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in conversation, with a !scurf overflowing with
kindly (feelings, and a head filled with noble
eentinicnts and independent thought; that of
Miss Eustace, because he had to judge her by
lier countenance, as she was extremely retir
ing and taciturn when lie was present. Her
face, however, was no very dull study ; for of;
her, if of any one, it might perhaps have teen j
said — a her body thoughtand occasionally, j
wh.en he met her eye, there was a flash across !
iiis mentorv of something lie had long before j
seen, or felt, or dreamed; an undefinahle sen-1
sation of pie .sure, but too evanescent to be !
caught or retained. ,
“ 1 Tow do you like Susan’s guests. Horace ?
Mr. Atkins inquired one day, after Mr. Ciiaun
cey had seen them a number of times.
“How ami to form an opinion of Miss
Eustace!” asked Mr. Chauncev. “ She indeed
looks very much alive, hut never utters a word
when she can avoid it.”
“How!” said Mr. Atkins, “lhave never
discovered that she is not as conversable and
entertaing as Augusta, and far more plavful.”
“Indeed!” said Mr. Chaunccy. “Hut it
has certainly not been so when I have met them.
I think Miss Leigh peculiarly brilliant and pleas
ing in conversation. She appears to be a fine
—a noble girl.”
“ They are both fine. noVe girls,” said Mr.
Atkins. “It is not every day that we meet
tiiose who are equally so.”
Mr. Atkins had not often been at home when
his friend was at his house, but Mr. Cii.auncey’s
remark led him to notice Miss Eustace partic
ularly whenever he witnessed them succeeding
interviews. One evening Mr. Chaunccy was
with them, and Mr. Atkins chanced to be seat
ed a little apart from his wife, her cousin, and
Mr. Chauncev, who were, as usual, in the full
tide of conversation, when Miss Eustace, on
rising to leave the room, passed near him. He
-caught her hand, and drawing her toward him,
said, in a low tone—
“ Where is vour vo ce this evening Abbv ? '
“My voice!” said Miss Eustace.
“O, lam glad you have not lost it—hut
why have you not spoken for these two hours ? '
“ And have I not?” asked Miss Eustace.
“Scarcely,” answered Mr. Atkins.
“Then I suppose it was because 1 had noth
ing to say,” sud the : miliug girl.
“ But you are not usually so silent,” remark
ed Mr. Atkins.
“Perhaps it would be better if I were. But
truly, though you may doubt it, there arc time
wlien I had much rather listen than talk.”
“ Especial:v when my friend Horacejs ex
erting his colloqual powers 1 hey ?”
“ Just as you please, sir,” said Miss Eu dace,
again sm’iiug but with some little appearance
of embnrrasment, and withdrawing her hand,
she left the room.
Mr. Chaunccy did profit by the invitation of
Mrs. Atkins, to visit her frequently. Miss
Eustace interested him. He loved, when not
too much engrossed in conversation himself, to
watch the bright, the cheerful, the intellectual,
theever varying! xore-sion of her countenance.
Her evc-s seemed fountains of light, and love,
and happiness: and the dimples about her
mouth and checks, the very abode of joy and
content. There was something about her to
soothe and exhilerate at the same time. But
Miss Leigh soon awakened in him a deeper, a
more engrossing interest. Her talents, which
were neither concealed nor displayed, comman
ded his admiration; her compassionate'feel
ings and elevated principles won his esteem ;
so that scarcely three weeks had elapsed from
the commencement of his acquaintance with
her, ere lie was more sedulously aiming to learn
bow lie might render himself acceptable to her,
than to ascertain whether the indispensi'le
quality for a good wife, was a component part
of her character.
One fine morning, Mr. and Mrs. Atkins,
Mr. Chaunccy, and the young ladies, were to
go out oil horseback. The three former were
ready and waiting in the parlor, when the two
latter came from their chamber.
“You have very becoming riding-caps,
young ladies,” said Mr. Atkins, “but 1 think
neither of you have put them on quite right.
Come, Abby.” said he playfully, “let me adjust
yours more to rny mind.”
“ O, do,” said Miss Eustace, holding up her
blooming face ; “ make me look as pretty as
you possibly can.”
“There!” said Mr. Atkins, after drawing
the cap a litt’e more on one side; “ I will leave
it to the company if that is not a great im
provement. Now, Augusta, let me try rny
hand at yours.”
