"My dear Constantine," said he, "I thought
you intended to stay at Greendale a much
longer time?"

"Yes," I replied, with a pensive air, taking
at the same moment, a large mouthful of
bread-and-butter; "yes; but I altered my
mind when I got there."

With this the conversation ended, and the
charm was broken, once and for ever. But
with it was also broken one link out of the
rosy time of my life. I began to regard all
roses, whether real or typified, with angry
and suspicious looks, and to speak of the
"illusions of life," and of "giving them up,"
&c., &c. I made a solemn vow with myself
that the next object of my affections, the next
choice I would make for "my wife," should,
in all respects, be the very reverse of the
fascinating but traitorous Rose. I had been
deceived, as I imagined, by the poetry of life;
now I would keep to the sober prose.

Ah! in what a noble form did my new
ideal present herself to my eyes, as one
evening I entered the hospitable saloon of
Mrs. A., the wife of the celebrated judge.
Abla, her daughter, stood ready to officiate at
the tea-table; her features, her figure, her
manners, were dignified and full of propriety.
She looked like personified Truth, in
contradistinction to the fantastical bewitching Rose.
I instantly fell in love with this beautiful
image of Minerva, and thought of "my wife."

Abla, however, seemed only to think of the
tea, and looked neither to the left nor the
right. When tea was poured into all the
cups she slowly turned her splendid head, and
I heard, at the same moment, a bass-voice
exclaim, "Sundholm!"

Ah, Heavens! was that her voice? Was
it not rather that of the Angel of Judgment,
who, in the middle of Mrs. A.'s evening party,
summoned the sinner Sundholm to hear his
final doom? I could have believed anything
rather than that such a voice could issue from
the beautiful lips of Abla. But, when I
beheld Sundholm advance to the tea-table and
receive the tea-cups on his tray, I saw that the
resounding bassoon-voice belonged to no other
than the sweet lady whom I had just adored,
and whom I had, in my heart, already called
"my wife."

It required some little time before I could
reconcile my mind on this point. " Sundholm!"
sounded awfully through my ears for
many a long hour. I began to reason on the
subject. If, said I, Nature has bestowed a
bass-voice on this beautiful young lady, is it
not noble and excellent of her not to try to
conceal or embellish it? Does it not prove
her love of truth; her strength of character,
and her greatness of soul? How easy it
would have been for her to cry "Sundholm!"
in falsetto; but she would not be false, even
in this! Not willing to assume a disguise,
even for the sake of winning admiration, she
summons Sundholm in the voice which God
has given her. Is there not something grand
in all this? One who thus calls out "Sundholm,"
will not deceive an honest fellow with
hollow words or pretended feeling, but will
play an open game with him, and let him
understand the truth at once.

I was introduced to the handsome Abla.
There was no denying that the voice was not
fine; but, when you were accustomed to it,
it ceased to be so very disagreeable; besides
which, her words were so simple and candid,
and her face so beautiful, that by-and-by I
was completely dazzled. My ears crept, as it
were, into my eyes, and gazing, day after day,
on Abla's faultless profile, I was conveyed at
once into the realms of love, and, ravished by
my sense of sight, asked Abla if she would be
"my wife." She answered "YES," with a
force of utterance that nearly frightened me.
We were betrothed, and the nearer I gazed
on her fine profile the more I was satisfied.
This, however, did not last very long.

The period of betrothal is a very singular
one; a period of halfness and incompleteness;
nevertheless it is a sensible institution—when
it does not continue too long. It is the
prelude to a union that nothing but death ought
to dissolve; and, if it should appear impossible
to execute harmoniously the duet which has
now commenced, there is yet time to break it
off calmly.

The first discord that disturbed the duet
between "my wife elect" and myself, was—
not her deep voice, but, alas! precisely that
very thing which, at first, had reconciled me
to it; viz., her love of truth, or rather, I
should say, her unmerciful way of uttering it.

That we all are sinners in thought, word,
and deed, is a matter of fact, and nobody was
more willing to admit it than myself; but to
be reminded of it every moment by one's best
friend is by no means agreeable; nor does it do
any good, especially when the plain-speaking
friend never fancies himself, or herself, capable
of sinning, or being faulty in the slightest
degree. And the worst of it was, that
apparently Abla had no faults. Ah! if she had
had but one; or, better still, if she would but
have admitted the possibility of it, then I
should have been ready to throw myself at her
feet! But she was in temper and in character
as unimpeachable, as regular, as perfect, as
she was in figure; she was so correct and
proper, that, sinner as I was, it drove me into
a rage. I felt that Abla's righteousness, and
especially her mode of educating me, would,
in time, make me a prodigious sinner; more
particularly as she would never yield to my
wishes. It dawned upon me, before long, that
her self-righteousness and want of charity
to others was, indeed, one of the greatest
conceivable faults. One fine day, therefore,
I told her my mind, in good earnest terms, and
the following duet occurred between us.

She. I cannot be otherwise than I am. If
you do not like me, you can let it alone.

/. If you will not be amiable towards me,
I must cease to love you.