Mr. Pluribusi had never married. He was a man of a firm mind, of a generous spirit, and would face danger, and stand up against oppression as readily on behalf of others as himself; and at the bottom of all he had a tenderness and delicacy of feeling which must not be passed by without at least our humble commendation.
One day Mary and her uncle were sitting alone; he held a book in his hand, and was apparently reading, while she had given herself up to one of those thoughtful dreams, half joy, half sadness, in which she had frequently indulged since the departure of Mr. Thatcher. She was aroused by her uncle, who laughingly said,
“Well, Mary, can you tell me now what this passion of love is, that you and I read and hear so much about?”
“Oh, uncle, how should I know?” replied she, blushing crimson.
“I am pretty sure,” said he, still laughing, “you will never again ask, ‘Uncle, what is love?’ You want no explanation now—no, no, not you; you can now teach me what it is.”
“Nay, dear uncle, you know I am perfectly unacquainted with the passion.”
“Perfectly, my dear; and you are perfectly unacquainted with a certain tall, good-looking young man, who was here a few weeks since, watching your every motion with so enamored a spirit, and so beseechingly imploring a repetition of that sweet, enchanting air, called Puritani, which you are never tired—no, not you—of singing, since he so rapturously praised it. You did not see who was laughing behind you all the time.”
“How can you be so ridiculous?” said Mary, half pouting, half laughing.
“And how can you treat such a discreet and trust-worthy personage as your own uncle in this way, and make your heart, like the prison-house of the ghost of Hamlet, the abode of untold secrets?”
“I don’t understand you, further than you think yourself very clever—the very Newton of philosophers in the discovery of nothing.”