Dewless Roses

Mrs. Rachel Sutton was a born match maker, and she had cultivated
the gift by diligent practice. As the sight of a tendrilled vine
suggests the need and fitness of a trellis, and a stray glove
invariably brings to mind the thought of its absent fellow, so every
disengaged spinster of marriageable age was an appeal--pathetic and
sure--to the dear woman's helpful sympathy, and her whole soul went
out in compassion over such "nice" and an appropriated bachelors as
crossed her orbit, like blind and dizzy comets.

Her propensity, and her conscientious indulgence of the same, were
proverbial among her acquaintances, but no one--not even prudish and
fearsome maidens of altogether uncertain age, and prudent mammas,
equally alive to expediency and decorum--had ever labelled her
"Dangerous," while with young people she was a universal favorite.
Although, with an eye single to her hobby, she regarded a man as an
uninteresting molecule of animated nature, unless circumstances
warranted her in recognizing in him the possible lover of some
waiting fair one, and it was notorious that she reprobated as worse
than useless--positively demoralizing, in fact--such friendships
between young persons of opposite sexes as held out no earnest of
prospective betrothal, she was confidante-general to half the girls
in the county, and a standing advisory committee of one upon all
points relative to their associations with the beaux of the region.
The latter, on their side, paid their court to the worthy and
influential widow as punctiliously, if not so heartily, as did their
gentle friends. Not that the task was disagreeable. At fifty years
of age, Mrs. Button was plump and comely; her fair curls unfaded,
and still full and glossy; her blue eyes capable of languishing into
moist appreciation of a woful heart-history, or sparkling
rapturously at the news of a triumphant wooing; her little fat hands
were swift and graceful, and her complexion so infantine in its
clear white and pink as to lead many to believe and some--I need
not say of which gender--to practise clandestinely upon the story
that she had bathed her face in warm milk, night and morning, for
forty years. The more sagacious averred, however, that the secret of
her continued youth lay in her kindly, unwithered heart, in her
loving thoughtfulness for others' weal, and her avoidance, upon
philosophical and religions grounds, of whatever approximated the
discontented retrospection winch goes with the multitude by the name
of self-examination.