The Younger Sister Vols 1-3, by Mrs. Hubback--A Project Gutenberg eBook

The Reverend John Watson, who, for the space of twenty years, was the incumbent of the village of Winston, had not always been such an indolent invalid as he appeared to those who only knew him during the last ten years of that time. When he was inducted into the living, he was a husband and the father of five children; a sixth was very shortly added to their nursery; and, for several years after her birth, Mrs. Watson's activity, good judgment, and influence with her husband, preserved, for him, the esteem and respect of his parishioners, and the character amongst his acquaintance, of a very kind and attentive neighbour, and a most highly respectable parish priest. But, with her life, his energy seemed to depart; he became indolent from sorrow; shunning society—shrinking from exertion—and confining himself to what was absolutely unavoidable of his duties. This line of conduct, begun from grief, which seemed to prostrate his mental strength, was continued from self-indulgence, long after the poignancy of the grief was worn away, and it ended in really entailing the ill-health—from which, he had, for sometime, pleased himself with fancying that he suffered. Frequent attacks of the gout, disabled him from much exertion, and often confined him to his room for weeks together.

In the meantime, his family grew up with almost every disadvantage that could attend them. Motherless, and unchecked by their father, his girls—at least, the three eldest—were left entirely to their own guidance and discretion, or indiscretion, to speak with more propriety; and the sons were early sent out, to fight their own way in the world, without the softening influence of domestic ties, or the memory of a happy home to warm their hearts and strengthen their principles.

The only one of the family who could be said to have received a good education, was the youngest daughter, Emma—who, on her mother's death, was begged of her father by his brother-in-law, and brought up by him and his wife, as tenderly as if she had been their own. He was a wealthy man; and by her own family, when they thought of her at all, she was generally considered with something like envy—excepting by her eldest sister, who had been too fond of her as an infant, not to rejoice in her removal to a better home. It was considered as indisputable by the others, that she was uncommonly lucky; since, beyond doubt, her uncle would leave her handsomely provided for; and the only question on that subject, which was debated with much anxiety, was, whether he ought not to divide his wealth equally amongst them all, or whether the eldest son should inherit the greatest share. Mr. Robert Watson, the expectant nephew, was an attorney at Croydon and his flourishing business, joined to his great expectations from his rich uncle, had proved overpowering attractions to a young lady in that neighbourhood, to whom he had been united for several years, when the death of his uncle occurred. Had the greedy anticipations of the nephew, or the selfish hopes of his vain wife, been the only disappointed feelings on the occasion, nobody, but themselves, would have much cared. But Mr. Pearson, in his will, trusting much more to the steadiness of his wife, and less to the affection of his niece, than either deserved, left the whole of his property in the widow's power. He intended, perhaps, by this measure, to secure to her the respect and attention of his sister's children, whose interest it thus became to keep on good terms with their aunt; and was very far from anticipating the catastrophe that ensued. Instead of acting the part of an indulgent aunt, or of a patronising and tyrannical one, Mrs. Pearson took an active part to obliterate all trace of the connection, by bestowing her hand, and her first husband's property, on a handsome but poor young Irishman; and, on her shortly after quitting England, to visit his relatives, she kindly gave Emma leave to return to her father's house, with a generous present of fifty pounds to be divided between her and her sisters.

At the period of her return home, Emma found her two younger sisters were absent; and the affectionate warmth with which Elizabeth Watson received her, joined to the silence of her father on the mortifying subject of her aunt's marriage, did great good to her heart and feelings. The painful sensations which the union in question had occasioned her, were quite as strong as the indignation, and far more amiable than the disappointment, which had been experienced by other members of her family. She had loved and revered her uncle, and would not, even to herself, admit that he had been unjust, hardly even injudicious in the disposition of his property. But she had, also, loved her aunt; and the memory of old obligations, and gratitude for long-continued kindness, struggled painfully with less agreeable feelings. So far as her own loss of fortune was concerned, she did not consider it worth a regret: having been early accustomed to the luxuries of a handsome income, she had not the smallest practical knowledge of what poverty is; and, therefore, with the generous indifference natural to an amiable and liberal mind, she would have felt no resentment, had this been the only evil attending the marriage. But the fear that her aunt was bringing unhappiness on herself, by her injudicious choice; the certainty that she was rendering herself an object of contempt or ridicule; and the disappointment to her own affectionate heart in being thus cast off for a stranger, though each bitter in itself, were altogether easy to bear, compared with the glaring disrespect to her beloved uncle's memory, which these hasty nuptials testified. This cut her to the heart; and perhaps it was the silent reproach which her looks conveyed that made Mrs. Mac Mahon so very desirous that Emma should cultivate an acquaintance with her own family, from whom she had been too long separated. With the strong feelings of a warm and youthful mind, not yet versed in the fleeting nature of every human woe, she deemed this a grief which time might soften, but could never quite heal; and though rejoicing at the prospect of meeting with her sisters, and cultivating an unremitting and unfading affection for them, she was convinced that she never should quite got over the disappointment her aunt had caused her.

The Christmas assembly was fast approaching, and Mrs. Edwards had, as usual, invited one of the Miss Watsons to accompany her family to the ball. The absence of Penelope and Margaret prevented there being any indecision as to which should be the fortunate individual. Mr. Watson could not be left quite alone, and Emma having never been to a ball, Elizabeth, without hesitation, decided in her favour.

For the first day or two that it was in contemplation, Emma, true to her pre-arranged hopeless despondency, took little interest in the prospect; and though strongly feeling her sister's good nature, and, for her sake, trying to seem pleased, would really have given up her place without a sigh, to any individual who desired it. But the interest of preparing her frock, arranging her ornaments, and settling the minute details of the toilette, had the same irresistible attraction for her, that they would have for nine girls out of ten, and when the important afternoon arrived, she was in a very pleasant state of excitement on the subject.

"You will find the Edwardses very agreeable people," said Elizabeth to her, as they drove slowly from the parsonage along the lane, now splashy and deep with November mud. "I assure you, they live in very good style; the door will be opened by a man-servant, and their dinner is sure to be handsome."

"What sort of person is Mr. Edwards?" enquired Emma, who began to have a little palpitation, at the idea of being left quite amongst strangers.

"Oh, you need not mind him," said her sister, "you will see him at dinner, and he will ask you to take wine; and he will eat a great many filberts after dinner, and offer you some gingerbread; but you need not take it if you don't like; Mary Edwards makes it on purpose for her father, who eats it every day. Mr. Edwards will play at cards all the evening at the ball, and if he wins you will stay late, and he will be quite good tempered; but if he has ill-luck, he will hurry you home very early. However you will be sure of some comfortable soup afterwards; and if he is cross, you had better say nothing, and go to bed as soon as you can!"

"As the party from Osborne Castle are expected," continued Elizabeth, "I dare say it will be a very good ball; I am sure you will be very much admired; how I should like to be there myself!"

"Well, Elizabeth, I am sure you shall go instead of me; it would be much better, as you know everybody, and I am quite a stranger. I could send John over with your things if you staid in my place; I should not be at all afraid of driving this steady old thing back to Winston by myself; and as to our father, I dare say I could amuse him. Do you know I really think you had better settle it so."

"My dearest Emma," cried Elizabeth warmly, "how excessively good-natured of you; but I could not do such a thing for the world, though I shall always remember your making the offer. Keep you from your first ball indeed; when you are so sure of being so much admired! oh no, it is only fit that you should have your turn of pleasure, and I would not hinder you."

"But indeed, dear Elizabeth, I should not care about it, I am sure, in comparison with you, so you need not mind that!"

"But indeed I could not think of such a thing; and besides, my principal wish would be to see you there. I am sure you will enjoy it. Offer to give up a ball at nineteen, and your first ball too; I wonder when Pen or Margaret would think of such a thing: I am sure I should never have forgiven any one who kept me from a ball at your age. But if my father seems pretty well, and can spare me, I really think I would wrap myself up, and make John drive me over to join you there; I could easily do that you know."

"Yes, why not! I suppose you have been so used to a coach, as to think that impossible: but, my dear Emma, I am afraid you are too refined to be happy with us!"

"Why that is just an example,—you are not used to make shifts, and be put about; and are shocked at such an idea; it will not answer, I assure you, it will not make you happy."

"I am sorry you see anything to find fault with, Elizabeth; I did not know I was refined; it is natural to me; I only think and feel like the people I have been used to," and she sighed at the thought of her uncle and aunt.

"I dare say that is very true; but it will not do here; how Pen would laugh at you; you have no idea how she ridicules everything not just like herself. So you had better get over it as fast as you can!"

"I should not wonder if Tom Musgrove were to dance with you, he generally notices every new girl, especially if they are pretty. But I should not like you to be caught by him."

"Oh, he is a young man of independent property who lives near here; and one of our pleasantest young men too; but I must warn you against him, Emma; he has a way of paying attentions to young girls, and he is so pleasant they all like him; so when he has made one desperately in love, he flies off to somebody else, and does not mind what hearts he breaks."

"What a despicable character," cried Emma warmly, "you need not fear my liking him after that."

"I assure you," returned Miss Watson, "he is very agreeable, and I defy any girl to whom he tries to recommend himself, not to find him agreeable. Almost every girl in this neighbourhood except myself, has been desperately in love with him at one time or other. Margaret was his last object, but though he has not paid her much attention for these six months, she is perfectly persuaded that he is as much attached to her as she is to him; and this is the second time since last spring that she has gone to stay a month at Croydon, in the hopes of his following and proposing to her. He never will however."

"Really I can hardly tell; I think at first I was so taken up with the affair with Purvis, and my disappointment there, that I thought little about Tom Musgrove."

"Did you never hear about that!" said Elizabeth with surprise, "perhaps you were thought too young to be trusted; but I will tell you now. I was engaged to him; he was a very nice young man, and it would have been a very good match for me—and what do you think prevented it?"

"It was Penelope—yes, it was really Pen, she said; and did things which caused the rupture—and Purvis left me!"

"I can hardly believe it: your own sister; it seems quite impossible that any girl could be guilty of such treachery: what could be her motive!"

"Oh, she wanted to marry him herself—Pen would do anything in the world to be married—that is what she is gone to Chichester about now—did you not know that?"

"Gone about?" repeated Emma looking puzzled—"what do you mean, how can she be gone to be married?"

"Don't you know that," again exclaimed Elizabeth, "though, to be sure, I do not see how you should, as nobody could have told you. I believe there is some old doctor there whom she is bent upon marrying. He is quite an old man, asthmatic, and all sorts of bad things: the friend she is staying with, however, thinks it would be a very good match for her, as he would make her a handsome settlement, and could not live long. I am not at all in her confidence, however, and have only a general notion of how things go on; I just hear what she tells Margaret, or what she lets out accidentally. I believe they think everything going on very prosperously now, and, perhaps, she may soon be married to him. I am sure I hope she will."

"Oh, Elizabeth, do you think she could be happy with an old asthmatic man? and marrying from such mercenary motives," cried Emma, half horrified.

"Really I do not know," replied Miss Watson quietly, "whether she would be happier or not; but I am sure we should. I wish with all my heart Pen and Margaret both were married; for Margaret is so peevish, there is no peace unless one lets her have her own way; and Penelope would rather have quarrelling going on than nothing. Now I think you and I could live together very comfortably, Emma; and really I would rather the others were married than myself."

"Yes, I can easily believe that," returned Emma, "having once loved, and been disappointed, I can understand your not caring about any one else."

"I do not know that that would make any difference," returned Miss Watson. "Poor Purvis, I certainly was very sorry to lose him; and really suffered very much at the time; but it would be a very pleasant thing to be well married; and, I believe, scarce any body marries their first love."

"I would rather do anything than marry for money," observed Emma, "it is so shocking. I would rather be teacher at a boarding school."

"I have been at school, Emma, which you have not, and know what a school teacher is—such a life—I would rather do anything than that!"

"Oh, I would not marry without love, exactly; but I think I could easily love any tolerably good-tempered man, who could give me a comfortable home. I am sure I would make any body a good wife; unless they were very cross. But your idea of loving is just another of your refinements, Emma; and only does for rich people who can afford such luxuries."

"Oh yes, Mary Edwards is the only daughter; and I wish you particularly to observe who she dances with; whether she is much with the officers, especially if Captain Hunter is very attentive to her. I must write to Sam soon, and he will be anxious to hear—"

"Because, poor fellow, he is very much in love with her himself—and he begged me to watch for him, and let him know what chance he has—I must say, I do not think he has any at all; and even if Mary liked him, her father, and certainly her mother, would not encourage it. If Sam were set up for himself even, as an apothecary, I do not know that they would let her think of him; but being merely an assistant to a country doctor, I am sure he ought to have no hopes."

"Oh yes, I have no doubt of his love being very strong; he is always writing about her, and, when he comes home, trying to see her: however, he says now, he does not mean to see her again, unless he gets some decided encouragement; or else he might have tried to come here and meet her at this ball: he will not ask for a day at Christmas, unless I send him a good account."

No more conversation could pass between the sisters, as they had reached the outskirts of the town; and the noise of the carriage wheels on the rough pitching of the street, made all attempts to be heard quite fruitless. Elizabeth whipped and urged on the old horse into something like an animated trot, and they soon were threading their way between the carts of cabbages, and turnips—waggons of hay—stalls of cattle, and sheep—old women with baskets—young women with fine gowns—boors with open mouths, and idle boys and girls with mischievous fingers congregating in the untidy market-place of a small country town. Having successfully crossed these, and escaped without accident, though not without some apprehension on Emma's part, they proceeded along the High Street in safety, until the house of Mr. Edwards was reached. Elizabeth certainly expected Emma to be somewhat impressed with the grandeur of this, the principal residence of the town; but the bright red-brick house created no peculiar sensation in her mind, though she saw it was one story higher than the neighbouring buildings. The dark green door, glittering brass knocker, and snow white steps, were likewise considered by Emma as things of course, being unaware that they testified to the wealth and taste of the proprietor, and when their knock was answered by a footman in livery, as Elizabeth had foretold, she was yet so entirely ignorant as to regard him without emotion, or entertain any feeling of extra respect for his master.

They found Mrs. and Miss Edwards sitting together—the father, of course, was at his office and not likely to appear till dinner time. Mary Edwards was a pleasing looking girl, though the curl papers, which were a part of her preparation for the evening, did not improve her appearance. Her manner was rather reserved, but less so than that her mother—whose formal stiffness was so great, that Emma almost fancied herself an unwelcome guest; and felt so uncomfortable and frightened, as to be more than half inclined to accompany Elizabeth home again. When, after sitting a short time, the latter rose to depart, leaving her sister with a sinking heart, Mrs. Edwards tried to be agreeable, enquired how Emma liked their country—whether she walked much—and if she usually enjoyed good health—to all which questions, Emma returned answers as coherent and intelligible as could be expected from a person whose thoughts were fixed on another subject. Her mind was involved in a labyrinth of wonder, as to the reason why Mrs. Edwards had so far punished herself as to have invited one to whom she seemed so very unfriendly.

After half an hour of this unpleasant intercourse, the ladies went up stairs to dress; and as the two girls were now together, without the mother's cold looks to distress them, they soon became more easy and intimate. The little cares of the toilette—the assistance they mutually afforded each other—the interest thereby raised, quickly dispersed the apparent coldness of Mary Edwards' manner; and she even ventured to observe to Emma, that she thought her like her brother. It was easy to guess which brother she meant, and Emma did not force her to particularise; but as Miss Edwards turned away directly after uttering this, and bent over a drawer to search for something, which she never found, it was impossible to decide as to the degree of her blushing; but Emma thought, at the moment, her companion looked so very pretty and lady-like in her ball-dress, that she felt no surprise at her brother's predilection.

Mr. Edwards joined them at dinner; and, whilst he was helping the soup, he repeated the observation, which his daughter had previously and privately made, that Miss Emma Watson was very like her brother.

"We are very well acquainted with your brother, Mr. Sam." resumed Mr. Edwards. "He usually dines with us, when he is at home."

Emma did not know exactly what to answer, but Mrs. Edwards took up the subject in her peculiarly cold manner, and observed:

"It is, now, many months since we have seen anything of Mr. Sam Watson—though, I believe, he did dine with you, Mr. Edwards, whilst we were at Bath, last year."

Mary's cheeks became of a decidedly deeper shade of pink during this discourse, but she ate her soup without speaking.

"I hope he was well, when you heard of him last," persisted Mr. Edwards, seeming, in a very husband-like way, bent on continuing the conversation which his wife desired to stop.

"I do not think my sister has heard, since I have been at Winston," replied Emma.

"Young men in business, have not much time for idle correspondence," observed the elder lady, so much as if she thought Miss Watson ought not to have received a letter, that Emma ventured to observe she supposed that was the reason.

Mr. Edwards did not, any further, provoke his wife by persevering on this subject, and the rest of the dinner passed calmly and uneventfully away.

Mrs. Edwards, anxious to secure a comfortable seat by the fire, was determined to be, as usual, very early in the ball-room—and her husband was roused from his after-dinner nap, to accompany them—which he unwillingly did; after settling his cravat and arranging his wig at the glass, which surmounted the drawing-room chimney-piece. The coach conveyed them very safely to the assembly rooms in the Red Lion; and as they were mounting the stairs in the dark, for they were so early that the lamp in the lobby was not lighted, the door of a bed-room was suddenly opened, and a young man appeared in dishabille.

"Ha! Mrs. Edwards!" said he, "early, as usual! you always take care to be the first in the field. When you come, I know it is time for me to dine; but I think I must dress first—don't you think so?"

Mrs. Edwards replied by begging they might not interrupt him in so necessary an occupation; and, with a formal bow, passed on—looking round anxiously to see whether her two young charges were following.

"It is Tom Musgrove," said Miss Edwards, a little louder, as they advanced further from the vicinity of his apartment.

They entered the ball-room; it looked very cold and very dull; the candles as yet hardly lighted, and the fires yielding far more smoke than heat. Over one of these several officers were lounging; Mrs. Edwards directed her steps to the other, and seated herself on the warmest side; her two companions found chairs near her, Mr. Edwards having left them at the door of the ball-room, to seek out his old associates at the whist-tables. But it was all so new to Emma, that she did not feel any of the annoyance at their early appearance with which a more experienced young lady would have been afflicted. Everything interested her happy mind, and she even felt amused in ascertaining the number of lights, and listening to the scraping of the fiddles tuning in the orchestra. They had not been seated many minutes, when they were joined by a young officer, whom Emma immediately guessed to be Captain Hunter, and from the pleasure which the quiet Mary demonstrated at his addresses, she augured unfavourably for her brother's prospects.

She could not, however, accuse Mrs. Edwards of looking more kindly on the gay soldier than she seemed to do on the doctor's assistant: and had it been Sam himself, he could hardly have received a more frigid recognition than the formal and ungracious bow, which Emma witnessed. Captain Hunter showed no symptom of discouragement, but continued a low but eloquent conversation with Mary, the only part of which intelligible to her companions was an engagement for the first two dances; for these were the days of country dances, before quadrilles, waltzes, and polkas had changed the face of the ball-room. There must certainly be some connexion between the style of dress and the style of dancing prevalent in any particular generation. The stiff ruffs, the awful long waists and formal boddices of Elizabeth's reign were quite in keeping with a stately pavan; the loose attire and complete undress adopted by the courtly beauties of Charles the Second may be considered characteristic of the elegant but licentious style pervading their dances. The minuet matched well with the buckram, and rich brocade, and high head-dress which marked the era of the earlier Georges; whilst powder and hoops of course disappeared under the influence of the merry country-dance and cotillion. Perhaps at the present time the dresses, like the dances, partake more of the character of the latter Stuarts—graceful and bewitching; the habiliments full and flowing, the steps vivacious but tending to giddiness, with a near approximation to romping, and a great risk of inducing a faux-pas, or even a serious fall.

