She explained her course of action quite coolly to the flabbergasted Isabel: ‘You forced my door; I forced your buttons. Now we are equals; you’d better go.’ She opened the door again as she spoke. Eye to eye they looked at each other; then Miss Sparling walked out. And as Davidina watched her depart, she said to herself, ‘I wonder whether she’s going to be the making of him?’ Davidina had got it firmly into her head that it was better to provide Jonathan with enemies than with friends. She saw that popularity might be the ruin of him; it was sisterly partiality which made her think that unpopularity would be a corrective. In the event Isabel had the making of him in a direction that Davidina could never have dreamed. When Mr. Trimblerigg came home, creeping in by the back way after dark, Davidina presented him with the letter ending in five crosses, saying that Miss Sparling had left it for him. ‘Have you read it,’ he inquired uncomfortably. ‘No; did you want me to?’ said Davidina in a calculated tone of surprise. He could not quite credit her with not having read it; but it was a great comfort to pretend she had not read it, and to have the pretence shared. And if a human can understand that state of mind he will understand a good deal of the mind of Mr. Trimblerigg. Mr. Trimblerigg as soon as he was alone, read the letter carefully through. He remembered the occasion of it, but had forgotten the actual phrasing; he was astonished at its moderation. ‘I don’t believe she could ever have used it!’ he exclaimed to himself. Then he put it into the fire and watched it burn; and as he did so, he remembered Davidina’s advice: ‘The sooner you get married’ (meaning to Caroline) ‘the better.’ It may be--I am not quite sure--that this was what really decided him to marry Caroline. His feelings toward Caroline had undergone, since his uncle’s death, not a revulsion, but a diminution. He had begun to have his doubts whether he was the right husband for her; if she could find another and a better, he did not wish to be selfish. There were episodes in their courtship which had disappointed him; she was still pleasant to touch; but her mind was the sort which seemed only capable of responding with a ‘just so’ to whatever was said to it: equable, comfortable, and contented, but not stimulating. Like a soft cushion, leaning on which you leave an impression, and the mark stays for awhile then slowly effaces itself, so she. Looking ahead he could see the sort of wife and mother that she would be; and if ever it should chance that one of her children were taken from her, or if he himself were to die young--she would be more like a mother cow separated from its milk than from its calf. Caroline was uneventful. It was not an exciting prospect to look forward to. Nevertheless--and perhaps Miss Sparling had something to do with it--within a year of his uncle’s death, Jonathan Trimblerigg married Caroline.