The one dissentient voice in Friarton was that of Catherine Hilliard. When her cousin Louisa took the brothers under her wing, as if Harry needed the protection, and doted on the youngest, she would have had Catherine dote on him also. Mrs. Hilliard was too good-naturedly selfish, too hilariously cynical, too well occupied on her own account, to be a regular match-maker, supposing there had been scope for anything save sick match-making in Friarton and the neighbourhood. But she would not have objected, from the first hour she spent in the company of the would-be yeoman, to making up a match between Harry Stanhope and Catherine. Mrs. Hilliard would have lost her cousin as a constant companion, but she would have found a jovial ally to her heart’s content in Harry. And if the attractive young man’s worldly wisdom was not his strong point, that was Catherine’s look-out, not Mrs. Hilliard’s. He would form the most hospitable and genial of kinsmen and neighbours, if he might not have all the qualifications for a safe husband. On the other hand, the contrast between Catherine and him was all that could be wished. It would do Catherine a world of good to have her bookishness—detestable in a woman—her untenable notions, her chillness and asperity, routed out of her by a gay-tempered, easy-minded husband, whose easy-mindedness might not preclude the wholesome discipline of any amount of obtuseness and stubbornness, when interference with his masculine prerogatives was in question. But unfortunately, Catherine could not see the beauty of the contrast between herself and Harry Stanhope, as establishing an incontestable point of union where the two were concerned. ‘He is no better than an overgrown boy,’ she said, with a half-weary scorn. ‘He has not a thought or care beyond his pleasure.’ ‘My dear, that is what is so particularly nice about the boy,’ remonstrated Louisa Hilliard. ‘You and many other people are weighed down with care, and the consciousness of care, to no purpose. What we specially want at this epoch in human history, is a robust faculty of enjoyment.’ ‘I think I prefer the poor deaf fellow,’ said Catherine, in her spirit of contradiction. ‘He loses his identity in that of his brother.’ ‘Is that such a boon to the world, to lose one’s self and live in one’s neighbour’s life?’ asked Mrs. Hilliard, shaking her head in merry incredulity. ‘I am not sure that it might not prove easier and more comfortable, on the whole, to be another than to be myself. I should feel so deliciously neutral, you may be sure—nothing could touch me very nearly. Your toothache would tingle quite bearably, suffered by reflection through my nerves.’ ‘I don’t think it is quite so with Mr. Horace Stanhope,’ said Catherine coldly. ‘I don’t suppose you understand, Louisa.’