A Fancy-ball; Small-pox; An Opera-box.—L. E.
“I must have you write, I am so curious to know what you think!” exclaimed Louisa, dipping a pen in the bronze ink-stand which stood on the table.
Clemence had neither the affectation which requires urgent entreaties, nor the vanity which refuses to do anything which it is not certain to do well. She reflected for a few seconds, then under the questions—What is happiness? What is misery? What do you much wish for? wrote,—
Unison; Discord; Harmony.
“I see little variety in unison and harmony,” said Arabella coldly; “it is what papa would call a distinction without a difference.”
“Does it seem so to you?” replied Mrs. Effingham. “I tried to condense into three words the sentiment contained in the verse,—
‘Judge not thy differing brother, nor in aught
Condemn; his prayer and thine may rise above,
Though mingling not in unison of thought,
Yet blending in the harmony of love.’