“That is more than I can tell,” said Ann. “God alone can direct you in such a crisis. What is to be done! What _will_ be the end of it?” Millicent went on passionately to detail the growth and incidents of this change, and to defend her new friends from the blame which Ann charged them with, as dishonourable and selfish. At length she said, “Dear, dear Millicent, all I can advise is, for you to do nothing hastily. You have been dazzled by the splendours you have been living amongst. Take time for reflection; in the quiet of the country, in the midst of your old associations, a different view of things may again present itself. Poor Dr. Leroy!—so good, so clever! My dear friend, the sudden bursting upon me of this news is like a thunderbolt. I cannot collect my faculties; all I can say is, don’t hurry, don’t hurry, and pray earnestly, incessantly for help and direction from God.” The friends parted with a long and tender embrace, and Millicent rode off, not homewards, but to Bilts’ farm, to see whether she could draw a ray of comfort or counsel from Elizabeth Drury. But the same scenes took place there. After the first glad and mutual salutations and embraces, Millicent laid open her trouble to her friend Elizabeth, and with much the same result as with Ann Woodburn. Elizabeth Drury opened her large grey eyes in astonishment, and then said, “Mercy! What a fatality! what a perplexity! My dear Millicent, were there no Dr. Leroy, I should congratulate you with all my heart on such a connection. But—but!—what in the world is to be done? Millicent dear, I can only say, with that wise, yet loving Ann Woodburn—take time. I am no Quaker, you know. I have made no vows against ‘the pomps and vanities of this wicked world,’ though I suppose somebody did for me one day. I can understand to a certain extent the fascinations of great wealth, great splendour of position, great gaiety and prestige of fashionable life; but let me tell you, I prefer ten thousand times this more simple and quiet existence here in the country. What do we want more than we have? A lovely country, sufficiency of means for enjoying it, friends dear, intelligent, and refined. Ah! I do not think the luxurious and more glittering life of the metropolis or of high aristocratic rank can compare with it. When the attention is drawn every day over such a multitude of objects and persons, where can it settle? how can the heart take root anywhere? No—the heart—the heart, my dear friend, in that lies the fountain of happiness, and a few deep, tender, and lasting attachments are worth more than a million of mere superficial acquaintances. I say, with dear Ann Woodburn—take time: weigh well your decision, dear Millicent. Remember that it may be death, or worse than death, to a most estimable man, and of much sorrow to others. Wait—wait! Here you have the prospect of a happy and useful life; here you are loved and honoured far round; here a great field of beneficent labour awaits you.