“Ellen, if you do not make yourself as great and deservedly a favourite with my children as with your brother’s and Emmeline’s, I shall never forgive you,” said the Earl St. Eval, who had been watching Miss Fortescue’s cheerful gambols with the children for the last half hour, in extreme amusement, and now joined her.

“Am I not so already, Eugene?” she said, smiling that peculiar smile of quiet happiness which was now natural to her countenance.  “I should be sorry if I thought they did not love me equally; for believe me, with the sole exception of my little namesake and godchild, my nephews and nieces are all equally dear to me.  I have no right to make an exception even in favour of my little Ellen, but Edward has so often called her mine, and even Lilla has promised to share her maternal rights with me, that I really cannot help it.  Your children do not see so much of me as Emmeline’s, and that is the reason perhaps they are not quite so free with me; but believe mo, dear St. Eval, it will not be my fault if they do not love me.”

“I do believe you,” replied the Earl, warmly.  “I have but one regret, Ellen, when I see you loving and beloved by so many little creatures.”

“And what may that be?”

“That they are not some of them your own, my dear girl.  I cannot tell you how I regret the fact, of which each year the more and more convinces me, that you are determined ever to remain single.  There are very few in my list of female friends so fitted to adorn the marriage state, very few who would make a better mother, and I cannot but regret there are none on whom you seem inclined to bestow those endearing and invaluable qualities.”

“Regret it then no more, my dear St. Eval,” replied Ellen, calmly, yet with feeling.  “I thank you for that high opinion which I believe you entertain of me, too flattering as it may be; but cease to regret that I have determined to live an old maid’s life.  To me, believe me, it has no terrors.  To single women the opportunities of doing good, of making others happy, are more frequent than those granted to mothers and wives; and while such is the case, is it not our own fault if we are not happy?  I own that the life of solitude which an old maid’s includes, may, if the heart be so inclined, be equally productive of selfishness, moroseness of temper, and obstinacy in opinion and judgment, but most fervently I trust such will never be my attributes.  It can never be while my beloved aunt and uncle are spared to me, which I trust they will be for many, many years longer; and even should they be removed before I anticipate, I have so many to love me, so many to dearly love, that I can have no time, no room for selfishness.”

“Do not mistake me, Ellen,” St. Eval replied, earnestly; “I do not wish to see you married because I dread your becoming like some single women; with your principles such can never be.  Your society—­your influence over the minds of our children—­is far too precious to be lightly wished removed, as it would be were you to marry.  It is for your own sake, dearest Ellen, I regret it, and for the sake of him you might select, that you, who are so fitted to enjoy and to fulfil them, can never know the pleasures attendant on the duties of a happy wife and mother; that by a husband and child, the dearest ties of earth, you will go down to the grave unloved.”