"If they do not treat me well, or try to put me into a straight-jacket,
or if I find the counting-house too dull, I can bid them good-morning
whenever I choose."

But Mrs. Arnot's frank and cordial reception was an agreeable surprise.
He arrived quite late in the evening, and she had a delightful little
lunch brought to him in her private parlor. By the time it was eaten her
graceful tact had banished all stiffness and sense of strangeness, and
he found himself warming into friendliness toward one whom he had
especially dreaded as a "remarkably pious lady"--for thus his mother had
always spoken of her.

It was scarcely strange that he should be rapidly disarmed by this lady,
who cannot be described in a paragraph. Though her face was rather
plain, it was so expressive of herself that it seldom failed to
fascinate. Nature can do much to render a countenance attractive, but
character accomplishes far more. The beauty which is of feature merely
catches the careless, wandering eye. The beauty which is the reflex of
character _holds_ the eye, and eventually wins the heart. Those who
knew Mrs. Arnot best declared that, instead of growing old and homely,
she was growing more lovely every year. Her dark hair had turned gray
early, and was fast becoming snowy white. For some years after her
marriage she had grown old very fast. She had dwelt, as it were, on the
northern side of an iceberg, and in her vain attempt to melt and
humanize it, had almost perished herself. As the earthly streams and
rills that fed her life congealed, she was led to accept of the love of
God, and the long arctic winter of her despair passed gradually away.
She was now growing young again. A faint bloom was dawning in her
cheeks, and her form was gaming that fulness which is associated with