“ No, thank you, sir,” said Miss Leigh, ele
vating her head, while her color was somewhat
heightcr.e 1 —*• I will wear my cap according
to my own taste this-morning, if you please.”
“O, 1 teg a thousand pardons for my pre
sumption,” said Mr. Atkins—“ Your taste is
much more correct than mine—l really Leg
your pardon.”
Miss Leigh made no rep'y, but gave her
hand to Mr. Chauncev, who was waiting to re
ceive it, and the little party immediately started
on their excursion. For awhile they all were
rather silent, and seemed entirely engrossed
in the management of their horses; but the
weather was charming—their exercisft exhilcr
ating ; and ere long each one was cnoiving a
fine flow of spirits. They role several miles,
and on their return home encountered a com
pany of Irish jieo Imen, women and children.
They looked way-worn and weary ; and the
faces of some of the children even wore an ex
pression of anxiety and depresss’on, as if they
felt all the force of their frienillossncss, the
helpiessr.c*!* of bt, -angers in a strange land.—
Mr. Atkins and his friends stopped to talk with'
them a few minutes, and bestow charity accord
ing to eacli one’s ability or inclination, and then
rode on.
“O, Mr. Chaunccy,” said Miss Leigh, in a
low tone, after riding a little way in silence,
‘ what pitiable objects those people were ! As
good by nature, and undoubtedly, some of them
; t least, much more amiable in disposition than
myself-—win is it that there is so vast a differ
ence in our lots ? Ilow is it that I can ever te
ungrateful or perverse, while thus distinguished
by unnumbered and undeserved blessings!”
her tone was that of the deepest sympathy and
humility, and her eyes were swimming in tears;
as she spoke.
Had Mr. Chaunccy littered the thought of
Ids lieu rt, he would have told her, that she was
the most amialde, the most lovely, the most de
serving among the whole family of man ! And
his eyes did utter it. so far as eyes are capable
of utterance, though his tongue only spoke of
the vast disparity that Infinite Wisdom sees
best to make in the outward circumstances of
h s creatures in tin's wor'd. When about tak
ing leave at Mr. Atkins’door, Mr. Chauncey
received a pressing invitation to return to take
tea, and spend the evening—an invitation he
proni( tlv accepted.
At an early hour in the evening, Mr. Chaun
cev was seated amid his circle of friends in
Mrs. Atk'ns’ parlor. Before tea was brought
in, and while at the table, conversation flowed
ns usual; and it was conversation :—the exer
cise of the mind; the collision of wit; the in
e change of opinion : the expression of seti
uient: and not the idle and frivolous chit-chat
nor the oftentimes mischievous and envenomed
go sip, that is sometimes so miscalled. After
the ;ea-t!iing.s were removed, and the ladies
and settled themselves to their several employ
ment ;,Mr. Chauncey, at the request of Mrs.
Atkins, read aloud the test of Mrs. Opie’s
tales, namely, “White Lies.” Mr. Chaun
• ev’s voice was rich and mellow, h's intonation’s
aid ( mphnsos perfect; so that whatever lie read
produced tiie full effect that the author intend-
'd. His present little auditory paid him the
compliment of the most profound silence, till
c finished the tale, and closed the volume.
“ That is a faultless story, ” said Mr. At
kins. “Do you not think so ? ” All, except
Miss Eustace, expressed their approbation of
i:i warm terms. She remained silent.
“What says my little Abbv to it?” said
Mr. Atkins. “Do you dissent from the com
mon opinion ?”
“ 1 think it highly interesting and instructive,”
M.-a Eustace replied, “but not faultless.”
“ Pray point out the fttults,” said Mr. At
kins. “ Let us have the benefit of your cri
'iq’ir upon it.”
Miss Eustace blushed, and begged to be ex
cused. She was sorry she had expressed any
feeling of disapprobation. But Mr. Atkins
i ersisted that she should point out the defects
she discovered, in which she was joined by
the rest of the circle. Blushing still more
Id-ply, Miss Eustace said—-
“ Clara could not have felt true friendship
or Eleanor, or she would not have manifested
such indelicate joy, when the latter was prov
e 1 so base.”
“ Clara’s own explanation, that she had a
dearer friend, at whose escape she rejoiced,
was a sufficient apology.”
