herself to exclaiming, as I sat by her at tea, in a
low tone and a propos of nothing in particular, "Oh, well--poor Mr.
Ives!"

But on Thursday there occurred an event, the significance of which
passed at the moment unperceived, but which had, in fact, most
important results. This was no other than the arrival of little Mrs.
Wentworth, an intimate friend of Dora's. Mrs. Wentworth had been left a
widow early in life; she possessed a comfortable competence; she was
not handsome, but she was vivacious, amusing, and, above all,
sympathetic. She sympathized at once with Lady Queenborough in her
maternal anxieties, with Trix on her charming romance, with Newhaven on
his sweet devotedness, with the rest of us in our obvious
desolation--and, after a confidential chat with Dora; she sympathized
most strongly with poor Mr. Ives on his unfortunate attachment.
Nothing would satisfy her, so Dora told me, except the opportunity of
plying Mr. Ives with her soothing balm; and Dora was about to sit down
and write him a note, when he strolled in through the drawing-room
window, and announced that his cooks mother was ill, and that he should
be very much obliged if Mrs. Polton would give him some dinner that
evening. Trix and Newhaven happened to enter by the door at the same
moment, and Jack darted up to them, and shook hands with the greatest
effusion. He had evidently buried all unkindness--and with it, we
hoped, his mistaken folly. However that might be, he made no effort to
engross Trix, but took his seat most docilely by his hostess--and she,
of course, introduced him to Mrs. Wentworth. His behavior, was, in
fact, so exemplary, that even Lady Queenborough relaxed her severity,
and condescended to cross-examine him on the morals and manners of the
old women of the parish. "Oh, the Vicar looks after them," said Jack;
and he turned to Mrs. Wentworth again.

There can be no doubt that Mrs. Wentworth had a remarkable power of
sympathy. I took her into dinner, and she was deep in the subject of my
"noble and inspiring art," before the soup was off the table. Indeed,
I'm sure that my life's ambitions would have been an open book to her
by the time that the joint arrived, had not Jack Ives, who was sitting
on the lady's other side, cut into the conversation just as Mrs.
Wentworth was comparing my early struggles with those of Mr. Carlyle.
After this intervention of Jack's I had not a chance. I ate my dinner
without the sauce of sympathy