you, their bane. No, you don't, though; I malign you. Do you
remember saying to me one day: "Try and make yourself appear a
little silly sometimes, Emilia, do, now! Men never fall in love with
clever women!" And right you were. The only passions I ever inspired
flared through their day in the bosoms of women and boys. Never
mind! I had sooner have Gabriel's friendship than ten thousand of
your lovers; I had sooner see you too, sweet, with such a friend as
he to lean upon, than surrounded as you are now by the foolish and
ugly admiration of worthless men.

There, enough lecturing for the present. It's understood, eh?

Gabriel and Jane Norton have actually been here to tea. What do you
say to that? I must tell you how it came about; it's a long story,
but you shall have it all. The other day, my friend and I were
overtaken by a rain-storm on the heath; we ran as fast as we could
to the Thatched Cottage, and there I remained fully two hours, till
the rain had given over. As Gabriel was very restless and
unmanageable, I suggested that we might turn his superfluous energy
to good account by arranging the library. How those dear creatures
keep alive, I cannot imagine; they are helpless and unpractical
beyond all belief. Jane Norton has absolutely no sense of order, the
household drifts along as best it can. "I hate it so," she groans;
"I have a horror of it all." That very afternoon I tore my dress and
wanted to mend it. A brass thimble was soon produced from the
kitchen clock, where Jane keeps it "to have it handy," but never
were needle and thread more difficult to procure. After much
hunting, a dirty reel of white cotton was discovered in the
soup-tureen, the needle-case had entirely disappeared; she finally
managed, however, to squeeze some rusty kind of skewer out of her