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much imagination as herself; so that when, half an hour later, her brother came in, she addressed him quite on this principle.
    â€œHe has just been here, Austin; it’s such a pity you missed him.”
    â€œWhom in the world have I missed?” asked the doctor.
    â€œMr. Morris Townsend; he has made us such a delightful visit.”
    â€œAnd who in the world is Mr. Morris Townsend?”
    â€œAunt Penniman means the gentleman—the gentleman whose name I couldn’t remember,” said Catherine.
    â€œThe gentleman at Elizabeth’s party who was so struck with Catherine,” Mrs. Penniman added.
    â€œOh, his name is Morris Townsend, is it? And did he come here to propose to you?”
    â€œOh, Father!” murmured the girl for an answer, turning away to the window, where the dusk had deepened to darkness.
    â€œI hope he won’t do that without your permission,” said Mrs. Penniman, very graciously.
    â€œAfter all, my dear, he seems to have yours,” her brother answered.
    Lavinia simpered as if this might not be quite enough, and Catherine, with her forehead touching the windowpanes, listened to this exchange of epigrams as reservedly as if they had not each been a pinprick in her own destiny.
    â€œThe next time he comes,” the doctor added, “you had better call me. He might like to see me.”
    Morris Townsend came again some five days afterward; but Doctor Sloper was not called, as he was absent from home at the time. Catherine was with her aunt when the young man’s name was brought in, and Mrs. Penniman, effacing herself and protesting, made a great point of her niece’s going into the drawing room alone.
    â€œThis time it’s for you—for you only,” she said. “Before, when he talked to me, it was only preliminary—it was to gain my confidence. Literally, my dear, I should not have the
courage
to show myself today.”
    And this was perfectly true. Mrs. Penniman was not a brave woman, and Morris Townsend had struck her as a young man of great force of character, and of remarkable powers of satire—a keen, resolute, brilliant nature, with which one must exercise a great deal of tact. She said to herself that he was “imperious,” and she liked the word and the idea. She was not the least jealous of her niece, and she had been perfectly happy with Mr. Penniman, but in the bottom of her heart she permitted herself the observation, “That’s the sort of husband I should have had!” He was certainly much more imperious—she ended by calling it imperial—than Mr. Penniman.
    So Catherine saw Mr. Townsend alone, and her aunt did not come in even at the end of the visit. The visit was a long one; he sat there, in the front parlor, in the biggest arm chair, for more than an hour. He seemed more at home this time—more familiar, lounging a little in the chair, slapping a cushion that was near him with his stick, and looking round the room a good deal, and at the objects it contained, as well as at Catherine, whom, however, he also contemplated freely. There was a smile of respectful devotion in his handsome eyes which seemed to Catherine almost solemnly beautiful; it made her think of a young knight in a poem. His talk, however, was not particularly knightly; it was light and easy and friendly; it took a practical turn, and he asked a number of questions about herself—what were her tastes—if she liked this and that—what were her habits. He said to her, with his charming smile, “Tell me about yourself; give me a little sketch.” Catherine had very little to tell, and she had no talent for sketching; but before he went she had confided to him that she had a secret passion for the theater, which had been but scantily gratified, and a taste for operatic music—that of Bellini and Donizetti, in especial (it must be remembered, in extenuation of this primitive young woman, that she