This opinion, though differently expressed,
was littered by every one at the same moment,
Mr. Chauncey excepted.
“That, as l think, is another defect,” said
Miss Eustace. “ Was there no indelicacy in
her permitting that dearer friend to see that
she loved him, and calculated on the offer < f
his hand, while he yet had made no declaration
of attachment to her?”
“ Her amiable sincerity would atone for
that fault, if it could be called a fault,” said
Mr. Atkins.
“ Hardly, I think,*’said Miss Eustace. “I
always was sorry the passage was written, es
pecially as it was written by a woman, and
have ever leen inclined to jump it when read
ing the tale. I like not that female delicacy
should be sacrificed, even at the shrine of sin
cerity. But Mrs. Opienot unfrequently sins
against the more refined aud retiring delicacy
ot her sex.”
“ In what other instance do you think she
has done it, Miss Eustace ?” asked Mr. Ciiaun
cey.
“O. in many,” Miss Eustace replied. “A
ny one who understands the true female char
acter, and who will read lier works carefully,
will easily detect thepi.”
“O, name them—name them, Abby,” said
Mr. Atkins.
“ Yes, name some other,” said Mrs. Atkins.
“ There is one in ‘ Madaline’ that now oc
curs to me,” said Miss Eusticc, “That struck
me as grossly indelicate ; and, indeed, not true
to nature. Madaline says of herself, ‘ that
she sang louder than usual one evening when
she supposed that Mr. Falconer was listening
behind the 1 e Ige, that lie might hear her.’ ”
“ YVas that false to nature, as well as indeli
cate, Abby ?” asked Mr. Atkins.
Coloring more highly than ever, while her
silken lashes fell over her eyes, as if to conceal
their deep expression, she replied—
•• I should have supposed that the idea of
the proximity of one so dear to her, under
sucli circumstances, would have rendered it
impossible for her to sir." ns hud as usual, if
indeed she could sin".ut all.”
Mr. Atkins, who m a seated bv l.rr, whis.
petedin her car—“ What happy fellow taught
rou io much of tiie effect oftte tended p&sskm,
Abby?”
This question covered lier whole face and
neck with a glow of carmine: but in a low,
and somewhat tremulous tone, she said—
“ May not instinct teach a woman how she
should probably be affected under such cir
cumstances ?”
“Possibly,” said Mr. Atkins—“but for all
that, I do suspect you most grievously.”
All the little party continued to converse in
the moat animated manner, Miss Eustace ex
cepted. She was making a feather screen for
Mrs. Atkins, and she now applied herself to
her work with the most j-ersevering diligence,
and in perfect silence.
“Do let us hear the sound of your voice
again, Abby,” said Mr. Atkins, in an under
tone. “You have now maintained the most
profound silence for more than an hour. Pray
speak once again.”
“ I will,” said Miss Eustace, “ for I am just
going to ask Augusta if my screen will do.”
“I can tell you that it will,” said Mr. At
kins, “it is very handsomely made.”
But Miss Leigh differed from him in opin
ion. “It is not so pretty as it might he, Ab
by,” said she. “ The different colored leath
ers are not so arranged as to produce the ef
fect.”
“ Arc they not ?” said Miss Eustace. “ I
have teen trying to make it as pretty as possi
ble. But you are correct, Augusta, ’ added
she, after holding the screen in different points
of view ;“it is really a gaudy looking thing. I
will give it to some child who needs a fan, and
will te delighted with its gay colors, and make
another lar my friend.”
“Ono, Abby,” said Mrs. Atkins, “you
shall not take that trouble. This is really a
handsome sc:ten.”
“So I thought,” said Miss Eustace, “until
Augu-ta helped to open my eyes to its glaring
defects. No, no —I will make another for
you. Should you carry this, it might te
thought that a Sachem had robbed some fair
one of his tribe, and laid the spoils at your feet.
1 should take no pleasure in giving you any
thing so ill-looking—in such bad taste.”
“ Just as you please, dear,” said Mrs. At
kins, “though I am sorry that you should give
yourself so much trouble.”
“I shall not esteem it a trouble,” said Miss
Eustace, as she resumed her seat, and at tiie
same time her taciturnity.
