“With all her oddity, what an unselfish, kind-hearted, excellent little person Mrs. Coleman is!” observed I, as the pony-chaise disappeared at an angle of the road.
“Oh! I think her charming,” replied my companion warmly, “she is so very good-natured.”
“She is something beyond that,” returned I; “mere good-nature is a quality I rate very low: a person may be good-natured, yet thoroughly selfish, for nine times out of ten it is easier and more agreeable to say 'yes' than 'no'; but there is such an entire forgetfulness of self, apparent in all Mrs. Coleman's attempts to make those around her happy and comfortable, that, despite her eccentricities, I am beginning to conceive quite a respect for the little woman.”
“You are a close observer of character it seems, Mr. Fairlegh,” remarked my companion.
“I scarcely see how any thinking person can avoid being so,” returned I; “there is no study that appears to me to possess a more deep and varied interest.”
“You make mistakes, though, sometimes,” replied Miss Saville, glancing quickly at me with her beautiful eyes.
“You refer to my hasty judgment of last night,” said I, colouring slightly. “The mournful words of your song led me to conclude that, in one instance, high spirits might not be a sure indication of a light heart; and yet I would fain hope,” added I in a half-questioning tone, “that you merely sought to inculcate a general principle.”
“Is not that a very unusual species of heath to find growing in this country?” was the rejoinder.
“Really, I am no botanist,” returned I, rather crossly, for I felt that I had received a rebuff, and was not at all sure that I might not have deserved it.
“Nay, but I will have you attend; you did not even look towards the place where it is growing,” replied Miss Saville, with a half-imperious, half-imploring glance, which it was impossible to resist.