think so poorly of all of us women. Sure, we can rise to admire a better
kind of man than Mr. Austin. We are not all to be snared with the eye,
dear aunt; and those that are--O! I know not whether I more hate or pity
them.

MISS FOSTER. You will give me leave, my niece: such talk is neither
becoming in a young lady nor creditable to your understanding. The world
was made a great while before Miss Dorothy Musgrave; and you will do
much better to ripen your opinions, and in the meantime read your
letter, which I perceive you have not opened. (_DOROTHY opens and reads
letter._) Barbara, child, you should not listen at table.

BARBARA. Sure, madam, I hope I know my place.

MISS FOSTER. Then do not do it again.

DOROTHY. Poor John Fenwick! he coming here!

MISS FOSTER. Well, and why not? Dorothy, my darling child, you give me
pain. You never had but one chance, let me tell you pointedly; and that
was John Fenwick. If I were you, I would not let my vanity so blind me.
This is not the way to marry.

DOROTHY. Dear aunt, I shall never marry.

MISS FOSTER. A fiddlestick's end! every one must marry. (_Rising._) Are
you for the Pantiles?

DOROTHY. Not to-day, dear.

MISS FOSTER. Well, well! have your wish, Dolorosa.--Barbara, attend and
dress me.

SCENE III

DOROTHY. How she tortures me, poor aunt, my poor blind aunt; and I--I
could break her heart with a word. That she should see nothing, know
nothing--there's where it kills. O, it is more than I can bear ... and
yet, how much less than I deserve! Mad girl, of what do I complain? that
this dear innocent woman still believes me good, still pierces me to the
soul with trustfulness. Alas, and were it otherwise, were her dear eyes
opened to the truth, what were left me but death?--He, too--she must
still be praising him, and every word is a lash upon my conscience. If I
could die of my secret: if I could cease--but one moment cease--this
living lie; if I could sleep and forget and be at rest!--Poor John!
(_reading the letter_) he at least is guiltless; and yet for my fault
he too must suffer, he too must bear part in my shame. Poor John
Fenwick! Has he come back with the old story: with what might have been,
perhaps, had we stayed by Edenside? Eden? yes, my Eden, from which I
fell. O, my old north country, my old river--the river of my innocence,
the old country of my hopes--how could I endure to look on you now? And
how to meet John?--John, with the old love on his