But all this is a digression from my story, and cannot possibly have passed through my heroine's mind, since, sixty years ago, the liveliest fancy would have never pictured an English ball such as we now see it. The accessions to the company at first few and at great intervals, so as to allow Emma time to notice the dress, manners, and appearance of each individual, gradually became so much more numerous, as to prevent her seeing or observing more than half of them. Dancing, however, was delayed because the Osborne Castle party were expected, and the stewards, of course, were waiting for Miss Osborne to open the ball. At length, a bustle in the assembly-room called Emma's attention to the door, from a very remarkable dress which she had been for some minutes contemplating, and the important group made their appearance. Mary pointed them out to her young companion: there was Lady Osborne, with her splendid diamond necklace; her son and daughter, and her daughter's friend, Miss Carr; her son's late tutor, Mr. Howard, his sister, and her little boy, a child apparently about six years old. The last mentioned lady, a widow with pleasing manners and a very agreeable countenance, happened to seat herself near Emma, whose attention was speedily called to the little boy, by the extreme impatience he evinced for the dance to begin. His mother, turning to a friend beside her, observed,

"You will not wonder that Charles is so eager for his first dance, when you hear how he is to be honoured; Miss Osborne has promised to dance with him herself, which is very good-natured."

"Oh yes," cried Charles, "she has promised to be my partner ever since Saturday, indeed as long as I knew I was coming to the ball."

Just at this moment, Miss Osborne stepped hastily forward, and addressing the little boy in a hurried manner, said:

"Charles, I am very sorry, but I find I cannot keep my engagement with you this time; I must dance with Colonel Miller, but another time, the next dance, perhaps, will do just as well for us I dare say."

She then hastened away, without waiting to witness the effect of her communication on the little fellow, whose hopes and enjoyment seemed to vanish together. Disappointment was painted on every feature, and his swelling heart appeared about to prompt a shower of tears, with which a proud desire to appear manly was maintaining an ineffectual struggle. His mother, who seemed little less distressed, endeavoured to soothe his grief, and held out vague hopes of better luck another time; when Emma, who really pitied him, and was quite interested by the appearance of both, said with the most obliging air:

"If you will accept me as a substitute for Miss Osborne, sir, I shall be most happy to dance with you the two next dances."

It would be difficult to tell, of the mother or son, which countenance looked the brightest, or whose eyes showed the greatest pleasure at this kind offer: and the couple took their place in the dance with equal satisfaction, Emma being perfectly contented with her juvenile partner, whilst he was all anxiety to acquit himself well to do her honor, and especially intent on running his fingers as far as possible into the points of the new gloves which he had received from his mother on quitting her side, with sundry injunctions to keep them on.

Emma had been much amused when the Osborne party entered, to see Tom Musgrove accompanying them; having, no doubt, from the knowledge she had previously acquired, of his having been long in the house, that he had been waiting outside the door, in order to join them, and appear as if he formed one of their party. She now discerned him standing opposite to herself by the side of Lord Osborne; who, she learnt from casual remarks amongst ladies near her, never danced himself, and was now preventing or dissuading Tom Musgrove from doing so either. Lord Osborne was a remarkably plain young man, barely endowed with the air of a gentleman, and it seemed to observers, as if the time spent in the ball-room were one of actual penance to him. His principal occupation appeared to consist in regarding Emma with a broad, unmitigated stare, which rather disconcerted her, and made her exert herself to converse with Charles, that she might not seem to mind it. It was not easy for her to decide what drew his attention so fixedly on herself; she thought, perhaps, that he wondered at her presumption in standing up with one of his party; or that he was criticising her style of dress; or censuring her dancing; she wished with all her heart that he could find some other subject for his speculation, and was quite relieved at the gradual change of place which dancing produced. Charles was very happy, and spoke his feelings in rather an audible whisper, when addressing Mr. Howard, as that gentleman was passing near him, he said:

"Oh, do look, Uncle Howard, at my pretty partner, I do really think she is the prettiest girl in the room," an opinion which Mr. Howard himself did not seem inclined to controvert, though his answer was more cautiously and softly given.

"Upon my word, Charles," said Miss Osborne, as she gave him hands across; "you are in high luck; I am sure you have gained by the exchange," an assertion to which, had Charles been a few years older, he would have replied with less sincerity than his hurried "Yes," now announced.

He told Emma he was very glad now, that Miss Osborne had broken her promise, but could not help anxiously enquiring whether she thought she would keep her engagement for the next dance.

Emma answered in the affirmative, though she could have given no better reason for expecting Miss Osborne to perform her promise next time, than that she had broken it the last. When the dance was concluded, and Emma returned to her seat, Mrs. Wells, Charles' mother, expressed in warm terms, her obligation to Miss Watson for so kindly dancing with her little boy; Emma assured her, with great sincerity, that she was very happy to have given him pleasure, and that she had greatly enjoyed her dance.

They soon entered into an agreeable conversation—and she was exceedingly pleased, when, a short time afterwards, they were joined by Mr. Howard, who begged his sister to introduce him, and solicited her hand for the ensuing dance. Mr. Howard's appearance and manner were such, as could not fail to prepossess any one in his favor, and Emma had formed a favorable opinion of him already, from the affectionate terms in which little Charles had spoken of his uncle, when he informed her that he and his mother resided constantly with him. The good nature which had actuated her brought its own reward; and she thought, with much pleasure, of the ensuing dances. Previous to their commencement, there was a proposal made by Mrs. Wells, that they should go in search of tea. They set off accordingly—Charles very proudly escorting his partner—Mr. Howard and his sister being close behind; when, in attempting to enter the tea-room, they were met by so many returning to the dancing, that they were forced to draw aside; and, almost pushed behind a half-opened door. Whilst waiting here for a passage, Emma heard Lord Osborne address Mr. Tom Musgrove, as they were standing together before the very door which concealed her.

"I say, Musgrove, why don't you go and dance with that beautiful Emma Watson that I may come and look at her?"

"I was just going to ask her, my lord:" cried Tom, "the very thought that I had in my head this moment."

"Ay, do so, then," continued Lord Osborne, "and I will stand behind you; by Jove, she's so handsome that, if ever I did dance with any girl, it should be with her!"

It was with no little self-congratulation, that Emma reflected on her engagement to Mr. Howard, which would save her, as she hoped, from the unwelcome suit of Mr. Musgrove and the stare of Lord Osborne. There was a sort of suppressed look of mirth and amusement on the countenance of Mr. Howard, which convinced her that he, too, had heard this short dialogue, and Charles evinced his perception of it by whispering:

"They did not know we could hear them—and I would not have told them for the world—would you?" A sentiment in which Emma silently, but entirely joined.

It was not till they left the room—and she had joined Mrs. Edwards—that they again encountered Mr. Musgrove. He immediately requested an introduction, and Mrs. Edwards was obliged to comply; but, it was in her coldest and most ungracious manner. It evidently made not the slightest difference to the gentleman, however, who heeded not the means to gain a wished-for end, and had long been aware that he was no favorite with the Edwards' family generally. He immediately flattered himself he should be permitted the great honor of dancing with Miss Emma Watson the two next dances. She had peculiar satisfaction in replying that she was engaged.

"Oh! but, indeed," he eagerly replied, "we must not let my little friend, Charles, engross you entirely, Miss Emma?"

To which, with a demure face, and an internal sensation of delight, she answered that she was not engaged to dance with Master Wells.

Tom was baffled and mortified, and he shewed it in his face. He lingered, however, near her, until her partner appeared to claim her hand; when, with a look of surprise, he went to inform Lord Osborne of his ill-success.

"Oh, with Howard is it!" was his observation; "well, that will do just as well for me."

And accordingly he stationed himself exactly behind that gentleman, and again indulged in the stare which Emma had previously found so annoying. She wished with all her heart that he could find a less disagreeable way of expressing his admiration, as even the idea that he thought her so handsome could not reconcile her to his method of demonstrating it. However, she found Mr. Howard quite us agreeable as his countenance had led her to expect, and upon the whole she enjoyed herself exceedingly. When the dance had concluded, whilst she was still engaged in a pleasant conversation with her partner, they were suddenly interrupted by discovering that the Osborne Castle party were preparing to leave. She heard Lord Osborne telling Tom Musgrove that the thing had become very dull to the ladies, and his mother was determined to go home: though for his own part, he thought it was the best ball he had been at for a long time. Mrs. Wells and her brother of course accompanied the others, and Emma wished them good night, and saw them depart with regret, in which they appeared to participate. Lord Osborne entered, after quitting the room for a minute or two, as if reluctant to tear himself away, and disturbing her from the corner where she was resting, muttered an inaudible excuse of having left his gloves in the window-seat behind her; though the said gloves being carefully coiled up in his hand all the time, it was certain that he must have had some other object in view, which probably was to enjoy one more stare at her.

Tom Musgrove disappeared at the same time from the ball-room, as he would not be guilty of the vulgarity of outstaying the grandest part of the company; whether he spent the rest of the evening in helping Mrs. Newland make negus at the bar, or consoled himself by ordering a barrel of oysters and whisky-punch in his own room, Emma never ascertained, but her partner, who laughed excessively at his airs of elegance, assured her he had no doubt it was great mortification and self-denial on his part to appear indifferent, and she was too little pleased with him to avoid feeling a secret satisfaction at this conviction.

The rest of the assembly lost nothing in spirit by their departure, and seemed determined to enjoy themselves, though Miss Osborne had pronounced the evening dull, and her friend Miss Carr was heard to declare, after surveying every one through her glass, that it all seemed very vulgar.

Emma's next partner was an officer, but she had several other solicitations which she was forced to refuse, as a very pretty girl, quite new, and evidently admired by Lord Osborne, was not likely to be neglected in a country assembly-room, and for the rest of the evening it was quite the fashion to call her "the pretty Miss Watson."

As it was a regulation in the ball-room that no other dance should be called after one o'clock, this finished her amusement; and at the summons of Mr. Edwards she was not at all dissatisfied to return home, although she professed to have spent a most delightful evening. She felt rather anxious to ascertain whether Mr. Edwards had lost or won at cards, and on entering the dining-room, where the supper-table was spread, she looked anxiously at his countenance, to read his features, and discover his state of mind. The pleasant conviction that fortune had favoured him was conveyed to her mind, when, on the subsidence of the frown which the sudden glare of candle-light occasioned, he presented a bland smile and self-satisfied aspect, pronounced the soup which, as Elizabeth had predicted, appeared to comfort them, to be extremely good, and joked with Emma about the hearts which he guessed she had conquered on this her first appearance in their country.

"Well, Mary," added he, turning to his daughter, and chucking her under the chin, "and who did you dance with? Who was your first partner?"

"Mary was surrounded with red-coats the whole evening," observed Mrs. Edwards. "I must say I should have been as well pleased to have seen her dancing with some of our old friends and neighbours, and less taken up with those soldiers."

It was lucky for Mary that her father had been winning at cards, as he would otherwise, very probably, have been as much offended as her mother seemed to be on hearing of her conduct. He now, however, good-humouredly took her part—only saying—

"Pooh, pooh, my dear, the girl naturally likes officers, all girls do—besides, if those young men are quicker at asking her than others, how could she help dancing with them."

Mrs. Edwards looked very little pleased at an observation which was too true to be contradicted, and observed, in a general way, that she had always remarked girls could contrive to oblige their parents when they had a mind to do so.

"Oh, Miss Emma was almost above the officers, she got into the Osborne Castle set, and her partner was no less than Mr. Howard. Did Lord Osborne ask you?"

"I am sure he looked at you enough," continued Mrs. Edwards; "I thought he was going to eat you."

"I was not afraid of that," said Emma, smiling; "but I own I was rather annoyed."

"I think Mr. Musgrove was more insufferable than ever," pursued Mrs. Edwards; "I am glad you did not dance with him, Miss Emma; really that young man is beyond bearing in his impertinence."

"Oh, you should not abuse him to Miss Emma; I dare say her sisters give a very different account of him; he is a great favorite with all of them, I know," said Mr. Edwards.

"I never heard anything of him which particularly prepossessed me in his favour," replied Emma, very coolly. "Elizabeth mentioned him, and, from what I have seen, I should think her description was very like the truth."

Little more was said by any one, and the party, after many yawns, separated for the night, to the great relief of their young guest, who was exceedingly sleepy, and longing for darkness and silence.

The next morning, as the ladies were quietly sitting together, and just as Emma was beginning to expect the arrival of her sister to take her home, a loud knock was heard at the door, which gave audible notice of a far more masculine hand than that of Elizabeth Watson. There was hardly time, however, for more than a brief wonder on the subject, when Mr. Musgrove was announced. The stiffness of Mrs. Edwards' reception, and the cold tranquillity of Mary's manners, seemed to make no impression on him; at least, so Emma judged from there being no abatement of that air of self-complacency which had early struck her as belonging to him.

After the opening compliments to the party, he turned to Emma herself, and presenting a note, observed that this would, in part, explain and excuse his intrusion. It was from Elizabeth to herself, to say, that as her father had found himself better than usual, he had suddenly resolved to go to the visitation which happened that day, and in consequence of his thus employing the chaise, she could not come, as she had promised, to bring her sister home. She added, that she did not, in the least, know what Emma could do, only if the Edwardses asked her to remain, she thought that was the best thing that could be contrived.

After pondering over this unwelcome note for several minutes, Emma was just about to state the dilemma to Mrs. Edwards, when Tom Musgrove broke in.

"I had an interest, Miss Emma, in bringing that note, and a message besides, from your sister, which you must allow me to state. I met Miss Watson in the village seeking for a messenger, and offered to do her errand, as she told me the object of it, on condition that she would sanction my bringing you home in my curricle. Believe me, it will be with the greatest delight that I will drive you to Winston, and the carriage is now at the door waiting for the honour of your occupation."

"I assure you, my proposal had her full and unqualified consent, and you have only to say the word, and now—in half an hour—an hour—two hours time—any time—I am at your service."

"I am much obliged to you," replied Emma, embarrassed between her fear lest she should be supposed intruding on her hostess, and her extreme dislike of encouraging any appearance of intimacy with Mr. Musgrove; "but I do not think it is in the least degree necessary that I should give you the trouble. The walk is nothing, and I dare say I can easily find a person to carry my few things."

"The trouble is nothing, Miss Emma," cried he, "but the walk cannot be ranked in that way; three—four miles—what is it—five perhaps—and such mud and dirt to get through—and after dancing all night too: indeed it must be impossible. And there stand my horses—useless—unemployed save by my unworthy self—indeed you must accept my offer."

Emma would not yield; she was quite determined to encounter any inconvenience rather than accept the offered seat; and the more pressing he became the firmer her refusals grew.

Mrs. Edwards, who had been quietly listening to what was passing between them, no sooner ascertained that the inclination of her young visitor was decidedly opposed to an offer, which she would have deemed it in the highest degree indecorous to accept, than with a very unusual warmth of manner on her part, she interposed, and greatly relieved Emma by saying:

"If Miss Watson can wait until after luncheon, I shall have great pleasure in conveying her home in our coach."

This well-timed offer was gratefully and gladly accepted, but Tom loudly interposed.

"But you know, Mrs. Edwards, that is contrary to all your rules—quite impossible to have your horses out to-day, after their night-work. Surely you cannot really and seriously mean such a thing—and my curricle here to make it quite unnecessary."

"I do really mean it;" replied Mrs. Edwards steadily, "our carriage and horses are quite at Miss Watson's service; and I am happy to relieve her from the risk which she evidently apprehends in so dashing an equipage as your curricle. She will, no doubt, feel much safer in our coach!"

The gentleman bit his lip, but was forced to yield; and turning to Emma, enquired:

"How did it happen, Miss Emma, that none of your sisters were at the ball?—I don't think I saw them there all the evening."

"My eldest sister," answered Emma coldly, "could not leave my father, and she is the only one at home now."

"Oh, indeed; why how long have the others been away?" then without waiting for an answer, he continued—"How did you like our ball last night? I suppose you did not keep it up much after I was gone!"

"When did you leave the room?" enquired Emma, pleased to give him the retort courteous, for his affected ignorance about her sisters.

"Oh, I did not stay after the Osbornes' party went away—I was tired and bored."

"And we enjoyed ourselves nearly two hours after that," cried Emma, "and as the room was less crowded with idlers who would not dance, I think it was particularly pleasant."

"Upon my word, I wish I had known that, I really should have been tempted to come back, after seeing Miss Carr to the carriage," said Tom, "but you know, Mrs. Edwards, sometimes when one's particular friends are gone, one fancies all the rest will be dull—so I went to my room."

"Possibly," replied Mrs. Edwards, "but I am used to judge for myself in such matters, and therefore am not likely to be misled in the way you are now regretting."

After remaining as long as he could without very great rudeness, and receiving no invitation to stay and take luncheon, Mr. Musgrove drove off in his curricle, exceedingly astonished at the fact of the offered seat in it being so firmly rejected.

It was something quite new to him, for he had been used to consider the other Miss Watsons as quite at his disposal, and could hardly imagine that one of the family could have ideas and feelings so diametrically opposed to her sisters'.

According to her promise, Mrs. Edwards' carriage safely conveyed Emma to her father's house in the course of that afternoon, Mary Edwards accompanying her, but not remaining many minutes, as she well knew their dinner hour was approaching, and she did not wish to be in their way.

No sooner had she withdrawn, than Elizabeth began expressing her extreme surprise at the fact of the Edwards' coach, coachman, and horses being considered in a state fit for use the day after the ball, as they always used to rest when they had been out at night.

"Only think of their sending you home, my dear Emma, I cannot tell you how surprised I am—I never knew such a thing done before."

"I assure you, it was very kindly done, Elizabeth; and not only was the carriage placed at my service, but Mrs. Edwards' manner became much more friendly from that time."

"Well, I wonder you did not accept Tom Musgrove's offer—or did he not make it—or did you get my note?"

"Yes; he brought the note; but, indeed, dear Elizabeth, I was so unprepared for your proposing, or allowing him to propose such a thing, that I thought you had, probably, known nothing about it; and that the whole was a device on his part. How could you imagine, after what you had yourself told me, that I would allow him to drive me about in that way. I could not do such a thing."

"Indeed, I had some scruples, Emma, about it; I did not like throwing you together in that way, but I could see no other means of your getting home—and I did long for that. Who would have thought of the Edwardses having out their coach? But I never, for a moment, expected you would refuse him. I don't think I could have done such a thing—though, I dare say, it was quite right; I should not have had the resolution to resist such a temptation!"

"It was no temptation to me; and, therefore, required no extraordinary resolution Elizabeth. I thought it wrong, besides,—but I certainly should have disliked it."

