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The succeeding morning, the whole party,
with the exception of Denbigh, returned to
the Hall. Nothing had transpired out of the
ordinary course of the colonel's assiduities;
and Jane, whose sense of propriety forbad
the indulgence of tete-a-tetes, and such little
accompaniments of every-day attachments,
was rejoiced to see a sister she loved, and an
aunt she respected, once more in the bosom
of her family.

The dowager impatiently waited an opportunity
to effect, what she intended for a
master-stroke of policy in the disposal of
Grace. Like all other managers, she thought
no one equal to herself in devising ways and
means, and was unwilling to leave any thing
to nature. Grace had invariably thwarted
all her schemes, by her obstinacy; and as she
thought young Moseley really attached to her,
she determined, by a bold stroke, to remove
the impediments of false shame, and the
dread of repulse, which she believed alone
kept the youth from an avowal of his wishes;
thus, also, get rid at once of a plague that had
annoyed her not a little—her daughter's delicacy.

Sir Edward spent an hour every morning
in his library, overlooking his accounts, and
other necessary employments of a similar

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nature; and it was here she determined to have
the conference.

“My Lady Chatterton, you do me honour,”
said the baronet, handing her a chair,
on her entrance.

“Upon my word, cousin,” cried the dowager,
“you have a very convenient apartment
here,” looking around her in affected
admiration of all she saw. The baronet replied,
and a short discourse on the arrangements
of the whole house, insensibly led to
the taste of his mother, the Hon. Lady
Moseley, (a Chatterton,) until having warmed
the feelings of the old gentleman, by some
well-timed compliments of that nature, she
ventured on the principle object of her visit.
“I am happy to find, baronet, you are so well
pleased with the family as to wish to make
another selection from it; I sincerely hope it
may prove as judicious as the former one.”

Sir Edward was a little at a loss to understand
her meaning, although he thought it
might allude to his son, who he had some
time suspected had views on Grace Chatterton,
willing to know the truth, and rather
pleased to find John had selected a young
woman he really loved in his heart, he observed,

“I am not sure I rightly understand your
ladyship.”

“No!” cried the dowager, in well-counterfeited
affectation of surprise, “perhaps
after all my maternal anxiety has deceived

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me then: Mr. Moseley could hardly have
ventured to proceed without your approbation.”

“I have ever declined influencing any of
my children, Lady Chatterton,” said the baronet,
“and John is not ignorant of my sentiments;
I hope, however, you allude to an
attachment to Grace?”

“I did certainly, Sir Edward,” said the
lady hesitatingly; “I may be deceived, but
you must know the feelings, and a young
woman ought not to be trifled with.”

“My son is incapable of trifling, I hope,”
cried Sir Edward with animation, “and least
of all with Grace Chatterton. No, my lady,
you are right; if he has made his choice, he
should not be ashamed to avow it.”

“I would not wish on any account, to
hurry matters,” said the dowager, “but the
report which is abroad, will prevent other
young men from putting in their claims, Sir
Edward,”—(sighing)—I have a mother's
feelings: if I have been hasty, your goodness
will overlook it,” and Lady Chatterton withdrew
with her handkerchief at her eyes, to
conceal the tears—that did not flow.

Sir Edward thought all was natural and
as it should be, and he sought an early conference
with his son.

“John,” said the father, ta kng his hand
kindly, “you have no reason to doubt my
affection or compliance to your wishes;
fortune is a thing out of the question with a

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young man of your expectations;” and Sir
Edward, in his eagerness to smooth the way,
went on: “you can live here, or occupy my
small seat in Wiltshire. I can allow you
five thousand a year with much ease to myself.
Indeed, your mother and myself would
both straighten ourselves, to add to your
comforts; but it is unnecessary—we have
enough, and you have enough.” Sir Edward
would in a few minutes have settled
every thing to the dowager's perfect satisfaction,
had not John interrupted him, by the
exclamation of, “what do you allude to,
father?” in a tone of astonishment.

“Allude to,” said Sir Edward simply,
“why Grace Chatterton, my son.”

“Grace Chatterton, Sir Edward; what
have I to do with Grace Chatterton?” cried
his child, colouring a little.

“Her mother has made me acquainted
with your proposals,” said the baronet,
“and”—

“Proposals!”

“Attentions I ought to have said; and
you have no reason to apprehend any thing
from me, my child.”

“Attentions!” said John haughtily; “I
hope Lady Chatterton does not accuse me of
improper attentions to her daughter.”

“No, not improper, my son,” said his father,
“she is pleased.”

“She is,” cried John impatiently, “but I
am displeased, that she undertakes to put

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constructions on my acts, that no attention
or words of mine will justify.”

It was Sir Edward's turn now to be surprised.
He had thought he was doing his
son a kindness, when he had only been forwarding
the dowager's schemes: but averse
to contention, and wondering at his cousin's
mistake, which he at once attributed to her
anxiety, he told John he was sorry there had
been any misapprehension, and left him.
“No, no,” said Moseley internally, as he
paced up and down his father's library,
“my lady dowager, you are not going to
force a wife down my throat. If you do, I
am mistaken; and Grace, if Grace”—and
John softened and began to feel unhappy a
little, but his anger prevailed.

