“Glad am I to hear that,” said Edward.  “In the married state, a difference of opinion now and then, I see, is no bad thing; we learn something of each other by it.”

“You are to learn at present, then,” said Charlotte, “that it is with me about Ottilie as it is with you about the Captain.  The dear child is most uncomfortable at the school, and I am thoroughly uneasy about her.  Luciana, my daughter, born as she is for the world, is there training hourly for the world; languages, history, everything that is taught there, she acquires with so much ease that, as it were, she learns them off at sight.  She has quick natural gifts, and an excellent memory; one may almost say she forgets everything, and in a moment calls it all back again.  She distinguishes herself above every one at the school with the freedom of her carriage, the grace of her movement, and the elegance of her address, and with the inborn royalty of nature makes herself the queen of the little circle there.  The superior of the establishment regards her as a little divinity, who, under her hands, is shaping into excellence, and who will do her honor, gain her reputation, and bring her a large increase of pupils; the first pages of this good lady’s letters, and her monthly notices of progress, are forever hymns about the excellence of such a child, which I have to translate into my own prose; while her concluding sentences about Ottilie are nothing but excuse after excuse—­attempts at explaining how it can be that a girl in other respects growing up so lovely seems coming to nothing, and shows neither capacity nor accomplishment.  This, and the little she has to say besides, is no riddle to me, because I can see in this dear child the same character as that of her mother, who was my own dearest friend; who grew up with myself, and whose daughter, I am certain, if I had the care of her education, would form into an exquisite creature.

“This, however, has not fallen in with our plan, and as one ought not to be picking and pulling, or for ever introducing new elements among the conditions of our lives, I think it better to bear, and to conquer as I can, even the unpleasant impression that my daughter, who knows very well that poor Ottilie is entirely dependent upon us, does not refrain from flourishing her own successes in her face, and so, to a certain extent, destroys the little good which we have done for her.  Who are well trained enough never to wound others by a parade of their own advantages? and who stands so high as not at times to suffer under such a slight?  In trials like these, Ottilie’s character is growing in strength, but since I have clearly known the painfulness of her situation, I have been thinking over all possible ways to make some other arrangement.  Every hour I am expecting an answer to my own last letter, and then I do not mean to hesitate any more.  So, my dear Edward, it is with me.  We have both, you see, the same sorrows to bear, touching both our hearts in the same point.  Let us bear them together, since we neither of us can press our own against the other.”