"I never shall now, dear Minnie; but when you marry, you will love another better than me—I shall only be your aunt, and so it should be."
"Do you know," answered her niece, fixing her sweet eyes upon her, "I often think I never shall marry; I have heard so much about it, that the subject has become quite distasteful to me."
"Oh! you will change your mind, Minnie, when the one you can, and should love, comes."
"What do you mean, aunt, by should love?"
"There are those in the world we ought to guard our affections against; their loss might bring misery."
"Whom are they? would—would, now, supposing an impossible case—would Mr. Tremenhere, if he loved me, be such a one?"
"Why do you think of him, child?" and her aunt looked scrutinizingly in her face.
"Oh, because," answered the blushing Minnie, "he is the first stranger I have met likely to enter into my ideas of such a case: all the constant visitors here have the consent of some one of my relatives,—the mere acquaintances I meet when we go any where, have nothing against them,—I daresay, if I liked one of them, every one of you would, though perhaps reluctantly, say 'yes;' but Mr. Tremenhere—he is different, poor fellow! How I pity him! I do indeed, aunt, and he is so agreeable."
The aunt, unworldly wise as she was, had fallen into a reverie; before she aroused herself to reply, the sound of carriage-wheels without drew her attention to the window. Minnie was the first there,—"Whom have we here? two ladies!" Her aunt was beside her.
"Why Minnie, these are your aunts, Lady Ripley and Dora!" exclaimed she.