“Indeed, Mr. Woodward, if you knew him, he would become one for his own.”

“Have you known him long, may I ask, Miss Goodwin?”

“O dear, yes,” said Mrs. Goodwin, who now, finding this a fair opening in the conversation, resolved to have her share of it—­“O dear! yes; Alley and he know each other ever since her childhood; he’s some three or four years older than she is, to be sure, but that makes little difference.”

“And, I suppose, Mrs. Goodwin, their intimacy—­perhaps I may say attachment—­has the sanction of their respective families?”

“God bless you, sir, to be sure it has—­are they not distantly related?”

“That, indeed, is a very usual proceeding among families,” observed Woodward; “the boy and girl are thrown together, and desired to look upon each other as destined to become husband and wife; they accordingly do so, fall in love, are married, and soon find themselves—­miserable; in fact, these matches seldom turn out well.”

“But there is no risk of that here,” replied Alice.

“I sincerely hope not, Miss Goodwin.  In your case, unless the husband was a fool, or a madman, or a villain, there must be happiness.  Of course you will be happy with him; need I say,” and here he sighed, “that he at least ought to be so with you?”

“Upon my word, Mr. Woodward,” replied Alice, smiling, “you are a much cleverer man than I presume your own modesty ever permitted you to suspect.”

“I don’t understand you,” he replied, with a look of embarrassment.

“Why,” she proceeded, “here have you, in a few minutes, made up a match between two persons who never were intended to be married at all; you have got the sanction of two families to a union which neither of them even for a moment contemplated.  Dear me, sir, may not a lady and gentleman become acquainted without necessarily falling in love?”

“Ah, but, in your case, my dear Miss Goodwin, it would be difficult—­impossible I should say—­to remain indifferent, if the gentleman had either taste or sentiment; however, I assure you I am sincerely glad to find that I have been mistaken.”

“God bless me, Mr. Woodward,” said Mrs. Goodwin, “did you think they were sweethearts?”

“Upon my honor, madam, I did—­and I was very sorry for it.”

“Mr. Woodward,” replied Alice, “don’t mistake me; I am inaccessible to flattery.”

“I am delighted to hear it,” said he, “because I know that for that reason you are not and will not be insensible to truth.”

“Unless when it borrows the garb of flattery, and thus causes itself to be suspected.”

“In that case,” said Woodward, “nothing but good sense, Miss Goodwin, can draw the distinction between them—­and now I know that you are possessed of that.”

“I hope so, sir,” she replied, “and that I will ever continue to observe that distinction.  Mamma, I want more thread,” she said:  “where can I get it?”