"Because I don't remember, mamma, that I ever felt such an
impression--prejudice--call it what you will--against any individual as
I do against this man. I absolutely fear him without knowing why."

"Precisely so, my dear Alice," replied her father, "precisely so; and,
as you say, with-out knowing why. In that one phrase, my child, you have
defined prejudice to the letter. Fie, Alice; have more sense, my dear;
have more sense. Dismiss this foolish prejudice against a young man,
who, from what he said at breakfast, is entitled to better feelings at
your hands."

"As I said, papa, I shall certainly strive to do so."

Alice Goodwin's person and character must, at this stage of our
narrative, be made known to our readers. As to her person, it is only
sufficient to say that she was a tall, beautiful girl, of exceeding
grace and wonderful proportions. There was, however, a softness about
her appearance of constitutional delicacy that seemed to be incompatible
with a strong mind, or perhaps we should rather say that was identical
with an excess of feeling. This was exhibited in the tenderness of
her attachment to Agnes Hamilton, and in the agonizing grief which she
experienced at her death--a grief which had well-nigh become fatal to a
girl of her fragile organization. The predominant trait, however, in her
character was timidity and a terror of a hundred trifles, which, in the
generality of her sex, would occasion only indifference or laughter. On
that very morning, for instance, she had not recovered from her painful
apprehensions of the thunder-storm which had occurred on the preceding
night. Of thunder, but especially of lightning, she was afraid even to
pusillanimity; indeed so much so, that on such occurrences she would