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 is the Saint I pray to for a husband. Perhaps my mind would be less affected, said Matilda, if my mother would explain her reasons to me: But it is the mystery she observes, that inspires me with this—I know not what to call it. As she never acts from caprice, I am sure there is some fatal secret at bottom—nay, I know there is: In her agony of grief for my brother's death she dropped some words that intimated as much—oh! dear Madam, cried Bianca, What were they? No; said Matilda, if a parent lets fall a word, and wishes it recalled, it is not for a child to utter it. What! was she sorry for what she had said? asked Bianca.—I am sure, Madam, you may trust me—with my own little secrets, when I have any, I may; said Matilda; but never with my mother's: A child ought to have no ears or eyes, but as a parent directs. Well! to be sure, Madam, you was born to be a saint, said Bianca, and there is no resisting one's vocation: You will end in a convent at last. But there is my Lady Isabella