"You do not mean to say you dislike Tom Musgrove!" cried Elizabeth, in great surprise; "did you not dance with him? Did he not ask you?"

"He did ask me, and I did not accept him," replied Emma, smiling at her sister's amazement, "but his manners do not please me; and I do not think that, having accepted him last night as a partner, would have made me wish for him to-day as a driver."

"Well, tell me all about it," cried Elizabeth, "I am longing to hear all about the ball. Who did you dance with? How did you like it—give me the whole history."

Emma complied, and related, as minutely as possible, all the events of the preceding evening. Elizabeth's surprise on hearing it was extreme.

"Good gracious!" cried she, much agitated; "dance with Mr. Howard? Well, Emma, how could you venture? were you not frightened out of your wits? Dance with the man who plays at cards with old Lady Osborne!—whom she seems so fond of—well, you are the boldest little thing possible! And you say you were not afraid?"

"No, really," said Emma, "why should I be—he was quite the gentleman, I assure you."

"Oh, yes!" said Miss Watson, "a gentleman, of course he is; but, why should that prevent your being afraid? Did you talk to him? How did you know what to say?"

"There was no difficulty about that," replied Emma, "he was very agreeable and we had a great deal of conversation."

"Well, I am glad you were so noticed, Emma," said her sister, kindly; "I knew you must be admired; and, really, am rejoiced that you have made so good a beginning. Dance with Mr. Howard—refuse Tom Musgrove—and come home in Mrs. Edwards' coach! I wonder what you will do next!"

"Come home in my own, we will hope," said Emma, laughing; "like a good girl in a fairy story—very grand in a gilt coach and four."

Elizabeth then proceeded to enquire about Mary Edwards and Captain Hunter; and the inference which she deduced from Emma's narrative, was extremely unfavorable to her brother's prospects. She declared she would write to Sam that evening, and tell him he had no hope.

"But here comes Jenny with the dinner. Poor Emma! you will not dine as well as you did yesterday. There is only fried beef—for, as my father was gone out, and I hardly expected you, I did not think it worth while to get any thing more. If I had been sure of your coming, I would have got you a chop."

"Quite unnecessary, dear Elizabeth, I do not care what I eat," replied Emma, as she moved her chair to the table.

"That is so pleasant of you, Emma," said Elizabeth, "I must say, with all your refinement, you are easier pleased than either Pen or Margaret. How very comfortably we could live together."

"I am very glad I went," said he, "people were all very kind, and the dinner was very good. I don't know how many people told me they were glad to see me, and I had some capital venison—there was turbot too, and hare soup—all excellent—and a very civil young clergyman, a very nice young man indeed, would help me down to dinner, and took care I had a warm seat, and saved me the trouble of calling for things. I thought it very kind of him, I think his name is Howard. He asked after my daughter too—I don't know which he meant at all—but I suppose you can tell amongst yourselves. I really don't know when I passed a more pleasant afternoon!"

The next morning, however, brought a different story. The unusual exertion combined with turbot and venison, brought on a violent fit of the gout, and for a day or two the girls hardly left their father's room, or had any other pursuit or occupation than attempting to relieve his pain, or amuse his intervals of rest.

The third day after the ball, whilst Jenny was slowly preparing the dinner-table in the parlour, with more noise than despatch, the two girls standing over the fire looking at her movements, the door-bell was heard following the tread of horses on the gravel at the entrance.

"Who can that possibly be?" cried Elizabeth, "run and let them in, Jenny—no, stop, I think you had better not—just say your master is ill."

Jenny bustled off—leaving the knife-basket on the floor, and the cloth half opened on the table. A moment of silent suspense followed, when in reply to some mutterings of Jenny, they heard through the door which she had left open Tom Musgrove's voice—

"Oh, never mind, we will go in all the same; we came to enquire for Mr. Watson."

And another voice, laughing harshly, was heard, and steps along the passage, which excited Elizabeth to such a degree, that she hastily twitched off the unspread cloth, and threw it into a chair behind the door—which she had just time to do, before the visitors presented themselves unannounced; for Jenny was too much astonished at the event to find tongue to utter the names of Lord Osborne and Mr. Musgrove; but stood with her mouth open gazing in the passage. Elizabeth felt excessive surprise at this unexpected visit, to a degree which almost made her unconscious of what she was doing. Shame at being detected by Lord Osborne in dining at three o'clock, and doubt how to behave to him—an inclination to apologise for her homely appearance, plain stuff-gown and untidy room, which, however, was fortunately checked by her uncertainty how to express herself properly, all contended in her mind; when the first gush of surprise was abated, it was quite a relief to her, to shake hands with her old friend Tom Musgrove, and to see him seat himself without ceremony. Emma, on the contrary, felt this intrusion extremely impertinent and ill-bred; what excuse was there for Lord Osborne calling in this way; there never had been any acquaintance previously between the families, her father had never been noticed by the inhabitants of the Castle, nor invited there as many of the neighbouring gentry were; and now that he was ill, and they knew it, she was indignant that they should thus force themselves on her sister and herself.

Her own curtsey was as stiff and reserved, as if she had been taking lessons of Mrs. Edwards; and she resumed her seat without feeling the slightest inclination to converse herself, and being almost displeased with Elizabeth for the easy manner in which she allowed, or perhaps encouraged, Tom Musgrove to address her. Lord Osborne's visit was certainly meant for Emma, for he placed himself near her, and sat some minutes with his eyes fixed on her countenance, until she began to think he meant to preserve the same conduct in her father's house, as he had done at the ball.

"No, my Lord," replied she quietly, raising her eyes from her work, "I think it is too dirty!"

"You should wear boots," said he, "nankeen with block tops, look very nice, when a woman has a pretty ankle."

"Why not? every woman should ride; a woman never looks so well as on horse-back, well mounted, and in a handsome habit—you should ride—don't you like it?"

"There are, sometimes, other impediments, my lord, besides want of taste, even to so becoming an amusement," replied Emma, gravely.

"I have no horse," replied Emma, thinking that the shortest way of finishing the subject, and reducing it to the level of his capacity.

"My father cannot afford it," said Emma, decidedly; "and I have no wish to act in a way inconsistent with our circumstances."

"Poor is he? how uncomfortable!" said Lord Osborne, "why, what's his income, do you suppose?" continuing in the tone in which he would have questioned a day labourer as to his wages.

"It is a point upon which I never thought myself entitled to enquire," she replied, drawing herself proudly up, and speaking in a tone not to be misunderstood.

Lord Osborne looked at her with surprise, which was gradually converted into admiration at the beautiful effect of the colour which dyed her cheek as she spoke. An idea crossed his mind that, perhaps, he had not been sufficiently civil, and he tried to soften his voice, and put on a more winning manner.

"The hounds meet next Monday about a mile from here, at Upham—will you not come and see them throw off. It's a pretty sight."

"Well, you cannot imagine how gay it is; we have such a capital breakfast always at Upham Lodge; then the scarlet coats round the edge of the cover; the horses—the talking and laughing, the ladies who drive over to see us—though I often think them rather a bore—then the great burst when the dogs do find; and off they go away, and we after them, and forget every thing in the world, except one wish, to be in at the death. You cannot think how exciting it is. Do come."

"Thank you, my lord; but I must be satisfied with your description. I cannot accept your invitation."

"Perhaps you are afraid of the cold; my sister caught a dreadful cold one day, when she came in an open carriage, and it was wet; are you thinking of that?"

"Didn't you? She was ill a month; I was monstrous sorry for her—for you see it was partly my fault; I persuaded her to come; I don't know how it is. I rather like to have her with me—some men don't."

Emma could hardly suppress a smile at this eloquent demonstration of his fraternal affection. She began, however, to think that if Lord Osborne liked his sister there might be some good in him; which, before, she had been inclined to question. The gentlemen sat long, although Tom Musgrove, at least, must have been perfectly aware that he was encroaching on their dinner hour; and Emma was growing exceedingly weary of the looks of Lord Osborne, who sunk into repeated fits of silence, which were interrupted by abrupt and disconnected questions or observations. At length, they were all roused by the maid servant, who, putting her head into the half-opened door-way, called out:

This very unmistakeable announcement, brought a deep blush to Elizabeth's cheek, who, interrupting her chat with Tom Musgrove, said:

The gentlemen now rose to go, and, to Emma's great relief, took leave; Elizabeth calling briskly after the maid, as she was shewing them out, to tell Nanny to take up the fowls immediately.

"Well," said she, drawing a long breath when the room was once more quiet, "what are we to think of this? I wonder whether Lord Osborne saw the knife-tray? I hope he did not notice, or what he thinks of us dining at this hour!"

"I must say, I think it was taking an unwarrantable liberty," cried Emma, "calling in this way—very impertinent and disagreeable—though he is a lord, what right has he to intrude on us?"

"Do you think so, Emma? well, it did not strike me so—I was only hoping he would not notice the table-cloth or the steel forks. I know they have silver ones every day at Osborne Castle. I wish Jenny had not began putting out the things, or had not brought that tiresome message."

"He never called here before, why should he come now without excuse or apology?" persisted Emma.

"Why, to see you to be sure—and very good use he made of his eyes. Now really, Emma, you ought not to quarrel with him, for it is evidently admiration of you that brings him here."

"I do not care for admiration without respect, Elizabeth, and I hope the visit will not be repeated."

Her father's opinion quite coincided with hers, when he came to hear of the visit in question. There had been no acquaintance between old Lord Osborne and himself, he observed, and he would have none with his son, of whom he had formed a very moderate opinion; and as to Tom Musgrove, he was always coming when he was not wanted, and scampering after Lord Osborne in an absurd way: what right had such a Tom Fool as he to interfere with his dinner hour, or cause the roast fowls to be overdone.

The approach of Christmas week, was to bring the great event of Elizabeth's year—namely, a visit from her eldest brother and his wife, who were to return with Margaret and spend a few days at Winston. Elizabeth evidently looked up very much to Mrs. Robert Watson, who, she assured Emma, had been educated in a very superior way—a London boarding-school—her father had been very wealthy, and her mother most genteel; she had, too, an uncle, who was a knight, in London, and quite a distinguished person there—so that altogether, Jane was an honor to the family, whilst her talents and taste alone were sufficient to procure distinction in the first circles.

Emma was uncertain, but most anxious to like her sister-in-law; she felt half amused and half doubtful, whilst Elizabeth enumerated all the advantages of Robert's grand marriage. However, she exerted herself with the greatest good-will, to assist in the numerous preparations necessary on such an occasion. Nothing was too good for Jane—though Emma could hardly help wondering to see that the drawing-room was to be used—the furniture and mirror uncovered—the best china produced, and all the plate had out to grace their visitors. For a brother and sister, she fancied this would have been unnecessary; and she wished, with a sigh, that there had been more consistency between their every-day life, and the appearance they were now expected to make.

Elizabeth was one of the worst housekeepers possible; with a little more system and management, her father's income might have produced a respectable appearance at all times; but as there was not the smallest attention given by Mr. Watson to his household affairs, beyond paying the bills, and finding fault with the dinners, everything was in confusion from one week to another. Elizabeth had much of the easy, good-natured indolence of her father, but was spurred up by necessity to unwilling exertions; and ill seconded by her untidy maid servants, who knew she was too good-natured to scold; she was always excessively put out of her way by preparations for company. Her total want of arrangement, and the facility with which she was diverted from one object to another, made her twice as long as necessary in every occupation. Thus, for instance, it was in vain that she had promised Emma to return to the china closet, and tell her which articles would be wanted from thence; for happening to see Jenny awkwardly attempting to clean some plate, she stayed so long to show her how to do it, that Emma, in despair of her return, was induced to seek her, and with difficulty persuaded her to resume her occupation up stairs.

Such was her ordinary mode of proceeding. In spite, however, of these delays, and the loss of time incurred, the preparations were at length complete; and Elizabeth having surveyed the dinner-table with much satisfaction, and wished, with a sigh, that they could keep a foot boy, returned to the drawing-room to wait the arrival of her visitors.

The happy moment shortly arrived, and with much noise and bustle Mr. and Mrs. Robert Watson, Margaret, and all their luggage were safely lodged in the family residence. Emma looked with much anxiety at both her unknown sisters, but at Mrs. Watson first, of course; indeed, few could have helped that, from the prominence which she assumed. She was a tall, showy-looking woman, with a high nose, a high colour, and very high feathers in her bonnet. She seemed much inclined to talk, and received Emma very cordially. Margaret was excessively affectionate in her manners, clung round her, called her "her dear new sister," her "darling Emma," pushed back the curls from her cheeks to kiss her, and spoke in the fondest, most caressing tone.

"Well you see, Elizabeth," said Mrs. Robert, "I have brought Margaret back; but she is a naughty girl, and I am much displeased with her, for I want to take her home again to Croydon on Saturday, and she says she will not go."

This was said as Mrs. Robert was stroking down her long fur tippet, and spreading out her hands at the fire, and concluded with a playful tap on Margaret's cheek.

"Ah, dear Jane," said Margaret, "you know how I like being with you, but indeed I cannot tear myself from sweet Emma immediately."

"Saturday!" cried Elizabeth; "you surely do not think of leaving us on Saturday! That will be only three days—only half a visit; you promised us a week."

"Did I?—no, sure I could not have done so: you know I cannot be so long from my little girl, and she would break her heart without me."

"Quite impossible, my dear child, for I never like to take her out without her own maid, and I know you could not give her a room to herself as she has been used to. I am excessively particular about her," she continued, turning to Emma, "too particular, perhaps, but it was the way we were brought up—so you must not blame me."

"I am sure," continued this anxious mother, in a tone of great complacency, "I don't know how the poor little darling will get on without me; she almost cried her eyes out when she found she was not coming in the chaise, and I was obliged to pretend I was only going to church, and should be home again very soon."

"Oh, sweet little darling!" cried Margaret; "I do so dote on that child—little angel!"

"I say, Jane," cried he, "that confounded band-box of yours is squeezed as flat as a pancake, and your new trunk is too wide to go up these wretched narrow stairs; so what you are to do I am sure I don't know—dress in the hall, I suppose."

"My band-box squeezed!" cried the lady, in dismay. "I have no doubt my caps are all ruined absolutely: what shall I do!—how could it happen to my band-box!"

"Do anything but bother me about it, that's all. Ah, Emma," holding out his hand to his sister, "how do you do. It's a good while since we met, isn't it? I suppose, Elizabeth, I may go up at once and see my father before dinner?"

"I suppose, Elizabeth," said Margaret, in a tone whose sharpness jarred on Emma's ear and contrasted with the softness of her voice to herself, "there's no letter for me from Kew, is there? But I dare say if there were, you would not think of giving it to me for an hour."

Elizabeth assured her there was none, and then quitted the room, to accompany her sister-in-law, and assist her toilette.

"Well, Emma," said Margaret, resuming her fondling tone, "how do you like Winston? I am sure, but for one thing, I should never wish to see it again," looking down, and trying to blush as she spoke; "one attraction it has: have you seen any of the neighbours?—did you not go to the ball?—do tell me all about it!"

"Well, you can tell me then, for I suppose," added she, in an injured tone, "you and I are to have one room—Elizabeth always takes care of herself, and will be sure to put you upon me."

"Oh," said Margaret—then paused a moment—"well, I was in hopes we should have slept together—I am sure I shall love you so much, Emma."

"I am sure it will give me great pleasure if you do," replied her sister; "but Margaret, if I cannot be of use to you, I must go and get ready for dinner myself;" and she hastily escaped to her own room.

When Emma descended again, she found her brother alone in the drawing-room, leaning over the fire-place, looking at a number of the "Gentleman's Magazine," which, however, he tossed on the table when Emma approached.

"Well, Emma," said he, lifting his coat-tails, and turning his back to the fire, "so your aunt has thrown you off, and herself away, has she? A pretty mess she has made of it with her marriage. Upon my word, women are entirely unfit to be trusted with money in any shape, and there ought to be a law against old fools of widows marrying again. How our uncle could be such a confounded ass as to leave everything in her power, I can not conceive! Any one could have foreseen what has happened. I hope the young husband will plague her heart out—no doubt he will lead her a wretched life—she deserves it. But I think the old gentleman might have given you something—a thousand pounds or so would have done very well for you, and the rest would have been most particularly acceptable to me just now. There was an investment offered itself, a month or two ago, in which I could have, beyond a doubt, doubled five thousand pounds in a very short time, and it was particularly cutting to be obliged to let it pass me, because that old man had behaved so shabbily. Upon my life, it makes me quite angry when I think of it—and just to throw you back upon my father's hands, without a sixpence—a burden—a useless burden upon the family—what could he be thinking of!"

Emma was too much overcome by the many bitter feelings this speech raised, to be able to reply; and her brother, seeing her tears, said:

"Well, I did not mean to make you cry, Emma; there's no good in that—though I do not wonder that you should be mortified and disappointed too. Girls are nothing without money—no one can manage them but you shall come and try your luck at Croydon. Perhaps, with your face, and the idea that you have still expectations, you might get off our hands altogether. There was a young man at Croydon who was very near taking Margaret. I really believe, would have had her, if she had only a couple of thousand pounds, but you can but do your best, so there, don't cry."

Before Emma had time to do more than wipe her eyes, her sister-in-law entered the room very smart, and in high spirits, to find herself more handsomely dressed than either of the Miss Watsons. She was much discomposed, however, to find that her husband had not changed his coat, or dressed his hair.

"My dear Mr. Watson," cried she, "how comes this about? Don't you mean to make yourself tidy before dinner?"

"Do let me alone, Jane," said he, impatiently shaking off her hand; "I trust I am tidy enough for my wife and sisters."

"Oh! but do come up, for my sake, and put just a sprinkle of powder on your hair? I will do it in a moment for you. You really look quite undressed; upon my word, I am ashamed of you. Your coat all dirty, and quite unfit to be seen—do come."

"Do go! For goodness sake, do let me alone," said he, shrugging his shoulders. "You women, who think of nothing but bedizening yourselves out, fancy we have nothing else to do either. You are fine enough for us both, so pray let me alone."

Mrs. Watson covered her mortification by an affected laugh, and retreating to the sofa, cried out:

"Emma, do come, and let me have a little conversation with you, there's a good girl."

Emma coloured, but obeyed the summons; and her sister, after surveying her dress with satisfaction, seemed, for a moment, to hesitate how to begin.

"You do not dress your hair, Emma, quite en règle—you understand French, I suppose, now look at mine—your curls are too long—really, it's a pity, for you have pretty hair—a nice color—very much the same as mine. How odd," laughing, "that you should be so dark—like me—all your sisters quite fair—you should not put your tucker so high—mine is quite the ton—you see how the lace is arranged—how do you like Winston? I suppose you have not much company? I dare say, it is dull; you shall come to Croydon, as Margaret will not go back, and I will shew you a little of the world. Have you been used to much company?"

"Well, then, Croydon will be a pleasant change. I wonder at that, however, I thought your uncle was a man of wealth. My father saw so much society; and, at my uncle's, Sir Thomas, I am sure I have met the best company in London."

"In consequence, I am quite accustomed to move in a gay circle—though my friends there, tell me, indeed, I am quite the Queen of Croydon. I believe I am rather looked up to—one is, you know, when one has high relations, and goes to town, and gets patterns and books from London; now, it's something quite remarkable the number of houses we visit—and the white gloves I wear out in the year—I am excessively particular about my gloves; and Margaret, whose hand is small, was quite glad to take some of mine; and, really, when she had cleaned them a little, they did very well for her. I seldom wear them a second time. You will come to Croydon—will you not?"