Miss Leigh was peculiarly happy this eve
ning. Mr. Chaunccy did not, it is true, con
verse with her any more than usual, nor say
any thing to her that he might not 1 nvesaid to
another; but there was something in his man
ner, in the tone of his voice, and in the expres
sion of his eyes, when lie addressed her, that
betrayed his admiration, his growing prefer
ence. Mrs. Atk ins observed it with much
pleasure. She truly loved Mss Eustace, and
would not have been dissatisfied had she be
come the object of Mr. Chaunccy’s choice ;
yet lier cousin Augusta was the one she had in
her own mind selected for his wife. But Mr.
Atkins saw it with something like regret.
Though lie really thought that Miss Leigh was,
as he had said to Mr. Chauncey, a fine, a no
ble minded girl, yet she was not his favorite of
the two young ladies. lie loved Mr. Chaun
cey with a warm attachment; and Miss Eus
tace, according to bis opinion, was the very
person to secure his happiness.
After Mr. Chauncey took leave, Mr. At
k’ns and Miss Eustace chanced to be left alone
for a short time, when the former abruptly
said—
“ You really vex me, Abby.”
“Vex you! how? 1 am very sorry,” said
Miss Eustace.
“ Why, here is my friend Horace, who is
decidedly the finest fellow I ever knew, whom
you arc permitting Augusta to early off, with
out one effort to contest the prize !”
“ Effort ! Mr. Atkins ?’’ said Miss Eustace.
“ Would you have me make an effort to attract
his attention ?”
“ No—not exactly make an effort; but I
would have you do yourself justice—would
have you let him see a little what you arc.
YVhy cannot you talk as much when lie is
here, as you do at other times?”
“You are now laughing at me!” said Miss
Eustace. “ 1 have been quite ashamed of my
self. ever since I was drawn on to say so much
about Mrs. Opie’s works.”
“ The only time you have spoken this eve
ning !” said Mr. Atkins. “ Truly you have
great cause to be ashamed of your loquacity !
Why, Augusta, said more words to him in
half an hour to-night, tlian he lias heard you
utter since you have been here !”
“It may be so,” said .Miss Eustace; “but
you may depend on it, Mr. Atkins, that I will
never speak a word ivhen I should otherwise
be silent, nor say any thing different from what
I should otherwise say, to secure the attention,
or meet the approbation of any gentleman in
the world!”
“You are incorrigible !” said Mr. Atkins.
“And another thing—either you dislike
Horace, or are attached to some other man.
I suspect the latter. I have watched you a
little this evening, and noticed a shade of sad
ness—of melancholy, on your brow, that I ne
ver saw there before. Ido not wish, my dear
Abby, from idle curiosity, to pry r into the se
crets of your heart, —but tell me —is not my
! suspicion correct ?”
“ 1 do most truly assure you it is not,” Miss
! Eustace had just time to reply, ere Miss Leigh
| re-entered the parlor, and the former immedi
ately left the room.
! *O, hots tlmrikftd I am,” tliought sJ.fi, 6s
‘she shut herself in her own chamber—“how
thankful I am that he framed his question as
lie did ! otlienvise what could I have done ?
Dislike Horace Chauncey! Love some other
man ! O, would the former were true ! Would
I had passed through the same Lethe in which
he seems to have been plunged ! But no mat
ter—l will soon go home, and then strive to
grow forgetful myself; for never will 1 trv to
refresh his memory! Sad! said Mr. Atkins?
I w ill not be sad—at least no one shall see
me so—l will not be so if I can help it!”
Humming a cheerful air, which, however, lost
something of its sprightliness, though none of
its melody, as she warbled it, ste returned to
the parlor.
As day succeeded day, the visits cf Mr.
Chauncey became more frequent, and the in
terest .Miss Leigh inspired more obvious. The
f eat next her he always, if possible, secured ; if
that was occupied, the back of her chair fre
quently afforded him a support. He interest
ed himself m all her pursuits—looked over the
book she was reading—examined and admired
lier work, —and never seemed completely hap
py urffess near her, and having some object cf
mutual interest.
Meantime, despite Miss Euctacc’s resolu
tion, she was frequently sad ; and notwithstand
ing her efforts at concealment, which led her
to appear unnaturally gay, Mr. Atkins saw it.
