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The variations in life and fortune depend as much upon coincidence as design. I will not accept a Fate that exists solely for the convenience of the Author.”
    Here was matter for the strictest debate; and so we whiled away the better part of three-quarters of an hour, over tea and marzipan, in the liveliest conversation. The rain's cease at last occasioned a consultation of our watches, and the recollection that. I was to have met my brother at the Seagraves' some time since.
    Louisa fortified herself with a second dose from her little bottle before proceeding home; but when I would express the most active anxiety, she would hear none of it. “You have been a greater tonic, Miss Austen, than a gallon of Dr. Wharton's,” she declared. “I am starved for good company—the conversation of interesting people, with a wide knowledge of the world and a liberality of ideas!”
    “That is not good company,” I gently replied. “That is the best Pray do not hesitate to call, Mrs. Seagrave, if you happen to visit Southampton. Though we are at present quite cramped in hired lodgings, we shall be settled in Castle Square in a fortnight, with all our books about us. You and I might look into them together.”
    A brisk walk of seven minutes achieved her doorstep; and there we found the two Captains settled in chairs drawn up to the parlour fire. The little Seagraves had not yet returned, though they must be wet quite through, in standing upon the seawall as the Defiant slipped her moorings. With an exclamation of annoyance, Louisa Seagrave despatched the slattern Nancy in search of her sons, and accepted the charge of her infant in return.
    We exclaimed over the baby, a fine, fat little girl of seven months; and made our adieux not three minutes later. I had time enough, in turning back for a final glance, to observe the animation dying from Louisa Seagrave's countenance as she followed our progress through the window; and I felt a pang. I had cheered her solitude a litde; but her troubles were too fixed to dissipate entirely in an afternoon. I wondered that such a mind—restless for matter, and admirably equipped for discernment—should succumb so completely to an oppression of spirits. If I might be forgiven such a judgement, Louisa Seagrave had no right to encourage weakness. Its ill effects were evident all about her: in the neglect of her home, the mismanagement of her children and servants, the suppressed violence of her husband. Where she might have done measurable good through a determined strength, she merely contributed to the oppression of the household.
    “Well, Jane?” Frank enquired, as we hurried through the misty air to the Portsmouth quay, “how do you like my friend?”
    “I like him very well indeed,” I said with effort. “He is all that you describe: open, warm in his expressions, and manly in his spirit But I cannot think him happy in his choice of wife, Frank. They are both strong-willed, and must vie for dominance. It cannot be a peaceful household.”
    “Seagrave was never formed for peace, Jane,” my brother replied satirically, “and remember that he is much at sea. I do not think that he and Louisa have spent more than a twelvemonth, all told, in each other's company—and they have been married fifteen years! I could wish her capable of greater support, however,” he added, “in Tom's present pass. He don't admit it, but he is more anxious about the court-martial than I should like.”
    I studied my brother's countenance as he handed me once more into the hoy. An expression of trouble had replaced his usual cheer; his brother officer's concern, it seemed, was catching. We should both have much to hide from little Mary.
    “Is the Captain aware that you have been offered his ship, Frank?” I asked him quietly.
    “I would not tell him for the world, Jane.” Frank did not tear his gaze from the open water beyond the harbour's mouth; Portsmouth was at his back, and I fancied he preferred it