"Thank you, not this winter; you are very kind in asking me; but I have been so short a time at home."

"Oh! but you must: I assure you, you will have much the best chance in the winter, there are so many more young men in the country then. But, perhaps, you have left your heart in Shropshire. Have you any little charming love story to confide to me. Ah! you may trust me—I assure you I am very discreet—I never betrayed Margaret the least in the world."

Emma again declined the proposed visit to Croydon. Her sister-in-law looked much surprised, and not quite pleased.

"Well I should have thought our house might have some attractions for a young lady of your age; however, of course you know best, I hope you will find something more pleasing here."

Emma was spared the trouble of replying by the entrance of Margaret and Elizabeth, who were immediately engrossed by attentions to Mrs. Robert, which soothed her into complacency again. Dinner speedily followed; the early hour was a subject of comment on the part of the visitors.

"Dear me, I wonder when I dined at three o'clock before—really a little change is quite amusing, I am so glad you did not think it necessary to alter your hour for me."

"I certainly would have fixed on any hour agreeable to you, Jane," replied Miss Watson good humouredly, "but my father has so long been used to this time, that it would be very unpleasant to him to alter it. But I dare say it seems very gothic to you."

"Oh, pray do not think any apology necessary, my dear child; you know what an accommodating creature I am. There is nothing I hate half so much as having a fuss made about me. Now really in some places where I go, they will make me of so much importance, treat me so much as a visitor—in short, I may say, look up so much to me, that upon my word it is quite overpowering."

"I know you are very good-natured, to put up with our deficiencies as you do, Jane," replied Elizabeth simply and sincerely, "and no doubt they must strike you forcibly. I wish we could treat you better, but I hope you can make a good meal even at three o'clock; you see your dinner, all except a roast turkey which is coming presently."

"A roast turkey, Elizabeth!" said her sister-in-law, "after all this profusion which I see around me. Upon my word, I am ashamed of giving so much trouble; positively ashamed: such a dinner, and all for me. Really I must forbid the roast turkey—I insist on that not being brought. I cannot hear that you should be so put out of your way."

"But, my dear Jane," observed Elizabeth, "since the turkey is roasted, it may as well come in here, as remain in the kitchen. Besides, I am in hopes my father may be tempted to take some, as it is a favorite dish of his—so the roast turkey we must have."

"Well, as you please," said the other lady, "only I hope you will not expect me to take any of it; I must protest against partaking any of it at all."

"Do as you please, Jane," said her husband, interposing, "but because you reject the turkey, I see no reason why I should be deprived of it, so I must beg Elizabeth not to mind your nonsense."

The party, after leaving the dining-room, were sitting amicably in the best parlour, Robert Watson apparently asleep in an easy-chair, and his lady holding forth to her sisters-in-law about her parties, her acquaintance, and her manner of living at Croydon, when the sound of carriage wheels on the gravel under the window, followed by the house-bell, drew their attention and aroused their curiosity; who could it be? perhaps Penelope, returned suddenly from Chichester—it was just like her to come without giving notice; perhaps Sam, but he was so unlikely to come at all—nobody could decide—but the opening door seconding Jenny's voice, revealed the mystery, and shewed Tom Musgrove!

Mr. Musgrove's share of the surprise was great—quite as great as what he intended to occasion—when instead of being shewn into the little dingy sitting-room as usual, and finding the two Miss Watsons sitting, as he expected, by the melancholy light of a pair of sixes—he was ushered into the best drawing-room, graced by the uncovered chandelier and best sofa; and encountered in a blaze of wax candles, which almost dazzled him, a group of ladies dressed for company. He really hardly knew where he was, and glanced round with excessive astonishment.

"Really, Miss Watson," cried he, whilst shaking hands with her, "I must apologise for this intrusion; I did not know you had company."

"You are exceedingly welcome," replied Elizabeth, with much more good-nature than Emma approved. "It is my brother and sister: they only arrived to-day."

"Yes," said Robert, who, on surveying Tom's appearance, so elegant and finished as it appeared to him, in point of dress, felt much mortification on remembering his own unpowdered hair, and morning coat; "yes, we have not been long in the house—not long enough, you see, to change our travelling costume: but just in time to sit down to dinner."

Emma's cheeks glowed in spite of her wishes, at this speech, and she stole a glance at the wife to see how she bore it. That lady's eyes seemed merely to speak an internal triumph as she looked at her husband, as if she meant, at the first convenient opportunity, to enforce the propriety of Robert's taking her advice in future.

"Never apologise for your dress, my good sir," cried Tom, shaking hands with him; "at least, not to me, for I shall consider it a reflection on my own vile dishabille. But the fact is, I was passing this way, being on my return from Osborne Castle, where I have been spending a few days, and I could not go so near, without just stopping to enquire how Mr. Watson goes on."

Margaret, who ever since his entrance, had been trying to attract his attention, could now be repulsed no longer. She would speak, and be spoken to; and the tone and manner in which she addressed Mr. Musgrove, together with the pains she took to secure his having a chair next her when they all sat down, showed Emma that she was by no means reduced to despair about his supposed attachment.

"It is long since we have met," said she, in a soft, whispering voice, looking up in his face with what was intended for an endearing smile.

"Fie, naughty man—it is a month—a whole month—you ought not to be a worse reckoner of time than myself—it was very kind of you to come and welcome me home."

"Don't thank me for that: I did not know you were here, I assure you; I knew you were not at the ball; but I thought it was a sore throat, or something of that sort kept you away: have you really been gone a month!—I could have sworn I saw you a week ago. Your sister has come, I suppose, since you left?"

"Emma! oh yes, charming Emma—imagine my feelings at meeting her—I was so anxious, but so fearful—timid as I am, you can fancy how afraid I should feel at meeting a new sister. Can you not understand the feeling?"

"Not the least in the world," cried Tom aloud; "I cannot fancy any one afraid of meeting Miss Emma Watson."

"Is she not lovely—I think her quite beautiful—but, perhaps, you do not admire dark complexions—tell me, which do you like best—brunette or blonde."

Tom hesitated. Margaret herself was fair, which would alone have been a sufficient reason for his asserting a preference for an olive skin—but then Miss Carr was fair likewise—and he was a great admirer of Miss Carr's. He, therefore, replied evasively—

"Your sister's is, no doubt, a very lovely complexion—I like dark beauties excessively—but now and then one sees a blonde, whose tint is relieved from the insipidity which usually attends it—Miss Carr, for instance—did you ever see Fanny Carr?"

"She has the loveliest skin I ever saw—and a very nice little thing is Fanny Carr, independent of her complexion—a very nice, lively, bewitching little fairy, with those she likes—though, to be sure, she can be disagreeable enough, I am told—but, Miss Watson," continued he, jumping up to put an end to Margaret's whispers, "do let me help you at the tea-table—why will you not make me of use—pray don't scruple to call on me—I love to be of use to the fair."

"I know no way in which you can possibly assist me," replied Elizabeth, "until the tea is ready to be handed round—unless you will talk to and amuse my sister, Mrs. Robert, whilst I am obliged to sit here."

This was a task which exactly suited Tom, as to a married woman, he might be as gallant as he chose with perfect safety, and he devoted himself with great zeal to this object. Nothing could prevail upon him to take tea yet—as he had not dined, and he could not drink tea first.

"I dare say you dined three hours ago," said he, "but I, you know, keep bachelor's hours, and at Osborne Castle we never sat down to dinner until six or seven o'clock."

"Indeed," said Mrs. Robert, "but you must not suppose that I am used to such early hours; at Croydon, I dare say it is nearer five than four when we dine."

"That would be too early for me," cried he, with a smile of superiority, "I would as soon it were three as five—seven, or indeed eight, suits me better; and I must get home to dinner to-night."

It was evident that the fact of his not having dined, gave him a happy consciousness of vast mental superiority over his companions. But Emma found herself sadly deceived in the hopes which she had ventured fondly to cherish, that the dinner awaiting him would hasten his departure. On the contrary, when the tea-things were removed, and the card-table produced, a very slight hint from Mrs. Watson was quite sufficient to draw from him a speech, which beginning with a statement of the necessity of quitting them, ended, of course, with an assertion of the impossibility of tearing himself away: and he was then quite ready to join their party; keeping his dinner still in waiting, as a subject to be reverted to whenever other topics failed him.

"Well, ladies," cried he, "what are we to play—what's your favorite game, Mrs. Watson."

"Oh, we play nothing but Vingt'un at Croydon," said she, "all the best circles play Vingt'un—it is decidedly the most genteel."

"Vingt'un—hum—very well—let it be vingt'un then," said Tom; "it's a long time since I played it; Lady Osborne likes loo best—indeed, I believe amongst people of at certain rank, loo is all the rage—but, however, since you are bent on—commerce, was that what you said, Mrs. Watson?"

"Oh, dear no," cried she, colouring, and overawed by the superiority of his tone, "I merely mentioned vingt'un, but I quite agree with you, it is rather a stupid game, and I am quite tired of it. Suppose we try loo to-night?" And she privately resolved to store up in her memory the important fact, that Lady Osborne preferred loo to vingt'un, and on her return to Croydon, astonish her former acquaintance with her intimate knowledge of her ladyship's taste and habits.

"As I happen to prefer loo to vingt'un," said Robert Watson, ashamed of being supposed to following any one's fashions, yet, from habitual servility to the great, afraid of asserting a difference of opinion; "I see no harm in playing it, otherwise, had I liked any other game better, I should certainly have seen Lady Osborne at Jericho before I would have allowed her to interfere."

An idea crossed Emma's mind, that in all probability nothing could be farther from Lady Osborne's wishes or notions, than influencing their choice of a game; and that if their debate could possibly be revealed to her, she would, perhaps, consider it impertinent in them, to make her diversions a pattern for theirs. Loo, however, they were fated to play; and Emma, who hated cards, thought with regret of the quiet evenings she had formerly enjoyed so much, when chatting over her needle-work with Elizabeth, or reading at intervals to her father some favourite author.

Their party did not break up until supper-time, of which, of course, Tom Musgrove was pressed to stay and partake. But he, who was determined to call his next meal a dinner, felt himself forced to refuse, although, in truth, he would much rather have accepted the offer, could his vanity have allowed him to follow his inclination.

Mrs. Watson whispered to her sister, to ask him to join them at dinner the next day, which Elizabeth acceded to with great cordiality. They were to have a few friends to dinner, and if he could condescend to eat at five o'clock, perhaps he might find it in other respects agreeable, and they would be happy to see him. He hesitated and demurred, not from any doubt as to his final determination, but because he meant to give his acceptance a greater grace.

"As I am well aware of Mr. Musgrove's habits of intimacy with my sister," said Mrs. Watson, simpering; "I shall conclude, if he refuses now, it is poor unfortunate me, whom he despises and avoids."

"My dear Mrs. Watson," cried he, "you prevent my saying another word; everything must give way before such an accusation. Even if Lord Osborne himself sends for me—which is not unlikely—I shall refuse to attend on him for your sake. Only do not expect me, Miss Watson, to make any figure at your hospitable board. I shall be happy to look on, as a spectator, but eating indeed must be quite out of the question."

"What a very delightful young man," cried Mrs. Watson, as soon as he left the room. "Upon my word, I do not know when I have met one more perfectly well bred and gentleman-like. I look upon myself to be a pretty good judge—having had much opportunity of judging—more than most young women, both at my dear father's, and my uncle Sir Thomas's; and, really, in my poor taste, he is quite the thing. Such charming vivacity, and yet, such attention when one speaks—and he really seems to understand and appreciate one's feelings and sentiments so thoroughly—and such a graceful bow; I assure you I am quite delighted."

"Now, what do you say?" but Emma's judgment was not to be lightly shaken. Margaret looked down amiably modest and tried to blush, whilst she whispered:

"I am so glad you liked him. I knew you would! Was it not attentive to call to-day!" from which Emma inferred, that she took the compliment of his call entirely to herself.

It was to be a very grand thing, indeed, the next day; and Elizabeth, seldom entertaining company, was quite in a fidget about the dinner, and tormented Emma all the time she was undressing, with questions, which could not be answered, and fears which could not be dispelled.

"Suppose Mr. Robinson were to be very cross, Emma, you cannot imagine how disagreeable he is then—or only fancy if the soup turns out ill, what shall I do? Do you really think my black satin gown good enough; I think nobody will see, by candle-light, where the cream was spilt; and it does not look ill—how tired you look, Emma; well, I will not tease you, only I want to know how did my aunt manage about—oh! by-the-bye, I'll ask Jane that." So Emma never learnt what it was, being too weary to ask.

"Now you see," burst out Elizabeth afresh, "you see, Emma, what Jane thinks of Tom Musgrove—you must change your mind."

"No, indeed; her liking him can make no difference to me," replied Emma, quietly.

"Oh, Emma! I did not think you so conceited, to think of your setting up your opinion against Jane's, a married woman, and so much older and more experienced; I could not have expected it."

"I do not set up my opinion against her, I only differ in taste," said her sister meekly, being very anxious to be allowed to go to sleep.

"You are quite impracticable, and, I fear, very obstinate," returned Elizabeth, with a gravity which made Emma smile in spite of her weariness. Then followed another long silence, and she was dropping into a comfortable slumber, when she was startled by Elizabeth springing up, and exclaiming: "Oh! I quite forgot—what shall I do?"

"Why, I forgot to tell Nanny to be sure and put the custards into the safe, for there's a hole in the corner of the larder, where the cat gets in, and she will be certain to eat them all before morning."

"Oh," said Emma, as her eyes again closed irresistibly, and whether or not her sister quitted her bed to go down and rectify her error, she could not tell, for she, at length, dropped fast asleep.

Emma spent the greater part of the next day in her father's room. It was much more agreeable to her than the drawing-room; and Elizabeth, with all her good qualities, was not equal to her as a nurse, and really loved society and conversation, or rather chit-chat, so much as to be very glad to believe her sister's assertion, that she took pleasure in attending on her father. Mr. Watson, though indolent and self-indulgent, was a scholar, and enjoyed the pursuits of literature when not attended by too much labour. Emma found, as he recovered, that there was much to be gained by intercourse with him: she read to him both in English and French, and only regretted that she could not also assist him in Latin or Greek. Hour after hour she had devoted to amusing him, and felt herself well repaid by the affection he manifested in return; and now that the society down stairs, of course, compelled Elizabeth to absent herself, she rejoiced that it made her presence doubly necessary. She could not like her sister-in-law—she saw so much of peevishness in Margaret's general manner as to expect the same would be manifested to her, and Robert had so pained and shocked her by their first tête-à-tête, that she never approached him without dread lest he should renew so painful a subject.

A proposal to remain with her father all the evening, instead of appearing at dinner was negatived. He would not permit her to do so, as it really was not necessary for his comfort, and he expected amusement from her description of the dinner-party after it was over.

It was not a very large one; the size of their dining-parlour forbade that—besides their own party of five, there made their appearance Mr. and Mrs. Robinson, the country apothecary and his wife; Mrs. Steady, the widow of a former curate, who lived in the village, and Mr. Martin, who was doing duty for their father during his illness. To these had been added, as we already know, Tom Musgrove; and happy would it have been for the others had he been omitted, as it was impossible for so fashionable a young man to be guilty of such rustic simplicity as to be punctual. The guests whose appetites were set to that particular hour, displayed sundry symptoms of extreme impatience, and Robert Watson vented certain unintelligible ejaculations which were commonly supposed to be murmurs at his tardiness. Mr. Martin, a very absent individual, not having his wife at hand to remind him where he was, leant his head on his hand, and fell into a fit of abstraction. Mr. Robinson, who was making himself agreeable to Mrs. Watson, internally comforted himself with the hope that this long fast would be productive of evil to their digestive faculties, which he should be called in to set to rights.

Mrs. Steady was condoling with Elizabeth on the expected consequences of this delay, anticipating that the beef would be over roasted, and the chickens boiled to rags, and comparing this ill-bred fashionable behaviour with the regularity and decorum of her late lamented Steady. Emma was laboriously trying to talk to Mrs. Robinson, who looked all the while as if she thought that somehow the delay was all her fault, and feared to drop out a syllable, lest she should be punished for it; whilst Margaret who had dressed herself with unusual care, sat in a state of feverish impatience by the side of her sister-in-law, whispering to her, every few minutes, that she was sure some shocking accident had happened to him—he little knew the misery he caused her—and other ejaculations of a similar character.

Half an hour passed in this manner, when Robert approached his sister, in a glow of indignant hunger that could be no longer suppressed.

"Really, Elizabeth, I think this is too bad—there's no occasion that we should all starve, because that young fellow is not hungry—ten to one but he has forgotten his engagement, and we may wait till supper time for our meal, and he none the better. Do order dinner, I say, and leave him in the lurch for his inattention."

"Oh fie, my dear Mr. Watson!" cried his wife, quite shocked to think her husband should be guilty of the vulgarity of having an appetite; "Oh fie—sit down to dinner without our guest—you cannot really think of such a thing; you cannot possibly mean it—what does it matter if we dine now, or an hour hence? I am sure we do not keep such early hours ourselves. I have seen too much of fashionable life to be much surprised at his tardiness. You cannot expect punctuality from such a very agreeable, pleasant young man!"

"Pooh, pooh, Jane, I tell you, you know nothing about it. I cannot expect pleasure from such a very unpunctual young man—that's what you should say—it's very rude,—and he is very ill bred—and would never do for business."

"Business! Tom Musgrove do for business!" cried Margaret, indignantly, "I should think not—whoever thought of business and Tom Musgrove in the same breath?"

"Not many, I dare say," observed Robert, contemptuously, "but if he has no business to occupy him, the less excuse is there for his preposterous conduct."

"My dear," said Mrs. Watson, with decision; "he is very genteel—and genteel people, when they have an independent fortune, are not obliged to be so regular as others—Tom Musgrove is very genteel."

"You know nothing about it," cried Robert, snappishly—for when a man is hungry, he not only dislikes contradiction himself, but, invariably, is liberal with it to others. "If a man simpers and whispers, and makes a few pretty—pretty speeches to you women, you set him down, forsooth, as very genteel—though he never pays a bill—if he can help it—is supercilious to his equals—and keeps a whole party waiting for dinner. Plague take such gentility, say I. Elizabeth, I shall ring the bell for dinner."

He did as he said, whilst his wife sat ruffling up and swelling with indignation at his retort. Determined not to hear her he walked away and stationed himself at the window, which commanded a view of the road. She, not able to address him, and resolved he should know her opinion, audibly exclaimed—to her neighbour—that she did know what gentility was, for she had seen a great of genteel company at Sir Thomas's—and that great allowances were to be made for young men who were always wild and eccentric creatures.

Emma, who heard all this, could not help mentally considering where those allowances were to cease, since Mrs. Watson did not seem disposed to make them for her husband—though, in her judgment he seemed the person most entitled to claim them. Perhaps he had outgrown his right—or exhausted his share—possibly, the title to them ceased at marriage—or, may be, his wife alone was not called on to accommodate him in that way. In the present instance, as she was remarkably hungry, she was glad Robert carried his point, and she walked into dinner with not one degree less of pleasure, because Mr. Musgrove was not there.

