when centuries have rolled over, will historians
have their difficulty about the first Potts, and
what his opinions were on this subject or that?"

Then came a low soft sound of half-suppressed
laughter, and then the rustle of a muslin dress
hastily brushing through the trees, I rushed
out from my retreat and hurried down the walk.
No one to be seen—not a soul; not a sound,
either, to be heard.

"No use hiding, Mary," I called out, "I
saw you all the time; my mock confession was
got up merely to amuse you. Come out boldly
and laugh as long as you will." No answer.
This refusal amazed me. It was like a disbelief
in my assertion. "Come, come!" I cried, "you
can't pretend to think I was serious in all this
vainglorious nonsense. Come, Mary, and let
us enjoy the laugh at it together. If you don't,
I shall be angry. I'll take it ill—very ill."

Still no reply. Could I, then, have been
deceived? Was it a mere delusion? But no; I
heard the low laugh, and the rustle of the dress,
and the quick tread upon the gravel, too plainly
for any mistake, and so I returned to the cottage
in chagrin and ill-temper. As I passed the open
windows of the little drawing-room I saw Mary
seated at her work, with, as was her custom, an
open book on a little table beside her.
Absorbed as she was, she did not lift her head nor
notice my approach till I entered the room.

"You have no letter for me?" she cried, in a
voice of sorrowful meaning.

"None," said I, scrutinising her closely, and
sorely puzzled what to make of her calm deportment.
"Have you been out in the garden this
morning?" I asked, abruptly.

"No," said she, frankly.

"Not quitted the house at all?"

"No. Why do you ask?" cried she, in some
surprise.

"I'll tell you," I said, sitting down at her
side, and speaking in a low and confidential
tone; "a strange thing has just happened to
me." And with that I narrated the incident,
glossing over, as best I might, the absurdity of
my soliloquising, and the nature of the self-
examination I was engaged in. Without waiting
for me to finish, she broke in suddenly with
a low laugh, and said,

"It must have been Rose."

"And who is Rose?" I asked, half sternly.

"A cousin of ours, a mere school-girl, who
has just arrived. She came by the mail this
morning, when you were out. But here she is,
coming up the walk. Just step behind that
screen, and you shall have your revenge. I'll
make her tell everything."

I had barely time to conceal myself, when,
with a merry laugh, a fresh, girlish voice called
out, "I've seen him! I've seen him, Mary!
I was sitting on the rock beside the river, when
he came into the summer-house, and, fancying
himself alone and unseen, proceeded to make
his confession to himself."

"His confession! What do you mean?"

"I don't exactly know whether that be the
proper name for it, but it was a sort of self-
examination; not very painful, certainly, inasmuch
as it was rather flattering than otherwise."

"I really cannot understand you, Rose."

"I'm not surprised," said she, laughing again.
"It was some time before I could satisfy myself
that he was not talking to somebody else, or
reading out of a book, and when, peeping
through the leaves, I perceived he was quite
alone, I almost screamed out with laughing."

"But why, child? What was the absurdity
that amused you?"

"Fancy the creature. I need not describe
him, Molly. You know him well, with his great
staring light-green eyes, and his wild yellow hair.
Imagine his walking madly to and fro, tossing
his long arms about in uncouth gestures, while
he asked himself seriously whether he wouldn't
be Shakespeare, or Milton, or Michael Angelo, or
Nelson. Fancy his gravely inquiring of himself
what remarkable qualities predominated in his
nature: was he more of a sculptor, or a
politician, or had fate destined him to discover new
worlds, or to conquer the old ones? If I hadn't
been actually listening to the creature, and
occasionally looking at him, too, I'd have doubted
my senses. Oh, dear! shall I ever forget the
earnest absurdity of his manner, as he said
something about the 'immortal Potts.'"

The reminiscence was too much for her, for
she threw herself on a sofa, and laughed
immoderately. As for me, unable to endure more,
and fearful that Mary might finish by discovering
me, I stole from the room, and rushed out
into the wood.

What is it that renders ridicule more
insupportable than vituperation? Why is the
violence of passion itself more easy to endure than
the sting of sarcastic satire? What weak spot
in our nature does this peculiar passion assail?
And again, why are all the noble aspirations of
high-hearted enthusiasm, the grand self-reliance
of daring minds, ever to be made the theme of
such scoffings? Have the scorners never read
of Wolfe, of Murat, or of Nelson? Has not
a more familiar instance reached them of one
who foretold to an unwilling senate the time
when they would hang in expectancy on his
words, and treasure them as wisdom? Cruel,
narrow-minded, and unjust world, with whom
nothing succeeds except success!

The man who contracts a debt is never called
cheat till his inability to discharge it has been
proven clearly and beyond a doubt; but he who
enters into an engagement with his own heart
to gain a certain prize, or reach a certain goal,
is made a mockery and a sneer by all whose own
humble faculties represent such striving as
impossible. From thoughts like these I went on
to speculate whether I should ever be able, in
the zenith of my great success, to forgive those
captious and disparaging critics who had once
endeavoured to damp my ardour and bar my
career. I own I found it exceedingly difficult
to be generous, and in particular to that young
minx of sixteen who had dared to make a jest
of my pretensions.

I wandered along thus for hours. Many a