me, my dear little Isabella, and come and sit here," pointing to a seat beside the arm-chair, and passing her hand caressingly over the pretty head that now rested on her knee, "never make fanciful miseries for yourself. There is plenty of real sorrow, without your inventing any. Here have you been fretting, and making me more anxious than you suppose, and all for what?—because a man turned thirty has already had an attachment! I dare say he has had half a dozen." Isabella thought that she preferred half a dozen to the one; still, she could not help secretly feeling that the matter was beginning to appear of less paramount importance.
"I will tell you what, my very dear child," continued Mrs. Palmer, kindly and seriously, "there is neither judgment nor delicacy in questioning of these matters; let the past alone. You are about to marry a man worthy of any woman's affection; you will have a guide and a protector in the many difficulties of life; one to whom you may safely look up, and from whom you will meet all kindness and affection. Perhaps he fears that you may expect that exaggerated devotion suited to the romantic boy, but not to the rational and responsible husband. He tells you that your affection will constitute his happiness—let it be your study to make it such; and, a year hence, come and tell me how fond Mr. Glentworth is of his little Isabella."
Only those who have brooded over some sorrow con-
