full of mirth and tenderness, can become as shrewish as Xantippe
herself. And many a woman becomes stubborn and acid, rather than
sweet, by allowing herself to be persuaded into marrying the wrong
man, and then by not having the good sense to make the best of it.

Alas! experience also proves that, of all prosaic, selfish grumblers,
your over-gallant lover makes the worst. And yet, while the world
stands, multitudes will no doubt eagerly seek the privilege of
becoming mutual tormentors.

Lottie thought Mr. De Forrest "very nice." She liked him better than
any one else she had met and flirted with since her school-days,
during which period of sincerity and immaturity she had had several
acute attacks of what she imagined to be the "grand passion." But
as the objects were as absurd as her emotions, and the malady soon
ran, its course, she began to regard the whole subject as a jest,
and think, with her fashionable mother, that the heart was the last
organ to be consulted in the choice of a husband, as it was almost
sure to lead to folly. While her heart slept, it was easy to agree
with her mother's philosophy. But it would be a sad thing for
Charlotte Marsden if her heart should become awakened when her will
or duty was at variance with its cravings. She might act rightly,
she might suffer in patience, but it would require ten times the
effort that the majority of her sex would have to make.

Her mother thought that the elegant and wealthy Mr. De Forrest was
the very one of all the city for her beautiful daughter, and Lottie
gave a careless assent, for certainly he was "very nice." He would
answer, as well as any one she had ever seen, for the inevitable
adjunct of her life. He had always united agreeably the characters