“Poor William! He has met with great kindness from the chaplain of the Antwerp,” was a tender apostrophe of Fanny’s, very much to the purpose of her own feelings if not of the conversation.

“I have been so little addicted to take my opinions from my uncle,” said Miss Crawford. “I am not entirely without the means of seeing what clergymen are, being at this present time the guest of my own brother, Dr. Grant. And though Dr. Grant is most kind and obliging to me, a gentleman, a good scholar, clever, respectable, and often preaches good sermons, I see him to be an indolent, selfish bon vivant, who must have his palate consulted in everything; who will not stir a finger for the convenience of any one; and who, moreover, if the cook makes a blunder, is out of humour with his excellent wife. Henry and I were partly driven out this very evening by a disappointment about a green goose, which he could not get the better of. My poor sister was forced to stay and bear it.”

“I do not wonder at your disapprobation, upon my word. It is a great defect of temper, made worse by a very faulty habit of self-indulgence. To see your sister suffering from it must be exceedingly painful. Fanny, it goes against us. We cannot attempt to defend Dr. Grant.”

“No,” replied Fanny, “but we need not give up on his profession. Whatever profession Dr. Grant had chosen, he would have taken the same temper into it. In the navy or army, he would have had a great many more people under his command than he has now. More would have been made unhappy by him as a sailor or soldier than as a clergyman. Besides, the temper could become worse in a more active, worldly profession, where he would have had less time and obligation. A sensible man like Dr. Grant cannot be in the habit of preaching others their duty every week, without being the better for it himself. It must make him think. I have no doubt he endeavours to restrain himself more often than he would in any other profession.”

“We cannot prove to the contrary, to be sure; but I wish you a better fate, Miss Price, than to be the wife of a man whose amiableness depends upon his own sermons.”

“I think the man who could often quarrel with Fanny,” said Edmund affectionately, “must be beyond the reach of any sermons.”

Fanny turned farther into the window; and Miss Crawford had only time to say, in a pleasant manner, “I fancy Miss Price has been more used to deserve praise than to hear it”; when, being earnestly invited by the Miss Bertrams to join in a glee, she tripped off to the instrument, leaving Edmund looking after her in an ecstasy of admiration of all her many virtues, from her obliging manners down to her light and graceful tread.