He was observing lier closely, but silently ;
not even suggesting to Mrs. Atkir.s that any
change was coming over her friend. But he
noticed that the moment after the frolic or the
joke was passed, a seriousness rested upon
her features, ns unnatural to them as frivolity
was to her manners. When Mr. Chauncey
was present, she indeed appeared not more
different from formerly, except that her cheek
was less frequently dimpled with a smile, lier
eyes were more intently fixed on her work,
and her silence, if possible, was more profound
than ever. Sometimes, when a pang of pe
culiar bitterness shot through her heart, she
would resolve on closing her visit immediately ;
but when she had hinted such an intention to
-Mrs. Atkins, that lady seemed so much hurt,
and so strenuously opposed such a measure,
that she abandoned the idea. Yet how could
she stay three months longer,—which was
the term originally fixed for her visit.—witnes
sing that which she witnessed—that which
was constantly enhancing her disquietede ?
Often in the retirement of her chamber, she
would take herself severely to t..sk. “ How
foolish—how worse than foolish I have been,
thus year after year to let one idea engross
my heart, without ever looking forward, for a
moment, to a resultjike this ! Common sense,
common prudence, common discretion would
have taught me better! Yet 1 consulted nei
ther; but permitted my foolish imagination to
indulge itself at the expense of my peace.
Childish infatuation! But I will thus indulge
myself no longer. This attachment shall be
rooted out! He and Augusta will make a no
ble couple. I see it—much as my heart rebels
against it. They will love mid be happy!
What if she will not study his every wish, as 1
could not study his every wish, as l could not
help doing, and lose her very being in his ! he
will love her; and the observation of her shi
ning qualities, will leave him r.o time to regret
the absence of trifling and minor attentions or
virtues, 1 must , I will forget this dream of
yours, which else will involve me in misery, if
not in guilt. Too much already has my heart
been divided between heaven and earth! and
richly do 1 deserve this suffering, for permitting
a creature, however exalted in virtue—and ().
how exalted he is ! how far above all others
that 1 have seen ! yet how wicked I have been
to permit him to engross so much of that love !
which before Lis sacred altar, I promised should
be first ofall for my Clod ! Father,” she cried,
while she raised her tearful eyes to heaven,
“draw rny affections to thyself, though my
heartstrings should be severed !”
[TO EE CONCLUDED.]
THE YOUTHFUL BItIDF.
Observe that slow and solemn tread, when
the young bride takes her wedded one by the
arm, and with downcast looks, and a heavy
heart, turns lier face from ‘sweet home,’ arid
all its associations, which have for years been
growing and brightening, and entertvvining so
closely around the purest and tendcrest feelings
of the heart. How reluctant that step, as she
moves toward the carriage; how eloquent
those tears which rush unbidden from the foun
tain 1
She has just bade adieu to her home ! she
has given the parting hand—the parting kiss !
With deep struggling emotion she has pro
nounced the farewell! and oh, how fond, and
yet mournful a spell the word breathes ! ai.d
perhaps ‘tis the last farewell to father, mother,
brother, sister!
Childhood and youth, the sweet morning of
life, what its ‘charms < fearliest birds,’ and ear
liest associations, have now passed. Now
commences a new—a momentous period o!
existence* Os this she is well aware. She
reads in living characters— uncertainty assa
iling that whec all was peace—where all was
happiness—where home, sweet home was ; 1,
in all unto her. But these tics, these associ
ations, these enjoyments, she has y elded, one
by one, and now she has broken them all asm -
der ! —.She has turned her Tree from them ali,
and witness how she clings to the arm of
him* for whom all these have been exchanged !
See how she moves on : the world is bes > e
ter, aud a history to be written whose page*
> to U filled up with Lfo'B loveliest tor
lings, or, perhaps, with incidents of after'
interest; of startling, fearful record ■
can throw aside the veil even of three s
years and ten for her, and ‘ record the
and sun-bright incidents that shall arise in !
