four my sister left me. It was like pulling my heart-strings out of me, and so much the worse, boy, because they were already sore.” John started. His uncle spoke hoarsely, and a shudder, that was so violent as to be perceptible to his companion, passed through his frame. The cheeks of the counsellor were usually colourless; now they appeared absolutely pallid. “This, then,” thought John Wilmeter, “is the insensible old bachelor, who was thought to live altogether for himself. How little does the world really know of what is passing within it! Well may it be said, ‘here is a skeleton in every house.’” Dunscomb soon recovered his self-command. Reaching forth an arm, he took his nephew’s hand, and said affectionately—