“Nor can I not believe but that hereby Great gains are mine: for thus I live remote From evil-speaking; rancour never sought, Comes to me not; malignant truth, or lie. Hence have I genial seasons; hence have I Smooth passions, smooth discourse, and joyous thought.’” Had George Woodburn been an austere or moping sort of young man, such conversations as these would not have surprised Harry Thorsby; but when he saw, that in everything George Woodburn found a pleasure as fresh as a mountain spring, that he was at home in the evening, all fun and playfulness, with his sisters, listened with delight to their music and singing, though he took no share in these things himself; with what sound sense and early wisdom he entered into the conversation with his parents and friends on any topic of domestic or public concern, he was deeply struck by it, and entertained a profound respect and esteem for so uncommon a specimen of modern youth. There was one person, however, in the Woodburn Grange family, who looked on the introduction of Harry Thorsby on so familiar a footing as a real misfortune, and that was Betty Trapps. From the first moment of his entering the house, she regarded him with a cold and unwelcome eye. “Well,” said she, when asked whether she did not think him a very pleasant man, “he is not one of my men. I say, if I must speak my mind, dunna put much faith in him. Beware, I say, beware of cockatrices.” “Oh, Betty!” exclaimed the stern Ann, “how can you be so uncharitable? Mr. Thorsby is a most respectable gentleman, known to be so to all Castleborough. Surely a friend of the Degges and of the Heritages cannot be a very bad man.” “I did not say he was a bad man,” said Betty. “I only said he wasna one of my sort.” “Why no,” said Letty, indignantly, “he is not a Methodist; but for all that, it does not follow that he is a cockatrice. What do you mean by cockatrices?” “Ah! Miss Letty, beware! beware!” said Betty, looking very serious. “I say not to your young fluttering heart more, nor to any one else. I see a great candle and a little, pretty, very pretty moth, a-flying round it. If it burns its wings, then it won’t be the fault of Betty Trapps.” Letty laughed outright. “Why, Betty, you are growing prophetic; but what about the cockatrices? I have often heard of such nondescripts, but I never saw one yet.” “I’m not so sure of that,” said Betty. “If you have not I wish you never may. But as to this Thorsby, he crows when he laughs. He crows and chuckles, and shakes those black locks of his. Oh! he is too full of wild fire by half. See if it dunna run clean away with him one of these days. “‘A crowing hen and crowing men, Twist off their heads and sleep again.’” “Betty!” said Ann, “what do you mean with your superstitious rhymes? Would you twist off Mr. Thorsby’s head?”