(young enough, as she was always ready to mention,
to be his daughter) well provided for, and an object of matrimonial
aspiration to single gentlemen who admired size in a woman, set off by
money. After hesitating for some little time, Mrs. Norman accepted the
proposal of the ugliest and dullest man among the ranks of her admirers.
Why she became the wife of Mr. Presty (known in commercial circles as a
merchant enriched by the sale of vinegar) she was never able to explain.
Why she lamented him, with tears of sincere sorrow, when he died after
two years of married life, was a mystery which puzzled her nearest and
dearest friends. And why when she indulged (a little too frequently) in
recollections of her married life, she persisted in putting obscure Mr.
Presty on a level with distinguished Mr. Norman, was a secret which
this remarkable woman had never been known to reveal. Presented by
their widow with the strictest impartiality to the general view, the
characters of these two husbands combined, by force of contrast, the
ideal of manly perfection. That is to say, the vices of Mr. Norman were
the virtues of Mr. Presty; and the vices of Mr. Presty were the virtues
of Mr. Norman.

Returning to the sitting-room after bidding Kitty goodnight, Mrs. Linley
discovered the old lady asleep, and saw that the book on her mother's
lap was sliding off. Before she could check the downward movement, the
book fell on the floor, and Mrs. Presty woke.

"Oh, mamma, I am so sorry! I was just too late to catch it."

"It doesn't matter, my dear. I daresay I should go to sleep again, if I
went on with my novel."

"Is it really as dull as that?"

"Dull?" Mrs. Presty repeated. "You are evidently not aware of what the
new school of novel writing is doing. The new school provides the public
with soothing fiction."

"Are you speaking seriously, mamma?"

"Seriously, Catherine--and gratefully. These new writers are so good to
old women. No story to excite our poor nerves; no improper characters to
cheat us out of our sympathies, no dramatic situations to frighten us;
exquisite management of details (as the reviews say), and a masterly
anatomy of human motives which--I know what I mean, my dear, but I can't
explain it."

"I think I understand, mamma. A masterly anatomy of human motives which
is in itself a motive of human sleep. No; I won't borrow your novel just
now. I don't want to go to sleep; I am thinking of Herbert in London."

Mrs.