A dinner party, like the present, was not likely to be productive of much that could be called conversation. Mr. Robinson contradicted Mr. Martin about the laws concerning poor-rates; and, after being meekly yielded to by that worthy divine, found himself in his turn, pronounced perfectly misinformed, and laboring under an erroneous impression by his good friend, Robert Watson—who just allowed him to go on long enough on a subject of which he was ignorant, to give himself an opportunity of triumphing over him.

Just as Mr. Robinson was beginning to look very purple and red, and to glance at his wife to see how she looked—and just as poor, humble, meek, Mrs. Robinson was hurriedly talking nonsense to Emma about green peas, in order to shew that she did not notice her master's defeat, the door opened and Tom Musgrove bustled into the room.

"Beg ten thousand pardons, Miss Watson," cried he, ostentatiously parading up to her, "But, upon my word and honor, I could not get here sooner."

"Pray don't make any difference for me. I dare say I can make a dinner of what I see. The mutton, no doubt, as good cold as hot."

"Well, since you are so kind as to say so," said Elizabeth, simply, "I will let you do as you please—I dare say the soup will not be very good now—and it's not pleasant, I know, to have it back! Simson is handing you a chair—pray sit down;" and as she spoke—the waiter, who was no other than the parish clerk, acting for the night in this capacity, thrust a chair against Mr. Musgrove's legs with such zeal, as very nearly upset him, and quite caused him to jog Mrs. Steady's elbow as she was in the act of lifting a glass to her lips, much to the damage of her respectable grey silk gown. When things come to the worst, they must mend—so says the proverb—and the company found it true on this occasion, so far as the disagreeable noise and bustle of his entrance was concerned. But this was not the case with Tom himself—who, really chilled and hungry, sat down to only half a dinner, more than half cold—and whose vanity compelled him to abstain even from what was yet before him, lest he should be supposed guilty of the vulgarity of having an appetite. Had the struggles of his mind been exposed, perhaps, even Emma might have pitied him—or, at least, have admired the heroic constancy with which he sacrificed himself at the shrine of fashionable indifference. Unknown and unnoticed, however, were the efforts of his self-denial, and like modest worth, or unpatronised genius, they found their only reward in the internal satisfaction of his mind. As, however, he was a talker by profession, and always inclined to lead in conversation, their party gained much in liveliness, by the addition of his society. He flattered Mr. Watson—joked with Elizabeth—quizzed Mrs. Steady—and threw admiring glances at Emma, with laudable mirth and perseverance. Mrs. Robinson was soothed—Robert Watson silenced—and Mr. Martin aroused by his jocularity—whilst poor Mrs. Robinson was actually able to finish her dinner in tolerable comfort, so much was her husband's brow cleared from the threatened storm, which had before alarmed her.

With secret weariness, Emma watched for the signal to withdraw from the dinner-table, but Elizabeth was too much entertained to be at all in a hurry to rise, and it was, at length, to Mrs. Robert Watson that her thanks for a release were due.

Emma almost forgave her assumption on the occasion, in consideration of the beneficial effects arising from it. It was in vain, however, to hope that release from weariness would follow a secession from the dinner-table; everything seemed so intolerably dull, that she was enraged with herself for her own stupidity, feeling convinced that the want of interest in all around her must arise from too much self-engrossment; she tried accordingly to school herself into listening to the platitudes of Mrs. Steady, or the boastings of her sister-in-law with something like attention; but she tried in vain; her mind was continually wandering away to some distant subject, or was only recalled to the objects present, to calculate the number of minutes before the probable time of their departure. She did not doubt their being all amiable and excellent persons; but they certainly were not interesting characters; Mrs. Steady, in particular, next whom she was seated, seemed much fitter to knit stockings or make jam, than to keep up an intellectual conversation.

The weariest evenings, however, have an end: and this, like all others, terminated at last. Whist and loo—even the supper itself—were all finished; and when Mr. Martin had succeeded in putting on Robert's great coat; and secured, instead of his own, the old clerk's hat, which had been carefully hidden behind the door, he, the last of the party, disappeared, and Emma stole away without waiting to hear her brother Robert's animadversions on the dinner.

The succeeding day was much too wet and stormy to allow any of the females the relief of change of air and scene; but Emma, in the stronghold of her father's apartment, felt less disturbed than she could have expected. If there was storm abroad, there was anything but fair weather within the house. Mrs. Watson was affronted with her husband, and revenged herself by praising Tom Musgrove, and indulging in severe strictures on those whose birth and early education incapacitated them from judging of manners and fashion. These refined and elegant inuendos had all the effect she could desire—irritating her husband the more, because he could not treat them as personal and offensive, without at the same time admitting the implied inferiority of his situation in life, and opportunities of information and improvement. Accordingly, he could only testify his extreme displeasure by a general crossness to all around him, never speaking except when an opportunity to say something disagreeable presented itself. The novelty of such a domestic scene, by no means gave it any charms in Emma's eyes, and she could not help considering that if Jane was annoyed by her husband's temper, it would, at least, be wiser to try to soothe and amend it, than, by irritating his infirmity, encrease the source of her own discomfort. The pleasure of fretting and galling any one, was beyond her comprehension, requiring abilities and understanding, similar to those of her sister-in-law, properly to appreciate.

Compared with this scene of strife, her father's company was perfect happiness, and she delighted in burying her own discomforts in a volume of Shakespeare, or Boswell's delightful reminiscences of his idol.

Yet Elizabeth seemed really to regret that the visit was so short, and tried, though vainly, to persuade both her brother and wife to prolong their stay.

Robert was determined to go on Saturday; and Jane, who knew it would be vain to oppose him, wisely took her part with a good grace, and resolved to make it appear to be her own free will likewise.

"It is not the slightest use to press me, Elizabeth," he said, with more truth than graciousness; "you know I can be a very determined character when I please. I flatter myself, I have as much firmness and decision of mind, as any woman in England. When I have taken a resolution, I have taken it."

"But why take this resolution, Jane; if Robert must go to business, why not stay here by yourself, and let us have a little time to enjoy your society."

"It is very strange," said the lady, affecting to laugh, and turning to Emma. "I always have such extreme difficulty in getting away from this sister of yours. Indeed, I may say the same of all, or most of my friends. 'My dear Mrs. Watson, do come!' writes one. 'My dearest friend, you must stay' cries another. I am positively torn to pieces between them all. My sweet friend Lady Browning was just the same when I was with her at Clifton—upon my word, it's quite distressing."

"You would have no trouble at all if you would only yield now—there is nothing to prevent you."

"My dear Elizabeth, you who are not a wife and a mother can little understand the feelings of one filling such a doubly responsible situation. I am absolutely dying to get back to my little darling Marianne."

"What a pity that you could not bring her," said Elizabeth; "but still, I dare say, she could do very well without you for a day or two more."

"I have been trying to persuade Jane to prolong her visit, Robert; I do so wish you could both remain."

"It's no use to bother, Elizabeth," replied he, roughly; "I cannot stay, and Jane shall not, and there's an end of it."

"Well, I can only say I am very sorry; I am sure we shall be dreadfully dull when you are gone."

Even this prospect caused no relenting in the heart of the obdurate Robert, who still persisted in his plan, perhaps, with the more zest because he delighted in tormenting both his wife and sisters.

"When shall you come and see us at Croydon, Elizabeth?" said her sister-in-law, after a short pause; "there are several things I want very much to show you. You should see the curtains—the new curtains in the drawing-room—they look so handsome—all my choice: it is not everybody who can choose curtains to advantage—requires great tact and judgment."

"It does not require any marvellous judgment to empty a husband's purse, guessing from the wonderful facility some ladies of my acquaintance display," growled Robert, from behind the Weekly London Newspaper, which his father took in second-hand. "Positively, this paper is a fortnight old: what a place—I saw it before I left Croydon—one might as well be buried alive!"

During this soliloquy, Elizabeth without listening in the least to her brother, was eagerly replying to Mrs. Robert's offer.

"You are extremely kind Jane, to give me such pleasure; you know there is nothing I should like better, but I must not think of it—indeed I must not. I do not think my father would like my leaving home whilst he is so ill. Margaret is so useless a housekeeper, and hates the trouble so much—and Emma being the youngest, perhaps it would not do: if Pen were at home, it would be different: she makes a capital housekeeper, and she amuses my father when he is well too—I think when Pen comes back, I think I might be tempted."

"I should think our house might offer a very pleasant change to any young lady shut up so much as you are in this miserable place. I am sure most of my friends are more anxious to stay than go."

"Oh, it is not that I doubt the pleasure," replied Elizabeth; "it would be a great treat to me, I am sure. But you must not be angry at my refusing now."

"Angry! I am not a person to be angry about trifles—it is not my way to fret or take on, I leave that for those who have no other way of showing their dignity but by growling at everything. People blessed with my birth and education need not resort to such pitiful means to look grand and important."

Emma sighed many times to see the temper of her brother so uncomfortably irritable, and grieved again and again in secret, over the destruction of some of her most fondly cherished hopes. All her life she had wished for fraternal affection; much as she had loved her uncle and aunt, she had always wished to know and love her brothers and sisters. The vain wishes she had expended on this subject now rose up to haunt her memory with the thought that she had been ungratefully slighting the good she had enjoyed, for the sake of unknown objects which still evaded her. True she was now acquainted with five members of her family; but of these how little there was to attach, in the three last met, she hardly liked to own even to herself. Robert was surly; Jane conceited, Margaret fretful—and all seemed self-occupied. She tried to check these thoughts, she was shocked at her own wickedness in conceiving such things, but the feeling was there, even when not clothed in words, and she could not eradicate it.

Elizabeth she dearly loved already, but from what she heard, she fancied Penelope would not be very agreeable—and her last hope was in Sam. If he would only love her—be a friend, a companion to her—she still flattered herself this was possible, for Elizabeth certainly seemed to like him, and one letter of his, which Emma had heard, gave her a favorable impression of his character. With the fond idea of being loved by one brother at least, at some future time, Emma saw her eldest brother and his wife depart without any of the regret which afflicted both her other sisters, having strong internal convictions that the house would be now more peaceable.

"What are you going to do this morning, Elizabeth?" inquired Margaret in a voice between langour and peevishness.

"Oh, I have a hundred things to do," cried Miss Watson, turning from the window where she had watched her brother and his wife drive off. "I must go and see about helping Nanny put away the best china and glass, and I must pin up the curtains, and put by all the things in the best bed-room—which were had out for Jane's use; and I want to try that receipt she gave me for a pudding for my father—and fifty other things beside."

"Good gracious, Emma!" cried Margaret sharply, "I hope you are not such a fine lady as to mind stepping out in a little mud, or what is to become of me—I cannot bear walking alone, and Elizabeth is sure to be busy when I want her company."

"Perhaps," said Emma gently, rather afraid of giving offence by suggesting so evident a duty, "if we were to help Elizabeth, she would have done in time to join you and enjoy the fine weather."

"Thank you, Emma," replied her eldest sister, without listening to Margaret, "but do not put off your walk on my account, I am used to these things, and mind the trouble no more than you do threading your needle, or finding your place in a book," and taking her key-basket from the table, she left the room.

"There, I told you so," said Margaret immediately, "I knew Elizabeth disdains all assistance, and hates to be interfered with in her housekeeping: she is as jealous of her authority as possible, and I believe would rather go through any trouble herself, than allow us to share it for half an hour. Now just make haste, do, and put your pelisse on; I like the finest part of the day."

"My father want you!" repeated Margaret in a tone of astonishment, and with a look of surprise and incredulity, which Emma thought the announcement did not justify, "why what in all the world should he want you for?"

"I read to him a great deal," replied Emma colouring, lest her sister should suppose she meant to suggest a comparison between their relative conduct; for Margaret in general acted as if her father and his comfort were the objects of the slightest importance to her.

"What a bore that must be," continued Margaret; "at least it is to me, if not to you," added she, as Emma exclaimed at the idea—"for now you have that as an excuse for not walking with me. I know what it is, you don't want to come—and you might just as well say so at once, and not worry me by all these put offs."

"Indeed I shall be very happy to walk with you," said Emma, in a soothing tone, "if I my father can spare me; I will just run up and see, and if so, we can go directly."

Mr. Watson happened to be occupied by letters of business; in which he did not need Emma's help, and accordingly the sisters set off together. They took the road towards the town, Margaret saying nothing as to their object, and Emma making no enquiries. Indeed it did not occur to her that her sister had any other motive for walking than the desire of air and exercise.

"I have hardly had time to talk to you, Emma, since I came home; but the fact is, Jane is so fond of me, that when we are together she seldom can spare me ten minutes. She is an amazingly clever woman, I assure you, and one of the best judges of character and manners I ever saw."

This assertion, though Emma believed it might be perfectly true, did not convey to her mind precisely the idea which Margaret expected; and it rather convinced her of the narrow circle in which her sister had always moved, than the depth of Mrs. Robert's penetration, or the extent of Margaret's own virtues. She did not, however, dissent from the praise, and her sister went on complacently.

"I am sure, Emma you must be struck with Tom Musgrove's manners—is he not delightful?" enquired she, when her dissertation on Croydon was ended.

"Not admire him!" cried Margaret, for a moment aghast at such heresy—then recollecting herself, she added, "ah, I suppose you mean he did not admire you—he did not dance with you at the ball I know; I dare say, too, he was not in spirits—if I had been there it would have been different; if you knew him as well as I and had received as much attention from him, and knew what he thought of yourself as I do, you would see him with very different eyes."

"I shall be quite satisfied to view him always with as much indifference as I do now," said Emma, "and I trust, even if his manners should improve, or my taste alter, I shall be able to look on him without causing you any anxiety by excessive admiration. Elizabeth tells me he has made sad inroads on the peace of most young ladies hereabouts; I hope he will spare me, as I suppose I must not flatter myself with being wiser or steadier than other girls."

"Elizabeth only says so from jealousy," cried Margaret indignantly, "he never paid her any attentions, and so—but good gracious, Emma," added she, interrupting herself and looking behind, "there he is coming, and some others with him—who can they be, only one wears a red coat—I did not expect them so soon."

"Did you expect him at all?" said Emma, colouring with astonishment—"Is it possible you walked here to meet him?"

"Well, and where's the harm if I did—I wish you would just look at those other two gentlemen, and tell me if you know who they are!"

"Indeed," replied Emma, vexed and embarrassed, "I do not like to look round in that way; it does not seem—at least I have been told it is not lady-like to turn round and stare at people—but, Margaret, is it really the case, that you came here with this view?"

"Pooh, pooh, how can you be so tiresome, didn't you know as well as me, that the hounds were to meet at Ashley Lodge—I thought most likely Tom Musgrove would come this way, it is his direct road; but I wish I could make out who it is with him; they are just putting their horses into a trot,—I declare I believe it is Lord Osborne and Mr. Howard—how tiresome now—for Tom will not stop when Lord Osborne is there—how very provoking!"

"If I had known this," said Emma blushing painfully, "nothing would have persuaded me to come this way—they will think we did it to meet them—"

The gentlemen were now come so near, that Emma's concluding words were lost in the noise produced by the sharp trot of several horses. She was thinking rather uncomfortably about what Mr. Howard would think, and whether he would suppose she had walked out to throw herself in Lord Osborne's way, when the gentlemen suddenly drew up beside the high, narrow foot-path on which the sisters were walking.

"Miss Emma Watson," cried Lord Osborne, as he threw himself from his horse, which he hastily resigned to the groom, "by Jove! how lucky I am to have come this way—so you are come out to see the hounds throw off? I am so glad to have met you."

Tom Musgrove dismounted in imitation of his noble friend; but, as the path only admitted two, he was obliged to draw back—and, whilst Lord Osborne walked by the side of Emma, Tom was exposed, without defence, to the appealing glances and soft whispers of Margaret. Emma saw, with a sort of concern, which she could not exactly analyse, that Mr. Howard remained on horseback, and only acknowledged his former partner by a bow, much colder and more formal than his reminiscences at the visitation had led her to expect. Whilst she was wondering at the change, her companion was trying to be as agreeable as nature would allow him, and she could almost have laughed outright at the air of deference and attention with which the dashing Tom Musgrove listened to his lordship's remarks, and confirmed any of his statements which required support. Thus they had walked for more than five minutes, when they reached a bend of the road, where another branch of the lane opened to them, which Emma knew would lead them almost directly home.

"Margaret," said she, turning to her sister, "I think we had better return this way, we may, perhaps, be wanted at home before we can reach it."

"I am sure I am quite ready to go," said Margaret, apparently on the point of bursting into tears of spite and envy at finding it useless to attempt to fix Tom's attention on herself.

"I thought you were come here on purpose to see the hounds throw off," said Lord Osborne to Emma, "and what's the use of going home before you reach the cover."

"Indeed you were mistaken, my lord," replied Emma calmly, but decidedly; "for I was not aware till we saw you, that the hounds met in this neighbourhood!"

"Well, but do come on now, you are so near—my sister and Miss Carr are to be there, and I want to introduce you to them."

"Your lordship must be perfectly aware that what you propose is impossible," replied Emma, "I have no claim to intrude on Miss Osborne's notice, and she would, probably, be far more surprised than pleased by such an extraordinary step."

"No, indeed, on my honor, my sister wishes to know you—Tom Musgrove knows what she said about it last night—" looking over his shoulder at his friend, but going on speaking too eagerly to allow time for more than a simple assent from Tom. "I believe I was wrong in what I said, which, I suppose, is what you mean, I want to introduce my sister to you—is that right?" Emma could not quite control a smile; "so now you will just come on with us, without stopping here any longer."

"I am much obliged to you, my lord; but, indeed, I cannot comply with your request; and as Miss Osborne would not be expecting to meet us to-day, she will experience no disappointment."

Very reluctantly the young nobleman was obliged to give up his proposition; and, as they rode way, he suddenly turned towards Tom Musgrove, after some minutes' silence, and exclaimed:

"I say, Musgrove, how is it you manage with women to make them worship you so—Emma Watson is the only girl I ever tried to please, and she seems to delight in refusing everything I propose. I can make no way with her."

Tom's self-complacency was very near betraying him into a serious blunder at this speech; for he was on the point of assenting to the proposition that he was more successful in making fools of young women than Lord Osborne. Fortunately, he recollected in time, that however agreeable a strenuous support to his lordship's opinions might be under ordinary circumstances, there were occasions when a well turned negative was far more flattering. Lord Osborne, like many other people, might depreciate himself—but he could not wish his friends to take the same view of the subject; Musgrove, therefore, judiciously replied, that Miss Emma Watson had treated him precisely the same, from which he concluded it was her way.

The sisters, in the meantime, were pursuing their path homewards, whilst Margaret was raining questions on Emma as to the commencement and progress of her acquaintance with Lord Osborne,—an event which seemed to her so very astonishing, as only to be surpassed by the cool and composed manner with which Emma treated the affair.

