were afraid of having admitted too much;
"only the old story, you know, of ladies
always saying 'When I marry,' and gentlemen,
'If I marry.' " It was a joke spoken in
rather a sad tone, and I doubt if either of us
smiled; but I could not see Miss Matey's face
by the flickering fire-light. In a little while
she continued:

"But, after all, I have not told you the
truth; it is so long ago, and no one ever
knew how much I thought of it at the time,
unless, indeed, my dear mother guessed; but
I may say that there was a time when I did
not think I should have been only Miss Matey
Jenkyns all my life; for even if I did meet
with any one who wished to marry me now
(and, as Miss Pole says, one is never too safe),
I could not take him—I hope he would
not take it too much to heart, but I could
not take him—or any one but the person I
once thought I should be married to, and
he is dead and gone, and he never knew
how it all came about that I said 'no,' when I
had thought many and many a time—Well,
it's no matter what I thought. God ordains
it all, and I am very happy, my dear. No
one has such kind friends as I," continued she,
taking my hand and holding it in hers. If I
had never known of Mr. Holbrook, I could
have said something in this pause, but as I
had, I could not think of anything that
would come in naturally, and so we both
kept silence for a little time.

"My father once made us," she began,
"keep a diary in two columns; on one side
we were to put down in the morning what
we thought would be the course and events
of the coming day, and at night we were to
put down on the other side what really had
happened. It would be to some people
rather a sad way of telling their lives"—a tear
dropped upon my hand at these words—"I
don't mean that mine has been sad, only so very
different to what I expected. I remember,
one winter's evening, sitting over our
bedroom fire with Deborah, I remember it as if
it were yesterday, and we were planning our
future lives—both of us were planning, though
only she talked about it. She said she should
like to marry an archdeacon, and write his
charges; and you know, my dear, she never
was married, and, for aught I know, she never
spoke to an unmarried archdeacon in her life.
I never was ambitious, nor could I have
written charges, but I thought I could
manage a house (my mother used to call me
her right hand), and I was always so fond of
little children—the shyest babies would
stretch out their little arms to come to me
when I was a girl, I was half my leisure
time nursing in the neighbouring cottages—
but I don't know how it was, when I grew
sad and grave—which I did a year or two
after this time—the little things drew back
from me, and I am afraid I lost the knack,
though I am just as fond of children as ever,
and have a strange yearning at my heart
whenever I see a mother with her baby in
her arms. Nay, my dear,"—and by a sudden
blaze which sprang up from a fall of the
unstirred coals, I saw that her eyes were full of
tears, gazing intently on some vision of what
might have been—"do you know, I dream
sometimes that I have a little child—always
the same—a little girl of about two years old,
she never grows older, though I have dreamt
about her for many years. I don't think I
ever dream of any words or sounds she
makes; she is very noiseless and still, but
she comes to me when she is very sorry or
very glad, and I have wakened with the clasp
of her dear little arms round my neck. Only
last night—perhaps because I had gone to
sleep, thinking of this ball for PhÅ“be—my
little darling came in my dream, and put up
her mouth to be kissed, just as I have seen
real babies do to real mothers before going
to bed. But all this is nonsense, dear! only
don't be frightened by Miss Pole from being
married. I can fancy it may be a very happy
state, and a little credulity helps one on
through life very smoothly, better than
always doubting and doubting, and seeing
difficulties and disagreeables in everything."

If I had been inclined to be daunted from
matrimony, it would not have been Miss Pole
to do it; it would have been the lot of poor
Signer Brunoni and his wife. And yet again,
it was an encouragement to see how, through
all their cares and sorrows, they thought of
each other and not of themselves; and how
keen were their joys, if they only passed
through each other, or through the little
Phœbe. The Signora told me, one day, a
good deal about their lives up to this period.
It began by my asking her whether Miss
Pole's story of the twin-brothers was true;
it sounded so wonderful a likeness, that I
should have had my doubts, if Miss Pole had
been unmarried. But the Signora, or (as we
found out she preferred to be called) Mrs.
Brown, said it was quite true; that her
brother-in-law was by many taken for her
husband, which was of great assistance to
them in their profession; "though," she
continued, "How people can mistake Thomas for
the real Signor Brunoni, I can't conceive; but
he says they do; so I suppose I must believe
him. Not but what he is a very good man;
I am sure I don't know how we should have
paid our bill at the Rising Sun, but for the
money he sends; but people must know very
little about art, if they can take him for my
husband. Why, Miss, in the ball trick,
where my husband spreads his fingers wide,
and throws out his little finger with quite an
air and a grace, Thomas just clumps up his
hand like a fist, and might have ever so many
balls hidden in it. Besides, he has never
been in India, and knows nothing of the
proper sit of a turban."

"Have you been in India? " said I, rather
astonished.

"Oh yes! many a year, ma'am. Sam was