From the moment Grace Chatterton conceived
a dread of her mother's saying any
thing to Sir Edward, her whole conduct was
altered. She could hardly look any of the
family in the face, and her most ardent wish
was, that they might depart. John she
avoided as she would an adder, although it
nearly broke her heart to do so.

Mr. Benfield had staid longer than usual,
and now wished to return. John Moseley
eagerly seized the opportunity; and the very
day after the conversation in the library, he
went to Benfield Lodge as a dutiful nephew,
to see his venerable uncle safely restored
once more to the abode of his ancestors.

Lady Chatterton now perceived, when too

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late, she had overshot her mark, and at the
same time she wondered at the reason of
such a strange result, from such well digested
and well conducted plans; she determined
never again to interfere between her
daughter and the baronet's heir; concluding,
with a nearer approach to the truth than
always accompanied her deductions, that
neither resembled ordinary lovers, in their
temperament or opinions.

Perceiving no further use in remaining any
longer at the Hall, she took her leave, and
accompanied by both her daughters, proceeded
to the capital, where she expected to meet
her son.

Dr. Ives and his wife returned to the rectory
on the same day, and Denbigh resumed
his abode under their roof immediately. The
intercourse between the rector's family and
Sir Edward's was renewed, with all its former
friendly confidence.

Col. Egerton began to speak of his departure
also, but hinted his intentions of visiting
L— at the period of the baronet's visit to
his uncle, before he proceeded to town in the
winter.

L— was a small village on the coast,
within a mile of Benfield Lodge; and from
its natural convenience, had been resorted to
by the neighbouring gentry, for the benefit of
sea bathing. The baronet had promised Mr.
Benfield his visit should be made at an earlier
day than usual, in order to gratify Jane

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with a visit to Bath, before they went to
London, and at which town they were promised
by Mrs. Jarvis the pleasure of her society,
and that of her son and daughters.

Precaution is a word of simple meaning
in itself, but various are the ways
adopted by different individuals in this life to
enforce its import; and not a few are the
evils which are thought necessary to guard
against. To provide in season against the
dangers of want, personal injury, loss of character,
and a great many other such acknowledged
misfortunes, has become a kind of instinctive
process of our natures. The few
exceptions which exist, only go to prove the
rule: in addition to these, almost every man
has some ruling propensity to gratify, to advance
which, his ingenuity is ever on the
alert—or some apprehended evil to avert,
which calls all his prudence into activity.
Yet how seldom is it exerted, in order to give
a rational ground to expect permanent happiness
in wedlock.

Marriage is called a lottery, and it is thought,
like all other lotteries, there are more blanks
than prizes; yet is it not made more precarious
than it ought to be, by our neglect of
that degree of precaution, which we would
be ridiculed for omitting in conducting our
every day concerns? Is not the standard of
testing the probability of matrimonial felicity,
placed too low? Ought we not to look more
to the possession of principles than to the

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possession of wealth? Or is it at all justifiable
in a christian to commit a child, a daughter,
to the keeping of a man who wants the
very essential they acknowledge most necessary
to constitute a perfect character? Most
men revolt at infidelity in a woman—and
most men, however licentious themselves,
look for, at least, the exterior of religion in
their wives. The education of their children
is a serious responsibility; and although seldom
conducted on such rules as will stand
the test of reason, is not to be entirely shaken
off: they choose their early impressions should
be correct—their infant conduct at least blameless.
And are not one half mankind of the
male sex? Are precepts in religion, in morals,
only for females? Are we to reverse the
theory of the Mahommedans, and though we
do not believe it, act as if men had no souls?
Is not the example of the father as important
to the son, as that of the mother to the daughter?
In short, is there any security against
the commission of enormities, but a humble
and devout dependance on the assistance of
that Almighty Power, which is alone able to
hold us up against temptation.

Uniformity of taste, is no doubt necessary
to what we call love, at least to think so; but
is not taste acquired? Would our daughters
admire a handsome deist if properly impressed
with a horror of its doctrines, sooner than
they now would a handsome Mahommedan?
We would refuse our children to a pious

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dissenter, to give them to impious members of
the establishment; we make the substance
less than the shadow.

Our principal characters are possessed of
these diversified views of the evils to be averted.
Mrs. Wilson considers christianity an
indispensible requisite in the husband to be
permitted to her charge, and watches against
the possibility of any other gaining the affections
of Emily. Lady Chatterton considers
the want of an establishment, as the one sin
not to be forgiven, and directs her energies
to prevent this evil; while John Moseley
looks upon a free will as the birthright of an
Englishman, and is at the present moment
anxiously alive to prevent the dowager's
making him the husband of Grace, the thing
of all others he most desires.

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