Tom Musgrove's intimacy at Osborne Castle, had always greatly elevated his importance in her eyes; yet here was her own sister, who not only had walked side by side with the peer himself, but had positively refused to accompany him farther, in spite of his entreaties; and she now wound it all up by coolly declaring, that she thought Lord Osborne very far from an agreeable young man, and had no wish to see more of him. Emma was a perfect enigma to her sister, and but for a feeling of awe, which such exalted acquaintance had impressed on her mind, Margaret would have railed at her for her refusal to walk further. She was silently pondering on these extraordinary circumstances, when she was roused by the angry bark of a fierce dog—which rushing from the farm-yard, took up a position in the centre of the way, and seemed determined to dispute the passage. Margaret, screaming aloud, turned to run away, and Emma's first impulse was to follow her example; but a moment's consideration checked her, and she attempted to soothe or overcome the animal by speaking gently, and looking fixedly at him. She was so far successful, that his bark sunk into a low irritable growl, and Emma profited by the comparative silence to address a man in the farm-yard, and beg him to call back the dog.

"He woant hurt thee, Missus," was the reply of the countryman, who seemed, in reality, rather amused at the fright of the young ladies.

"But my sister is afraid to pass him," said Emma, imploringly, looking round at Margaret who was standing at the distance of a hundred yards, and evidently prepared again to take flight at the smallest aggressive movement of the enemy.

"Thy sister must jist make up her moinde to pass as other foalk do—unless you chose to go athert the field yonder, to get out of him's way."

"Athert the field," Emma concluded they must go, as Margaret would not advance; and she was about reluctantly to turn back, when the sound of horse's hoofs was heard, and the next moment Mr. Howard appeared advancing towards them. A glance shewed him the dilemma in which the ladies were placed, and he was as quick in overcoming as in comprehending their difficulties. A well aimed blow of his whip sent the aggressor yelping to his kennel, and a sharp reproof to his master followed, for not interfering in their favour, accompanied with a hint about the necessity of confining his dog, if he did not wish to have it indicted.

Mr. Howard was too well known for his word to be disputed or his reproofs resented; the farmer promised it should not happen again—peace was restored, and under Mr. Howard's protection, even Margaret ventured to pass.

"I thought you were going to hunt," said Emma, in reply to his offer to see them safely out of reach of their terrible foe. Mr. Howard said he had only ridden out for pleasure, not for so important and imperative a business as fox-hunting: it was evident, however, that he considered walking with the Miss Watsons quite as pleasant as riding, and that he was in no hurry to remount.

"Would you allow my sister to do herself the honour of calling on you?" said he, presently; "your kindness to her little boy has quite captivated her, and Charles is as anxious as herself to carry on the acquaintance so happily begun. She has been ill since the assembly or the offer would have been made sooner."

Emma coloured highly, but from very pleasurable feelings at this speech, and readily professed that it would give her great pleasure to become better acquainted both with Charles and his mother.

"I was almost afraid to propose it," said Mr. Howard, "when I heard the bad success of Lord Osborne's negotiation for a similar point: you do not really mean to refuse Miss Osborne's overtures."

"They must be made in a different way," said Emma, "before I am tempted to accept them; or, indeed, to believe that anything more is intended than to make me look ridiculous."

"You do less than justice both to yourself and to my friends," said Mr. Howard, gently, "I assure you, the wish was really expressed by Miss Osborne; and though my pupil blundered in making it known, I am certain it was entirely from want of self-possession, not from want of respect."

Emma did not answer; she was trying to ascertain whether the gratified feeling she experienced, at the moment, arose from the wish ascribed to Miss Osborne, or the anxiety shown by Mr. Howard to set those wishes in a proper light.

A pause soon afterwards occurring in the conversation, Margaret seized the opportunity, and leaning past her sister, addressed Mr. Howard in an earnest and anxious manner—

"She is certainly very fair," replied he, rather astonished at the question, "I do not know that I ever saw a whiter skin; but is it possible that her complexion can be a subject of discussion or interest in your village?"

"I do not know," replied Margaret, not at all understanding him; "Mr. Musgrove is a great deal at the castle, is he not?"

"I do not wonder at it—he must be a great favorite with the ladies, no doubt," continued she; "I should think his manners must recommend him everywhere."

"I fancy his intimacy at the castle is more owing to Lord Osborne's partiality than that of his mother or sister," said he, still in a reserved tone of voice, as if not wishing to discuss the domestic circle of the Osbornes; yet there was a suppressed smile on his mouth, which Emma construed into amusement at the idea of Miss Osborne's admiring her brother's hanger-on; and she silently diverted herself with fancying the probable degree of esteem which his complaisance and flattery would win for him.

Mr. Howard did not leave the girls until they had reached their own gate, and then with a quiet but decided assurance that he would soon bring his sister, he mounted his horse, and rode homewards.

"Well, Emma," said Margaret, as they entered the parlour together, "I wish every body had your luck; I cannot see why I should not have such great friends, yet I dare say, I have been to fifty assemblies, and never was a bit the nearer knowing Lord Osborne or any of his set—how you managed it, I am sure I cannot guess."

"It was only because Emma is both good-natured and pretty," said Elizabeth, looking up from the sofa-cover she was assiduously mending.

"Emma is not the first pretty girl who has been seen in those rooms, I believe," said Margaret sharply; "and I should like to know what being good-natured has to do with it!"

"It made her offer to dance with little Charles Willis—and by that means please his uncle and mother; it was her kindness and good-nature did that."

"No it was not; it was because she was so lucky as to sit next the boy; if she had been at the other end of the room, all the good-nature in the world would have been of no use—it was all her good luck."

"And if you had sat next to him the whole evening, should you have thought of offering to be his partner, Margaret?" enquired Elizabeth.

"Very likely not—I hate dancing with boys. But I don't understand how Emma got acquainted with Lord Osborne."

"And I cannot at all comprehend what makes your head so full of the Osbornes this morning," replied Elizabeth.

"Why we met them all this morning, and first there was Lord Osborne walking and talking with Emma, and then Mr. Howard—there never was anything like it—he came right up to the garden-gate before he left us."

Margaret explained, but her account was so tinctured with jealousy that Elizabeth, curious and unsatisfied, ran up after Emma who had left the room at the commencement of this discussion, to ascertain the truth from her.

Even when Emma had related everything to her sister, it seemed almost incredible—that Lord Osborne should have proposed such an introduction, and Mr. Howard promised a visit from his sister, appeared more like events in a fairy tale than the sober realities of their every-day life.

"What to Miss Osborne? Because I think such unequal acquaintances are very undesirable and not likely to compensate for the trouble which accompanies them, by any pleasure they can afford."

"I believe in my heart, Emma, you are very proud," said Elizabeth in a doubting, puzzled tone that almost made her sister laugh.

"Too proud to become a hanger-on of Miss Osborne's, certainly," answered she; "much too proud to be condescended to, and encouraged, or patronised, or anything of the sort."

"Well if I had been you, I would have just seen what his lordship would do: suppose they had asked you up to the Castle—would you not have liked that?"

"No," said Emma; "I should only indulge in luxuries which would make my home uncomfortable from the contrast, or perhaps become envious from comparing their state with my own. But I cannot imagine the option will be given me: unless Miss Osborne seeks me, we shall not meet, for I shall certainly not throw myself in her way."

"Well I am less proud and less philosophical than you, Emma, and I own I would accept such an offer if it were made me, and be thankful for the respite from the disagreeables of home, however temporary it might be. I wonder whether Miss Osborne wishes it very much. But after all Emma, you mean to let Mrs. Willis visit you—where's your pride in that case?"

"Surely Elizabeth, you must see the difference," said Emma, coloring. "Mr. Howard and his sister are in our rank of life, though their intimacy at the castle gives them artificial consequence. There would be no condescension on their part, and no obligation incurred by me, which a return visit would not fairly pay."

"Well, I wish I knew what day they would come," said Miss Watson, "for we could sit in the drawing-room, and not cover the sofa and carpets."

"Pray do not do anything of the sort," said Emma, in alarm; "I hope it will not be the only visit they will pay—and we cannot always sit in state to receive them; make friends of them, and receive them in parlour."

"You are very odd, Emma—what notions you have. I don't at all understand you yet."

It was very evident by the result, that Mr. Howard had not overstated his sister's anxiety to place her acquaintance with Emma on a footing which would secure its permanence and authorise an increase of intimacy; for the next Monday after making the request, the visitors arrived. Elizabeth and Margaret were sitting together when they were announced—but the former immediately left the room to seek for Emma—although she would have been very glad if Margaret would have saved her the trouble. Margaret, however, was determined to see as much of these strangers from an unknown world, as she could, and consequently, would not stir. She was very anxious to improve the opportunity by immediately entering into conversation with Mr. Howard, but she could think of nothing to say, and it was to the sister that they were indebted for the introduction of a subject. Margaret, who had taken little notice of her at first—for she always found a difficulty in conversing with women, could not help feeling, in some degree, obliged by the well-bred manner in which she commenced some common topics of conversation.

"My brother has been telling me of your adventures on Saturday with the dog," said Mrs. Willis presently, "I hope you suffered no further inconvenience from it."

"Oh," said Margaret, "I was dreadfully frightened; I believe, but for Mr. Howard's interference, I should have fainted; I am very nervous, and I declare I would rather have remained there the whole night, than have ventured past the horrid animal."

"My arrival there must be esteemed most fortunate," said he, "but I own I am astonished at the rudeness of the man in the farm-yard, who contented himself with looking on."

"Oh. he was a brute," cried Margaret, "no better than the dog—but what else can you expect from boors like him. They have no sentiment or feeling."

"I do not agree with you," replied Mr. Howard, "I assure you, I have often been struck with instances of disinterested kindness and generosity amongst the labouring classes, which prove that they are endowed with excellent feelings."

"They have no delicacy or sentiment," said Margaret, "and without that they are uninteresting to me. I own my partiality for the favorites of nature, the gentle and elegant in manner, the aristocratic in birth and breeding."

"Still I think you do our peasantry injustice, if you suppose them destitute of delicacy of feeling, because they have not a refined way of expressing their thoughts in words," replied Mr. Howard. "Their manners of course are uncultivated, and their habits are what you would call unrefined—and no one would wish they should be cursed with the desire for elegancies, which habit has rendered indispensable with us, but which must be unattainable to them; but the germs of generosity, gratitude, and self-sacrifice for the good of others, may be found in many a one who would be puzzled to express his ideas in words."

"I dare say that is very true," replied Margaret; "but I must say I think them very coarse and clownish; now and then one sees a pretty looking girl; but the men are all detestable."

"I have little to say for their manners or persons," said Mr. Howard; "but, I assure you, I have met with poetical though uncultivated minds amongst labouring men—the true poetry of nature."

"It must be very odd poetry expressed in such gothic language," said Margaret, laughing: as she had not the smallest poetical feeling herself, she could not comprehend what he meant when he talked of it, and concluded that the peasantry spoke in rhyme, or, at least, blank verse.

At this moment the entrance of the other young ladies cut short the discussion, and introduced a new subject. Charles, who had been standing by his mother, earnestly contemplating the crown of his hat, and drawing figures with his finger on the beaver, now looked up, all animation, as Emma kindly greeted him as her "first partner at her first ball." His mother's eyes sparkled almost as much as the little boy's, at her good-natured notice. Mr. Howard's admiration of her was less obvious, but, perhaps, not less sincere than the others. A moment after, Mr. Watson entered the room: his gout was better, and allowed him to come down stairs.

Mr. Howard noticed that it was Emma who rolled his easy chair into the proper position, Emma, who arranged his footstool, who drew the curtain to exclude the glare of the wintry sun, placed the screen to ward off the draught from the door, and laid his spectacles, snuff-box, and writing-case on precisely the proper spots of the proper table next him. Elizabeth was conversing with her visitor, and Margaret never stirred on such occasions. Certainly Emma's exertions, at this time, were almost rendered useless by the zeal with which Mr. Howard seconded her movements. Mr. Watson's comforts were soon arranged in the most satisfactory manner, such as long habit had rendered indispensable to him, and when he had carefully adjusted his spectacles, and taken a survey of the room, he turned to Mr. Howard, and enquired, who was that nice young woman talking to Elizabeth.

On being answered that it was his sister, he civilly apologised for not having known her, which, as he had never seen her before, he remarked, was not wonderful; but Elizabeth ought to have introduced him before he sat down, as really the gout made it extremely difficult to move across the room. Elizabeth did not think it necessary to justify herself by informing him, that it was only owing to the self-engrossment and bustle attending his progress and settlement in his arm-chair, that her attempt at an introduction had been thwarted; indeed, Miss Watson was so little used to such ceremonies as to have seized precisely the most inauspicious moment for speaking, and having been foiled in her first essay, sat down without trying again.

Mrs. Willis, however, made it all easy, and soothed Mr. Watson's discomposure at such a breach of etiquette, by the good-natured and respectful manner in which she now addressed him.

Whilst they were sitting in pleasant chat, Tom Musgrove again appeared amongst them. Emma really began to hate the sight of him on Margaret's account, as her sister's manners whilst in his company, cost her many blushes; and her increase of fretfulness after his departure occasioned discomfort to the whole party. It was a great gratification to her to discover from Mr. Watson's manner, that he was very far from looking on Tom Musgrove as the amiable and elegant gentleman that he aspired to be considered, and she even fancied that her father did not receive him simply as an inoffensive guest; on the contrary, he seemed annoyed at his visit, and inclined to regard it as an intrusion.

"Well master Tom," said he, "what foolish thing have you been doing lately?—breaking any more horses' knees or dinner-engagements—your genius cannot have been idle since I saw you last—let's hear all about it."

"No indeed sir," replied Tom; "I have been doing nothing worth chronicling, at least to such a judge as you. I have had my own little amusements, but they are not worth detailing. By the bye Howard, I dare say Osborne did not tell you how completely I beat him at Fives the other day: he's a good player too—but didn't I astonish him."

"Lord Osborne seldom entertains me with accounts of his sports, whether defeated or victorious," replied Mr. Howard, coolly.

"When you have the gout in your foot even twice as bad as I have," observed Mr. Watson, "it will be consolatory to you to remember that you could once beat Lord Osborne at Fives."

"Aye sir, I dare say I shall have my turn by-and-bye, I expect to have it early—Osborne tells me his father had it at five-and-twenty. It's an aristocratic complaint."

"Unless you have reason to suppose the late Lord Osborne was your father likewise," resumed Mr. Watson drily, "I don't see what either his gout or his aristocracy have to do with you."

"Do you feel any symptoms already?" whispered Margaret; "you really ought to take care of yourself—who would be so much missed if you were laid up with that dreadful disorder! and who would you get to nurse you in your hours of suffering?"

"Oh I'll take care of myself, Miss Margaret," said he pointedly; "gout makes one a prisoner, which is bad—I hate all confinement, and bonds of every kind, especially fire-side bonds: freedom for me—freedom at home and abroad—perfect freedom. By the bye, Howard," continued he, breaking in upon a very agreeable conversation which that gentleman was carrying on aside with Emma, "I knew you were here when I came in, by that curious vehicle standing at the door. Positively it must have belonged to your great grandfather—nobody more modern could have built such a conveyance!"

"One thing is certain," said Mr. Watson, "Mr. Howard had a great grandfather to whom it might have belonged—it is more than every one can say!"

Tom rather winced at this observation, for as it was known, to those who possessed good memories, that his grandfather had ridden about the country on a donkey, whilst carrying on the lucrative business of a rag-merchant, it was no very great stretch of the imagination to conclude that his more remote ancestor had been equally humble in his means of travelling.

"Perhaps it is not the most elegant conveyance in the world," replied its owner good-humouredly; "but it carries us very safely, and the most fashionable curricle would do no more."

"Upon my word I must beg to have the refusal of it, if you can be tempted to part with it, Howard, and I will send it to a museum somewhere, labelled the car of Cybele; I protest it puts me in mind of an old print of that machine, which belonged to an aunt of mine."

"Lord Osborne has promised to give me a new carriage when either he or I marry," said Mr. Howard; "and I mean to make mine serve till that event."

"And are you come wooing now in person or as proxy?" whispered Tom, quite loud enough for Emma to hear. "A good place this—one need not ask twice, I fancy."

"Mr. Musgrove," said Howard in his particularly quiet but decisive way, "you are as welcome to laugh at my carriage as you should be to use it, if it were necessary; but remember there are subjects on which jesting is indelicate, and places where it is insulting." He turned away as he spoke and addressed Mr. Watson, to give Emma's cheeks time to recover from the glow which betrayed that she had heard more than was pleasant.

Tom looked a little foolish, and after a moment's hesitation, addressed an enquiry to Emma as to whether she had been walking that forenoon. He only gained a mono-syllable in reply, and then Emma drawing little Charles towards her, began a confidential conversation with him on the subject of his garden and companions at school, and the comparative merits of base-ball and cricket. Tom was repulsed, so turning to Elizabeth, he cried:

"Well I must be going, Miss Watson, for I have an engagement. I promised to meet Fred Simpson and Beauclerc and another fellow presently—so I must be off. They want my opinion about some greyhounds Beauclerc has taken a fancy to but wouldn't buy till I had had time to see them. They are monstrous good fellows, and must not be kept waiting. Great friends of Osborne's, I assure you."

Nobody opposed his design: then turning with a softer tone and manner to Emma, he said,

"Really I must go to school again and take lessons from my little friend, to learn from him the art of finding agreeable conversation. What is the secret, Charles?"

"It is more easily explained than taught," replied Emma, "unaffected good-humour, sincerity, and simplicity. That is all!"

Tom took himself off, and as the sound of his curricle wheels died away in the distance, Mr. Watson observed:

"There goes a young man, who if he had had to work for his bread might have been a useful member of society. But unfortunately the father made a fortune, so the son can only make a fool of himself."

"I suppose some of you girls will be for going over to return Mrs. Willis's visit," said Mr. Watson to his daughters, the next day; "she's a nice little woman so far as I saw, and I have no objection to your visiting her; but you must go to-morrow, if you go at all this week, for I cannot spare the horse after that day."

"Well, Emma," said Margaret directly, "I will drive you over to-morrow if you like—you don't drive, I dare say!"

"I think," said Emma, "that Elizabeth ought to go, because as it is a first visit, and she is the eldest—it will seem more complimentary."

"Certainly," cried Elizabeth, who was quite as anxious as Margaret to pay the visit, "you and I, Emma, must go at all events."

"But then I can't," exclaimed Margaret, "and why am I to be left out? if Elizabeth goes, because she is eldest, I have the best right to go too, when Pen is away, for I am older than Emma, at all events."

"But as the visit was paid especially to Emma," rejoined Elizabeth, "it is quite impossible that she should give up to you. She must go."

"Would not the chaise hold three?" suggested Emma, anxious for a compromise, "Margaret is so slight, and I am not large, I am sure we could sit so."

"I dare say you could," replied her father, "but I can tell you, you would have to sit in the stable-yard if you did, for the old horse could not draw you, and should not make the attempt—no, no, if Margaret wants to go she may wait till next time—if you pay visits at all, you shall pay them properly."

The consequence of this decision on the part of their father, was such an increase of fretfulness in Margaret for the rest of the day, as to make Emma inclined to think the society of her new acquaintance would be dearly bought at such a penalty. Elizabeth bore it with the indifference produced by long habit.

"It is no use minding her," said she to Emma, as they were undressing, that night; "she is always the same; if you give up one thing, she will quarrel about another; you can do no good to her by sacrificing every thing to her wishes, and you had much better take your own way when you can, and mind her crossness as little as possible."

