"There I can assure you that you are mistaken," said Miss Walsingham;
"Mrs. Beaumont dreads that her son should marry Miss Hunter. Mrs.
Beaumont thinks her as silly as you do, and complained to me of her
having no taste for literature, or for any thing, but dress, and
trifling conversation."

"I wonder, then, that Mrs. Beaumont selects her continually for her
companion."

"She thinks Miss Hunter the most insipid companion in the world; but I
dare not tell you, lest you should laugh at me again, that it was for
the sake of the late Lady Hunter that Mrs. Beaumont was so kind to the
daughter; and now Miss Hunter is so fond of her, and so grateful, that,
as Mrs. Beaumont says, it would be cruelty to shake her off."

"Mighty plausible! But the truth of all this, begging Mrs. Beaumont's
pardon, I doubt; I will not call it a falsehood, but I may be permitted
to call it a _Beaumont_. Time will show: and in the mean time, my dear
daughter, be on your guard against Mrs. Beaumont's art, and against your
own credulity. The momentary pain I give my friends by speaking the
plain truth, I have always found overbalanced by the pleasure and
advantage of mutual confidence. Our domestic happiness has arisen
chiefly from our habits of openness and sincerity. Our whole souls are
laid open; there is no management, no '_intrigue de cabinet_, no
'_esprit de la ligue_.'"

Mr. Walsingham now left the room; and Miss Walsingham, absorbed in
reflections more interesting to her than even the defence of Mrs.
Beaumont, went out to walk. Her father's house was situated in a
beautiful part of Devonshire, near the sea-shore, in the neighbourhood