me, to your honour and your love."—"Ah no:—you are not wrong," she answered; but perhaps if you confided less, and saw more of me, it would be better. Before marriage, a woman has her daily occupations: she looks for the approving smile of her parents:—she has friends who cheer her—who take interest in her affairs. But when we marry, Henry, we detach ourselves from all, to follow one guide. For the first years, we are the constant object of your solicitude:—you watch over us with even a tenderer care than those whom we have left, and then you leave us—leave us too, among the amiable and agreeable, yet reprove us, if we confide in them, or love them. Marriage is the annihilation of love.
"The error is in human nature," said Lord Avondale smiling—"We always see perfection in that which we cannot approach:—there is a majesty in distance and rarity, which every day's intercourse wears off. Besides, love delights in gaz-