Emma sighed at this assertion, but she sighed in vain; Margaret's ill-humour was as apparent next morning, and rather increased as the hour of setting off drew near. It was some consolation to her, however, to discover that the day was exceedingly cold, with a heavy canopy of clouds over head, and occasionally, slight sprinklings of snow, which promised any thing but a pleasant drive to her sisters. Wrapping themselves up as well as they could, they set off; but the ominous appearance of the sky rather increased than diminished; and before they came in sight of Osborne Castle, for the parsonage was within the park, a very heavy fall of snow overtook them. As their humble vehicle slowly progressed along, Elizabeth was earnestly hoping that none of the Osborne family would see them; she had never before reflected much on the difference in their rank and circumstances; but now, whilst driving along the road where their coach and four had so often passed, she was mentally comparing her lot with Miss Osborne's, and it seemed almost presumption in her to come, as it were, in contact with such superior elegance and grandeur.

Emma's sensations were different; she felt that their equipage was suitable to their station, and need therefore cost her no blushes, as it gave her no concern. The wish to find the inhabitants of the parsonage at home, was uppermost in her thoughts—and the hope that they should ultimately return, without being buried in the snow, her principal object of anxiety.

In the former of these she was perfectly gratified; the neat and pretty looking maid, who opened the door, announcing that both the master and mistress were within. Emma was struck with the air of comfort and tidiness in all she saw, possibly because it contrasted strongly with her father's house. It was owing to Mr. Watson's frequent illness perhaps, but at home she had observed so many things which appeared to require a master's eye. The gate swinging on one hinge, the trees straggling over the paths, the wall round the stable-yard broken down, and a hundred other examples of neglect and disorder had met her eyes at home. How different it all was at Mr. Howard's! Even with the disadvantage of winter, and the consequent dreariness of aspect which a lawn and shrubbery at such a season must present—the neatness of the place conveyed an idea of comfort and taste.

The porch and steps were clean and white; and the little vestibule, through which they passed to the parlour, was ornamented by some fine myrtles and geraniums in pots, which combined with the well-arranged guns, fishing-rods, and similar objects to give an air at once elegant and pleasing to the eye, but not too studied for the daily habits of domestic life. The useful and the ornamental were happily blended, and Emma looked with great pleasure round her.

They found Mrs. Willis sitting alone, and were received by her with warmth and ease.

"It is very good, indeed, of you to come through such weather to see us," said she, "I am sure you must be half frozen—what can I give you to make you comfortable."

Her visitors assured her they needed nothing; which, however, was not strictly true, as Emma certainly required the presence of the brother to make her quite contented. This assurance did not satisfy the hospitality of their hostess, who persisted in ordering hot wine and water, and would not be satisfied without their eating something to keep prevent any ill effects from the cold, as she said.

They had not sat there many minutes, when Mr. Howard entered from his little study which faced the entrance. He had seen their arrival, but would not gratify his wishes of immediately presenting himself till he had ascertained that their horse was properly attended to, and the carriage placed under cover, to shelter it from the now thickly descending snow.

Elizabeth looked round the room with surprise and admiration. It was not larger or better than their own—and the furniture was, apparently, neither more expensive, nor more plentiful—but there was an air which their sitting-room never had. Instead of the old discoloured engravings of bishops with wonderful wigs, or gentlemen in broad-tailed coats, and flapped waistcoats, with their black frames, and dull, dusty glasses, which adorned the walls of their usual sitting-room at home, there hung here a few beautiful copies from the well-known and most admired works of the Italian masters, which Mr. Howard had brought as the fruits of his tour with Lord Osborne. These appeared to Elizabeth far more cheerful than the dingy prints before mentioned, although the idea of objecting to the latter, had never before entered her head. There was a flower-stand with some pretty plants; an embroidery frame; a bird cage with Charles's pet canary; a set of bookshelves well-filled, and a comfortable fire. But she could not make out why the appearance of the room was so different from things at home. Perhaps one reason was, that the whole of the furniture, having been bought and arranged at the same time, harmonised together; unlike the articles in her father's house, which having been picked up at different auctions in the neighbourhood, or purchased second-hand from the broker, appeared, when put together, ill-matched and out of place, however good in themselves the individual articles were. She wished she could learn the art of giving such an air to a room, but she feared she never should. These thoughts wandered through her mind during the intervals of her conversation with their hostess, mixed with occasional wonder that Emma should find so much to say, and say it all with so much ease to Mr. Howard; for though Elizabeth could get on pretty well with Mrs. Willis, she still felt some degree of awe towards Mr. Howard himself; a man who taught young Lord Osborne, and played at cards with his mother. Emma, evidently undeterred by such considerations, or rather not considering the subject at all, kept up a very pleasant chat with him, though nothing was said by either particularly deserving to be recorded. Half an hour passed rapidly, but when the sisters, after glancing at each other as a signal for departure, began to look rather anxiously at the weather, they found that it had changed decidedly for the worse since their entrance, although their attentions had been too much engrossed to perceive it before. The heavy sky was discharging itself on the earth in a thick veil of snow, which entirely concealed the distance, and rapidly whitened all surrounding objects. So dense was the atmosphere, that it rather seemed as if the clouds had themselves suddenly descended and settled upon the earth, than as if they were merely dispensing their superfluous contents. The wind too, which had before blown only in occasional gusts, was now almost incessant, and greatly increased in violence, and as their road lay eastward, they were certain of encountering it in full force. The whirlwinds of snow which it raised, threatened almost to smother unhappy travellers, and would have made it madness to attempt to face it.

"What can we do?" said Emma, as she contemplated the scene in some alarm; "do you think you could drive in such a storm, Elizabeth?"

"Oh, I should not mind venturing," said Miss Watson, "but I am afraid for you; you know you had a cold this morning, and to encounter such a storm would make you worse."

"Encounter the storm!" cried the brother and sister at once, "impossible, not to be mentioned or thought of, much less put in practice—they must wait a little while, if they wished very much to return home, and see what patience would produce; in case it did not mend, they might send a message if they feared Mr. Watson would be uneasy—but indeed Mr. Howard thought they had better give up all idea of returning at once, and allow him immediately to dispatch some one to answer for their safety to their father's house. But as to leaving the house during such a tempest, it was quite out of the question."

With the most friendly warmth, every possible accommodation was placed at their disposal; every objection done away as soon as started; every difficulty proved to be a vain fancy of its originator. The idea of the addition to their circle at dinner, did not seem at all to discompose Mrs. Willis; and the minor arrangements, the things to be lent for their use and comfort, appeared rather to bring her positive enjoyment. In a short time, the young ladies felt themselves quite domesticated in the house; their cloaks and bonnets removed, their hair smoothed, and their thick boots exchanged, for comfortable slippers of their new friend, they found themselves again seated comfortably in the pretty parlour—and, ere long, were busily employed in helping Mrs. Willis in the agreeable occupation of sewing certain little colored silk bags which Mr. Howard and Charles afterwards filled with deliciously scented pot-pourri, from the large china jar in the corner of the room. Now, their only subject of uneasiness besides the dread of giving too much trouble, was the fear that their father's comfort would suffer in their absence, as they knew only too well how little Margaret contributed towards his amusement, or sought to spare him trouble.

Dinner time came, and Elizabeth was surprised to find that, although in the vicinity of Osborne Castle, their hour of dining was no later than what she was accustomed to; and still more surprised that the simple meal—the single joint, and the plain, but certainly well-made, pudding which followed it, was considered quite sufficient in itself, and needing no apologies. Not that she expected anything more elegant or uncommon, much less wished for it, but she felt had she been the entertainer, she would, certainly, have regretted the absence of further luxuries. The hour of dusk which followed the dinner, was particularly agreeable, as they drew their chairs round the comfortable fire, and chatted with the easy good nature which such a situation and such a combination of circumstances is sure to promote. The man or woman who can be cross and disagreeable at such a moment, must either be cursed with an uncommonly perverse temper, or have eaten a great deal more than is good for the health. This was not the case with either of the five who formed this cheerful group—and Charles very freely expressed his extreme satisfaction at the turn events had taken; appealing to his uncle to confirm his assertion that nothing could be more delightful than the fact of the two Miss Watsons being forced to remain in the house, and to join in his hope that the snow would keep them prisoners for a week to come. Mr. Howard readily assented to his view of their own good fortune in the turn events had taken, and only demurred to his wishes from the doubt whether the young ladies themselves would not find such a detention a severe penalty—in which case, he was sure, even Charles could not wish, for his own gratification, to inflict it on them.

"Oh, certainly not, if they did not like it," cried Charles, "only I am sure Miss Emma, you are too good-natured to object to what would give us all so much pleasure."

"If my opinion or wishes could make any difference to the snow, or serve to open the road, Charles, it would be worth while to form a deliberate decision," said Emma, good naturedly; "but now I want you, in the meantime, to guess this riddle," and she diverted his attention by proposing some charades and enigmas for his amusement.

The diversion soon occupied the whole party, and much mirth ensued at the variety and strange guesses which it gave rise to. Presently a note was brought to Mr. Howard, which after studying near a light for some time, he threw down on the table, and said:

"There, ladies, there is a riddle which I would almost defy you to read—look at it!"

"Oh! I see—pray Miss Watson can you read that name?" and she held it out to Elizabeth, who, with Emma, looked at it with great curiosity.

"Is that writing!" cried Emma, "and can any one expect it to be read; I do not understand a word, except the three first."

"Yes," said Elizabeth, "one can read that, 'my dear Mr. Howard,' but the rest appears as if the writer had dipped a stick in an ink bottle, and scribbled over the paper at random—you do not mean to say, you have read it, Mr. Howard?"

"I made out its meaning," said he, looking up from a writing-table, at a little distance, "and I am answering it at this moment."

"Well, you must be much more clever than I am," said Elizabeth, simply, "they are all hieroglyphics to me."

"It is a note from Lady Osborne," said Mrs. Willis, "I know her signature; but I am not sure that I could decipher more."

"Lady Osborne!" cried Elizabeth, looking at it again, but this time with great respect, "do peeresses write in that way."

"Not all, I trust, for the credit of the peerage," replied Mr. Howard, "or, at least, for the comfort of their correspondents."

"It is certainly a great misapplication of abilities," observed Emma, coolly, "for I am sure it must cost a person more trouble to produce such a scrawl than it would to write three legible letters."

"I have no doubt it has cost her ladyship some trouble, and I am certain it has put her to needless expense," said he, "for on one occasion, her steward sent an express to London to enquire the meaning of a note he had received which was intended to announce her return home: they passed the man on the road, and consequently the housekeeper was taken by surprise; how angry she was at the blunder!"

"Well but, Edward, what is the subjects of your present billet-doux, or is it a secret that you are answering in such a hurry?"

"It is only to invite me to the castle to-night, to make up their card-table, which I have refused," said he, as he gave his note to the servant and seated himself again.

"Ah, how glad I am," cried his sister, "such a night, to ask you out, though only across the park! The Miss Watson's company affords a sufficient apology even to Lady Osborne, I should think."

"It is a sufficient one to myself," said Mr. Howard, "Lady Osborne may be unable to calculate accurately what I gain by the refusal—but I know that I secure a pleasant party, and escape a dreadful walk, to say nothing of the tedium of the card-table itself; you see how deeply I am indebted to your presence, Miss Watson, which serves me as an excuse on this occasion."

"We always hear virtue is its own reward," said Emma, "and your hospitality to us is now repaid in kind; as you would not allow us to encounter the snow, it would have been unjust that you should be exposed to it yourself."

"Well, Edward, I must say, I should be glad if you had a living in some other part of the country—for you must know," turning to Elizabeth, "that the inhabitants of the castle are almost too near to be pleasant. We are under obligations which neither party can forget, and Edward is compelled to sacrifice a great deal of time, and suffer much occasional inconvenience from the whims of the great lady, which would be all obviated if our residence were fifty miles off. You have no idea how exacting she is; and if my brother were not one of the best-tempered men in the world we never could go on as well as we do."

Here was food for wonder to Elizabeth; after all then the Osbornes though noble were not perfect; and the Howards, with their nice house, comfortable income, and high connections had, like other people, their own peculiar grievances, and cherished those hopes of improving their lot, by some anticipated change, which form the principal charm of life to half the world.

"I owe much to Lady Osborne for kindness both of deed and of intention," said Mr. Howard seriously; "and I should be sorry either by word or act, to fail in the respect which is her due. She always means kindly at least."

"It is quite right of you, Edward, to be careful how you express your opinion, but neither gallantry nor gratitude have the same claim on me. She always means kindly to herself, I dare say, and thinks she means so to us—but she is no judge of our comfort, and fancies because our rank is different, we have a different set of feelings likewise—"

"For shame, Clara," interrupted her brother, "you forget what you are saying, and the best thing for you is, that we should forget it too."

"No indeed," replied she smiling; "must she not suppose you endowed with an extraordinary indifference to cold, and a super-human energy of frame to be pleased at encountering such a storm as this? hark to the wind!"

"Well, I am convinced, that were we removed from the vicinity of the Castle, as you so much desire, Clara, we should suffer as much inconvenience from the loss of many comforts which they afford us now; and you would admit then, that the good and evil were more equally balanced than you are at present disposed to allow."

"We might not have quite so much game, Edward; Miss Osborne would not give me flowers, and we should not go to assemblies in their coach; but on the other hand, I should not be so plagued by our best maid marrying their groom, as Lucy is going to do next month, because the Osborne Arms will then be vacant; nor would the laundress tell me when I complained of her clear-starching, that she had always helped in my lady's laundry, and the housekeeper had been perfectly satisfied with her."

"But pray tell me," said Emma, "is there any reason for her ladyship's curiously illegible hand, has she lost any of her fingers, or did she never learn to write?"

"I assure you she would be surprised at your not admiring her writing," said Mrs. Willis; "she piques herself on its peculiar and aristocratic beauty."

"I am sure," said Elizabeth, "I have often been punished for writing which was much better than that; the writing master at school would have groaned at such a prodigious waste of paper and ink."

"Nevertheless, it thoroughly attains the object at which she aims, to be unique," said Mr. Howard, "and I am sure she would be much surprised at hearing it was illegible; but she thinks a fair, flowing hand, in an Italian character, much more a round, distinct, and clear one, only fit for tradesmen's accounts or clergymen's sermons."

"She has the same taste in everything," said his sister; "that frightful little dog she is so fond of petting, and half the ornaments in the drawing-room have no value but in their singularity."

"And do her family inherit her tastes?" enquired Emma, "does her son, for instance, prefer the wonderful to the beautiful?"

Mr. Howard gave Emma an enquiring glance, which seemed intended to question the motive of her curiosity; then answered rather gravely, that Lord Osborne's tastes and opinions were as yet unformed.

"But he is not insensible to the power of some kind of beauty," cried Elizabeth, looking archly at her sister; "from what I have lately heard of him, I am certain he is not."

Why the subject of Lord Osborne's tastes should be disagreeable to Mr. Howard, Emma could not precisely comprehend, though she pondered long on the matter, but this short discussion was evidently followed by a certain coldness and restraint in his manner of addressing her, which puzzled and rather vexed her. It was not, however, shaken off during the rest of the evening, and the unpleasant sensation it produced, was only mitigated by his being persuaded to read aloud to them, and in this manner the rest of the evening was spent.

The weather the next morning did not offer any prospect of a release to the young ladies, and to say the truth they evidently bore the involuntary absence from home without suffering very acutely, if either their air of complacency or their lively conversation might be considered indicative of their feelings. Breakfast passed pleasantly away, and the ladies were quietly sitting together afterwards, when the door opened and Lord Osborne's head appeared.

"May I come in?" said he, standing with the door in his hand. "You look very comfortable."

"You will not disturb us, my lord," said Mrs. Willis gently but good-humouredly, "provided you have no dog with you."

"That's nice," said he; "you can't think how pleasant it is after the cold air;" then seating himself and holding out his feet to dry before the fire, he said to Emma, "I heard you were snowed up here last night."

"Yes; my mother would know who it was with Howard, and so I learnt, and I am to give you my sister's compliments, or love or something of the sort, and as soon as the road is swept she will come and see you."

Emma was rather embarrassed at this declaration; she did not wish for Miss Osborne's notice, and felt uncomfortably averse to her patronage; yet the declaration seemed to excite so little surprise or emotion of any kind on the part of her new friend that she began to think it might be a more common-place matter than she had anticipated. The feelings of the sisters were not at all alike, though the result was the same in each; they both shrank from any intercourse with Miss Osborne; Elizabeth because she feared their inferior style of living would shock and disgust her, or perhaps excite her ridicule; Emma because she apprehended the superiority of her birth and fortune would lead the peer's daughter to expect a degree of complaisance and submission which Emma herself would only pay to superior talents or virtue; but when she saw the quiet ease with which Lord Osborne was received, and the indifference with which the announcement of his sister's intentions was listened to, she became better reconciled to her lot, and prepared to go through her share of the introduction with calmness.

After all, Miss Osborne, though a baron's daughter and living in a castle, might have the tastes which are to be found amongst the dwellers in parsonages—though she travelled in a coach and four, she might love variety and novelty as much as the driver of the humblest one-horse chaise, and the prospect of forming a new acquaintance might have many charms for her on a snowy day when her time would probably hang heavy on her hands.

"It's not such bad walking either as you would think," said Lord Osborne to nobody, and in answer to nothing; "and the walk down here is screened from the wind; but you would be surprised to see how the snow has drifted in places: it will be impossible for you to get through the lanes to-day Miss Watson."

"We do not intend that they should attempt it," said their hostess, "until we have ascertained that the roads are perfectly practicable, it would be inhuman to turn them out."

A short silence ensued. Lord Osborne sat by the fire looking at Emma, who proceeded steadily with her work; presently Mrs. Willis commenced, or rather resumed a conversation with Elizabeth, for the entrance of his lordship had interrupted it, on the best methods of rearing domestic poultry.

Gradually as Miss Watson became hardened to the consciousness of being listened to by Lord Osborne, her faculties returned; and though at his first entrance she could not have told how young chickens should be fed, before the expiration of half an hour she was equal to imparting to her companion the deepest mysteries of the poultry yard.

Whilst they were thus sitting, quiet and composed, Charles Willis suddenly rushed into the room and took up his station close to Emma's work-table.

"Why, Charles," said Lord Osborne, "don't you see me—aren't you going to speak to me this morning," and he laid a firm grasp, as he spoke, on Charles's coat collar, and drew the boy towards himself.

"I beg your pardon, my lord, I really did not see you," replied Charles, twisting his person in the vain hope of eluding his lordship's grasp, and keeping his place.

"I say, Charles," continued the young man, "how comes it lessons are over so early this morning—a holiday—hey—or uncle lazy—I thought you never finished till noon?"

"Oh no, we have been very industrious," Charles answered; "we both worked as hard as we could to get lessons over because we wanted to come early into the drawing-room as the Miss Watsons were here."

"But you don't mean to say you like the Miss Watsons better than Latin grammar—or Greek verbs—that's impossible altogether."

"I! oh no; but then I learnt all mine long ago; and since I survived the flogging, I dare say it did me no harm. But now tell me," added he, in a whisper, quite distinct enough for every one in the room to hear, "was it you or your uncle who was in the greatest hurry: or does not he like the Miss Watsons as well as you, Charles."