cession, to make joyous and foil the
life; that shall throw around those embeite
ments of the mind and the heart that \ V K ;
crowns the domestic circle with beautv /J
loveliness; lhat which sweetens social i n te
course, and softness, improves and elevates
condition of society ? Or who, with ari J
unwavering hand, can register the hours J
days of affectionate and silent weenino- j
midnight watching! Who pen thj Eh
hopes—the instances of unrequited love-d
loneliness and sorrow of the confiding heart *
the deep, corroding cares of the mind "
neglected and forgotten, as it were hv r
who was dearer to her than
around is drear and desolate— when the
acred stores are wasted, and the flickeri *
Lluze upon the hearth wanes and goes out '
and leaves iier in solitude, in silence, and 7
tears ? But her affections wane not, slumte
not, die not! r
i ‘ ,,ie brilliant skies may shed down all t’ ne ; r
gladdening beauties— nature array herself in
gay flowers, bright hopes—and friends, kind
f lends may greet with laughing countenances
and Kind hearts; but it avails naught. On*
k.nd look—one soft and affectionate accent
the unequivocal evidence of remaining ] ove J
one smile like that which wooed and won that
heart, would enkindle brighter and deeper
and lovelier emotions its its fountain than
earth with all its splendor, beautv and uav 7
sociations. ‘ ° *
, 0il! young man, ever to be thy young bride
tnen, what thou scemest now to be; disap!
point her not. What has she not given up for
t iee ! W hat sweet ties, that bound heart to
heart anti hand to hand, and life to life, has she
not broken off for thee? Prove thyself wo -
thy of all she has sacrificed. Let it ever lx*
her pleasure, as now*, to cling with confiding
joy and love to that arm. Let it he her staq
iicr support, and it shall he well repaid. Here
is an enduring—-an undying love! Prosperity
whi strengthen it—adversity will brighten and
invigorate it, and give to ‘it additional lustre
and loveliness! Should the hand of disease
tail upon thee, then wilt thou behold woman’s
love—woman’s devotion ! ‘for thou wilt never
witness her spirits wax faint and drooping at
thv couch ! YY hen thine own are failing* she
will cling to thee like a sweet vine, and diffuse
around thy pillow those sweet influences and
atti actions that shall touch the master-springs
and nobler passions of thy nature—that shall
gi\e new impulse to life! Her kind voice
will be like music to thy failing heart—like oil
to thy wounds ! A ca, she will raise thee, re
store thee, and make thee happy, if any thing
less than an angel’s arm can do it!
Halifax (N. S.) Pearl.
FEMALE friendship.
I think there is nothing more lovely than the
love of two beautiful women, who are not en
vious of each other’s charms. How deight
fully they impart to each other the pattern of
a cap, or flounce, or frill! How charmingly
they entrust some slight, slender secret about
tinting a flower, or netting a purse ! Now one
leans over the other, and guides her inexperi
enced hand, as it moves in the mysteries of
some novel work, and then the other looks up
with an eye beaming with devotion; and then
again the first leans down a little lower, and
gently presses her aromatic lips upon her
friend’s polished forehead. These arc sights
which we quiet men, who, like “ little Jacky
I lor ner,” know whereto take up a safe position
occasionally enjoy, but your noisy fellows, who
think that women never want to be alone—a
sad mistake—and consequently must be always
breaking or stringing a guitar, or cutting a
pencil, or splitting a crow-quill, or overturning
the gold ink, or seribling over a pattern, or do
ing any other of the thousand acts of mischief,
are debarred from.
A SISTER.
He who has never known a sister’s kind
ministrations, nor felt his heart warming be
neath her endearing smile and love-bean ij[
eye, has been unfortunate indeed. It is not to
be wondered at, if the fountains of j urc feeling
flow in his bosom hut sluggishly ; or if the gen
tler emotions of his nature be lost in the steine:
attributes of manhood.
“That man has gr iwn up among 1 iifd an J
affectionate sisters,” 1 once heard a ladyef
much experience and observation, remark.
“ And why do you think so?” said I.
“ Because the rich developement of all the
tender and more refined feelings of the
which s so apj aront in every action nnu
word. ”
A sister’s influence is felt even in manhoods
lat t years, ard the heart of him who has g' (W3
co 1 1 in its chilling contact with the world.
warm and thrill with pure enjoyment, as sort’
incident awakens within him the soft t me art*
glad melodies of bis sister’s voice. And be " 1
tun from purposes which a waiped and t'"
system ol pi ilosophv lias reasored in e pose '
cy, and even weep for the gentle influen x win*
has moved him in his earlier years.
Atherffurt-
P/ napkin Tie —A Miss Pumpkin. of W'
mont> has lately been married to a Mr. *‘ c '