Lyndsay, laughing. “Instigating my wife to an act of open rebellion. But I am sure you will not profit by her example.”

“Indeed, no! She’s the very last woman in the world I should wish to imitate. Still I feel angry with myself for letting my temper get the better of prudence.”

“What a pity, Flora, that you did not fight it out. I would back my good wife against twenty Mrs. Grundys.”

“She would scratch my eyes out, and then write a horrid sonnet to celebrate the catastrophe.”

“Nobody would read it.”

“Ah, but she would read it to everybody, and bore the whole town with her lamentations.”

“Let her go, Flora. I am tired of Mrs. Grundy.”

“Indeed, I was glad enough to get rid of her, which reconciles me to the disagreeable manner in which I offended her.”

“Let us talk of your Canadian plans,” said Mary. “When do you go?”

“In three weeks,” said Lyndsay.

“So soon! The time is too short to prepare one to part with friends so dear. If it were not for my poor old father, I would go with you.”

“What a blessing it would be!” said Lyndsay.

“Oh! do go, dear Mary,” cried Flora, quite transported at the thought; and flinging her arms about her friend’s neck. “It would make us so happy.”

“It is impossible!” said the dear Mary, with a sigh. “I spoke without thinking. My heart will follow you across the Atlantic; but duty keeps me here. I will not, however, waste the time still left to us in useless regrets. Love is better shown by deeds than words. I can work for you, and cheer you, during the last days of your sojourn in your native land. Employment, I have always found, by my own experience, is the best remedy for aching hearts.”

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