"Oh, I assure you, he was quite as anxious as myself—and I think he likes Miss Emma as much as I do," whispered Charles in reply.

Whether the deep colour in Emma's cheek, at that moment, was occasioned by this answer of Charles, or by vexation at an obstinate knot in her thread, which she vainly endeavoured to disentangle, was not exactly obvious to Lord Osborne's perceptions. He thought the effect, however, so very becoming as to regard her with great admiration, and his looks were intently fixed on her, when Mr. Howard entered the room.

The eager step and open, happy look with which he was advancing, seemed to meet an unexpected shock at the sight of his young pupil. His air was embarrassed as he paid him his compliments, and after standing for a moment, as if in hesitation, he drew a chair near Miss Watson and his sister, on the opposite side of the table to the others.

A pause of some minutes ensued: it appeared that Lord Osborne found sufficient, amusement in contemplating the varying colour in Emma's cheeks, whilst Mr. Howard was occupied in playing with a pencil he took from the table, and did not raise his eyes at all.

"It is not like your lordship's usual aversion to cold," said he, at length, "to venture out on foot in such a morning. I thought nothing could have tempted you to such an exertion."

"One changes sometimes," replied Lord Osborne, "and one can do anything with a sufficient motive—I mean to turn over a new leaf, as my nursery maids used to say—and you will hardly know me again."

Another silence, during which his lordship crossed and uncrossed his legs repeatedly—then took up the poker and stirred the fire. Emma heartily wished him back at the castle: his looks fixed on her were very unpleasant; and she hoped that his departure would release Mr. Howard from the spell which appeared to overpower him, and restore his ordinary animation.

She had, however, long to wait for this desirable result; it was evident that the drawing-room at the parsonage presented more charms to the young peer, than the castle halls, and he continued to sit in silent admiration of Emma's blushes long after Mr. Howard had risen in despair, and left the room.

The sound of the door bell about noon, brought some prospect of a change; eliciting from Mrs. Willis an exclamation of wonder, and from Lord Osborne an interjection—

He was right. Wrapt in a furred mantle which might almost have defied the cold of a Siberian winter, Miss Osborne made her entry, on purpose to call on Miss Emma Watson, as she declared immediately. Emma observed her with some curiosity. She was a small, young woman, with lively manners, a quick, dark eye, and good humoured expression. Quite pretty enough, considering her birth, to be called beautiful, though had she been without the advantages of rank, fashion and dress—had she, in fact, been a Miss Watson, and not a Miss Osborne, she would not, probably, have been noticed a second time. She was extremely courteous and agreeable in her manners, chatting with volubility and animation, as if it was a relief to her to escape from the state apartments of her mother's house, to the unrestrained warmth and good-nature of the parsonage.

"Where's your brother to-day, Mrs. Willis," said she presently, "has he run away from me; does he fancy we are charged with lectures for his desertion of our drawing-room last night. He need not be afraid. I think he was very excusable."

"He was here just now. I do not think his conscience seems very uneasy—he is probably engaged in some business at present—I will let him know you are here."

"Oh no, pray don't disturb him; I have too much regard for his credit, and the good of his parishioners. What should I say if my intrusion broke in on an argument, or put to flight a beautiful figure of speech. How could I answer for such mischief. Let him write his sermon in peace."

Mrs. Willis assented. Probably Miss Osborne did not expect she would, for she presently added:

"I don't know, however, but that on the whole you had better summon him, because then he can give us his opinion on the proposal that I am charged to make, being nothing less than that you should all come and dine at the Castle this evening."

It would not be easy for words to convey an accurate idea of the look and feelings of Elizabeth Watson on hearing this proposal. To say she was astonished, is to tell but a small part of her sensations. The idea that she should have lived to see the day which brought about such an invitation was so perfectly overwhelming, that she seemed to herself until that moment never to have been surprised before. But to accept it was impossible: she felt an instantaneous conviction that it must be refused; for besides not knowing how to conduct herself under such circumstances, she had no dress to go in. Their visit to the parsonage having been entirely unpremeditated, it followed, of course, that there had been no preparations made; their best dresses, inferior as they were to what the visitors at Osborne Castle might be expected to produce, were reposing in quietness in Elizabeth's wardrobe.

Miss Osborne's proposal was followed by a short, hesitating silence amongst those to whom it was addressed.

"Perhaps," cried she perceiving this, "you will like a moment's consideration. I do not wish to hurry for an answer. Pray deliberate on the case, Mrs. Willis, but if you can, persuade your friends to conclude their deliberations in our favour."

"I am afraid," said Elizabeth, urged by the desperate nature of her feelings to some immediate exertion, "I am afraid we cannot have the pleasure—do ourselves the honor I believe I ought to say—but indeed we were not prepared—we have no dress at all suitable for the occasion"—she stopped, afraid that she might have done wrong in exposing the real state of the case.

Miss Osborne looked surprised, as if the idea of not possessing a sufficient stock of gowns had never before entered her head.

"I am sorry there should be any difficulty," she cried, "gowns that are good enough for Mrs. Willis and Mr. Howard, must surely be good enough for us. We shall not make the smallest objection to your coming as you are. You will be conferring on us a most important favour. You cannot imagine how miserably dull we find ourselves in this weather. Mama dozes over a fire-screen, and Miss Carr and I sit and look at each other, and long for a change of scene. Snow is always detestable, but at Osborne Castle it surpasses everything for deadening the faculties and damping the spirits. Come now, do think favourably of my request, how shall I dare to face Lady Osborne with a second refusal?"

"I hope her ladyship was not vexed at my brother's refusal last night?" said Mrs. Willis, with a little anxiety.

"I will not say she was not disappointed," replied Miss Osborne gaily, "we are so dreadfully dull and melancholy; but he has my full and entire forgiveness for his defalcation, on condition that he comes to-night to repair his errors, and brings you all with him."

Meantime Lord Osborne had edged his chair closer to Emma, and was in low tones pressing on her the request his sister had just made.

"Do come, you look too good-natured to say no—I am sure you must be monstrously obliging."—Emma shook her head and tried not to smile.—"And as to what your sister says about dress, that's nonsense; that is, I don't mean she talks nonsense, but it's foolish to care about dress—you look very nice—you always do—and we don't the least mind about your gown. My mother and sister have such loads of fine clothes themselves, that depend upon it they will not care the least for seeing any more."

Emma thought this extremely probable, but yet it did not seem quite applicable to their case. How, indeed, could any young lady be expected to derive consolation from the idea that her personal appearance could be a matter of total indifference to her companions. It was evident to Miss Osborne, that the ladies wished to discuss this question amongst themselves; she therefore dropped the subject, and after chatting good-naturedly on some indifferent topics, took her leave, with an assurance that if they decided in favour of the Castle, a carriage should be sent down to fetch them. She persuaded her brother to return with her, which was a particular relief to Emma, who had grown quite tired of his eyes.

Hardly was the house door closed on them, when Elizabeth drawing a long breath, exclaimed:

"Oh dear, Mrs. Willis, do tell me what we had better do, I am sure I would much rather refuse if we can, but then perhaps it would not be thought right—and I must say if I were not so frightened I should rather like to see the inside of the Castle, and how people go on there."

"I do not think you need be much alarmed," replied Mrs. Willis smiling good-humouredly, "you will survive it I dare say, if you make up your mind to go. Lady Osborne is rather stiff certainly, but though she does nothing to make herself agreeable, she is not unpleasant—not more so than a handsome piece of furniture—a picture, or anything of that sort. And I really think you would be more amused there than in our little drawing-room."

"They are aware of the circumstances under which you came, and therefore must know you to be unprepared. I do not, therefore, think that need be an insurmountable objection. Your own inclination must decide it."

At this moment Mr. Howard re-entered the room. His sister immediately began to relate to him the fact of the visit and the invitation; but he cut her short by saying that he knew it; he had met Miss Osborne and her brother as they were leaving the house, and accompanied her part of the way home. His eyes were turned on Emma as he spoke, and an idea which suddenly occurred to her relative to his acquaintance with the young lady, caused her a sensation that brought the blood to her cheeks. Why she should color and feel warm at the notion that he had any particular regard for Miss Osborne, she could not exactly decide. It certainly could not concern her in the least if he had, and she would have been very glad to have kept her looks and feelings under better regulation, she was so very much afraid that he would guess her thought. This was an alarm entirely without foundation, as far from rightly guessing what was passing in her mind, Mr. Howard's fancy went off in a totally different direction. He attributed her blushes to some sentiment connected with the brother, not the sister, and supposed her to be pleased with the consciousness of these attentions being meant for her. For his own part he felt considerable surprise that Miss Osborne should so directly and decidedly countenance her brother's admiration. He had expected more pride from her.—Could he have heard the conversation that passed on the subject at Osborne Castle, he would have better understood the hidden machinery on which these matters turned.

"What makes you so anxious to cultivate an intimacy with those Watson girls," said Miss Carr to her friend, when she heard her announce an intention of calling on them.

"I like the looks of Emma particularly," replied the young lady addressed; "there is expression in her countenance, an air and manner in her motions which I admire."

"And do you run after all the girls who have a little manner or expression, Rosa?" enquired her friend again, with something of superciliousness in her tone.

"I don't like those who have not, Fanny—but there is more than this in my plan—I think Mr. Howard likes her."

"Well, and what does that signify to you? what have you to do with Mr. Howard's liking?" this question was accompanied with a sharp, interrogative look from Miss Carr, as if she strongly suspected her friend's motive.

"Oh, pray throw it away then and explain it once. I am dying of curiosity to understand the motive of your manœuvres."

"I will tell you nothing whilst you look so much as if you think you understand all—your quizzical look provokes me to silence."

"And if you will not tell me, Rosa, I will just tell you what I think; listen—you think Mr. Howard admires Emma Watson—and you cultivate her acquaintance for the sake of thwarting their attachment. Is that worthy of you."

"Worthy indeed," cried Miss Osborne, throwing back her head with an air of disdain. "I might justly retort your question—upon my word, I am highly flattered by your gracious opinion of me. No, if I do stoop to manœuvre, it is not to dishonor our house, or to promote alliances unworthy of it. Now I will tell you my real motive—though positively even to you, I am half-ashamed of mentioning it. My mother—have you not observed—she is so very partial to—"

"No, no, to Mr. Howard," replied the blushing daughter, in a low tone; "and I would give the world to see him married and out of her way."

"Very well—very reasonable," said Miss Carr, coolly, twisting her fingers through her long ringlets. "But how does your patronising this Emma promise any particular progress to Mr. Howard's passion? In my opinion, you had much better let them alone."

"I don't think so," replied Miss Osborne, decisively; "the Watsons have always been considered as very low in rank amongst visitable people. The few we know ourselves decidedly hold them cheaply—and I think it possible that, accustomed to superior society, Mr. Howard might hesitate a moment before throwing himself amongst a set so decidedly inferior to those with whom he is used to mix."

"He does not seem to feel any such nicety, since his admiration has begun, and will, no doubt, prosper without your intervention. I still repeat, you had better let them alone."

"But I have a great regard for Mr. Howard, and should like to be on good terms with his wife."

"You need not slight her—be civil if you like—but why seek her out unnecessarily?"

"Because I foresee that his marriage, whenever it takes place, will cause a fracas, and I should wish them both to feel they have a friend in me."

"Well, it is an affair that concerns you no doubt, much more nearly than me, and I cannot presume to dictate. But I think all manœuvring dangerous."

"Besides," continued Miss Osborne, changing the ground of her reasoning, "Emma Watson, in herself seems a nice conversable girl, and, I assure you, at Osborne Castle, when there is no party in the house, such an acquisition is not to be despised."

"Why, Rosa, you never spoke a word to her—how can you tell that she is conversable."

"Not from my own observation of course; but I can form some judgment from what Mrs. Willis and her brother have told us—"

"And your brother, too," said Miss Carr, with some emphasis; "he seems to be taking some trouble to make her acquaintance."

"Who, Osborne? yes, he admires her, I believe; but his is a very passive sort of admiration, not in the least likely to lead to any vehement results."

"Well, I can admit your being sometimes lonely as a motive for wishing for a country friend; but, if I do not think you make the selection with your usual judgment, you must forgive me."

"I cannot imagine why you entertain such a prejudice against poor Emma Watson, Fanny; you cannot, surely, be jealous of her—are you in love with Mr. Howard—come—confess!"

The result of this conversation was that visit and invitation already related. Lady Osborne made no objection to her daughter's proposal. Her card-table would be then certain to be filled, and Mr. Howard would have no excuse for absenting himself. Her pride did not stand in the way on this occasion—she considered every individual not belonging to the peerage to be so much beneath her, that the gradations amongst themselves were invisible to her exalted sight; and a step or two, more or less, made no difference. She had not, therefore, the smallest inclination to oppose the admission of new spectators to her glory—and rather rejoiced in the idea of the envy and admiration to which her jewels, her equipages, and her general style of grandeur would give rise.

With these amiable motives, she allowed her daughter to do as she liked, and the only one who seemed at all discomposed by the circumstance, was Miss Carr, whose remonstrances, however, proved quite ineffectual.

To return to the party at the parsonage, whom we left discussing the point, Elizabeth suddenly turned to her sister and exclaimed,

"By the bye Emma, you have given no opinion on the subject—yet you are as much interested as the rest of us. What do you think of going—should you like it?"

"Yes, I think I should," replied Emma honestly and boldly. "I like what I have seen of Miss Osborne better than I expected, and really have rather a curiosity to see the inside of the Castle."

"Ah, Emma, I am glad you have come down from your proud indifference, and condescended to be curious like the rest of us," cried her sister.

"I suspected it. For my part I have no scruple in owning my wishes, and should like extremely to surprise Tom Musgrove by my acquaintance with the manners, amusements and ideas prevalent in Osborne Castle, of which he talks so much."

"Then I may conclude it a settled affair," observed Mrs. Willis; "and Charles shall run up to the Castle with the note immediately. That shall be his share of the amusement."

At six o'clock the party started from the Parsonage. Elizabeth in a flutter between curiosity and fear, which made her pleasure in the undertaking rather doubtful to herself. Emma would have thought more about it had she not been engrossed with meditations on the change in Mr. Howard's manners, which rather perplexed her. He had been different all the afternoon from what he had appeared in the morning; his prolonged absence from their company seemed unaccordant with Charles's declaration of his haste to join them, and there was a coldness in his tone when he addressed her, quite at variance with his former warmth and frankness. This pained her; she was constantly fancying that she had done or said something to lessen herself in his esteem, but she could not imagine what it was. Occupied with these thoughts she scarcely noticed the grandeur of the Hall, the magnificent staircase, the elegance of the ante-rooms as they approached, and was only roused from her reverie by the overpowering blaze of light in the drawing-room. Lady Osborne was alone in the room, seated on a sofa from which she did not rise to receive them, but graciously extended her thin and richly jewelled hand to Mrs. Willis, and bowed courteously to her companions.

Overawed by her near approach to such magnificence, Elizabeth drew back rather hastily, and after nearly upsetting Emma by inadvertently treading on her toe, she dropped into the chair which seemed most out of sight, and endeavoured to recover her breath and composure.

Lady Osborne desired the other ladies to find seats, and then observing that Mr. Howard likewise drew back, and seemed to meditate a retreat to one of the windows, she dropped the elegant screen she had been holding in her hand. It was not well managed, however; Mrs. Willis was so near that she restored her ladyship's screen before her brother had time to interfere. But Lady Osborne was not to be baffled, she addressed a few civil words to Mrs. Willis, and then suddenly observed,

"You have no footstool Mrs. Willis, take mine—I daresay Mr. Howard will bring me another."

Thus appealed to the gentleman was forced to approach, and immediately with eager civility was offered a seat on the sofa by herself.

Emma meantime was contemplating their hostess with some interest, and more wonder. Lady Osborne had been a celebrated beauty, and her dress showed that she had by no means given up all pretensions to her former claims. Jewels and flowers were mingled in her hair which was still remarkably abundant; her neck and shoulders were a good deal uncovered, her arms and hands were heavily hung with ornaments, and she smoothed down her rich dress with a hand which though thin was still white and delicate-looking. There was something in her manner to Mr. Howard which particularly struck Emma—a sort of consciousness and wish to attract and engage him, that seemed very much at variance with her age and station. Not that she was an old woman—Emma had learned from "The Peerage" that she was not more than forty-five, and she looked less. But she was the mother of a grown-up son and daughter, and the widow of a peer; and a grave and gentle deportment, stately but serene, would have seemed more becoming in Emma's eyes, and given her a higher idea of her character. She had not however very long to make these observations as Miss Osborne's entrance gave her another subject for her thoughts. This young lady presented a remarkable contrast to her mother, from the studied plainness of her dress. She was entirely without ornament, except some beautiful flowers, and had evidently sought in her toilette to assimilate her appearance as nearly as was suitable to what she knew her guests must present. She took a seat between the two strangers, and entered readily into conversation with Emma; but before many sentences had been exchanged, their party was completed by the appearance of Miss Carr at one door, as the young master of the house entered at another.

He paid his compliments to them all by a short bow, and a muttered, "Glad to see you," then walked towards his mother's sofa, and stationed himself by the end of it, nearest Emma, where leaning against the elbow, he could resume his apparently favorite amusement of staring at her face. Miss Carr, meanwhile, had approached the fender, and stood fluttering over the fire for some minutes, then advancing nearer to Lady Osborne, addressed to her some trifling question, which diverted her attention from Mr. Howard, to his evident relief. He immediately rose, and resigned his seat in her favor. Lady Osborne looked displeased, but to that Miss Carr was indifferent, she had secured a position at Lord Osborne's elbow, which was her own object, and broken short her lady hostess's attempts at flirtation with the clergyman which she knew would please her friend.

Her position, however advantageous, was not long tenable: the summons to dinner was given before she had time to utter more than one remark to Lord Osborne, cutting off his answer, which, short as he usually made his replies, there was now no opportunity to utter. Lady Osborne rose in great state, and giving her hand to Mr. Howard, proceeded to the dining room, through a long range of ante-rooms, where large glasses were so arranged as to exhibit before her, her stately figure, and glance back the lustre of her diamond ornaments. As Elizabeth and Emma followed Miss Osborne and her friend, they could not help wondering at the self-admiration which made it agreeable thus to see nothing but self.

"How dingy we look compared to her ladyship and Miss Carr," whispered Elizabeth to her sister. "I really feel quite ashamed of myself."

"I trust I shall be a little sheltered from her son's eyes," rejoined Emma, in a similar tone, "his stare is quite overpowering; why does he not, sometimes, look at you."

"Thank you, I do not wish it—gracious—six footmen—what can they all find to do in waiting," this ejaculation was uttered almost inaudibly—they having reached the dining-room, where Elizabeth was too much awed to speak.

Lady Osborne did not sit at the head of her own table, and her two young visitors were seated on either hand of Miss Osborne on the opposite side of her ladyship. Immediately that she perceived how they were about to be arranged, Emma contrived to seat herself as far as possible from their host, and by that means became the neighbour of Mr. Howard. She fancied he perceived the object of her manœuvres, for a sort of half smile passed over his face, and he looked either amused or pleased, she could not tell which. He did not address her, however, and as Miss Osborne turned to converse with Elizabeth she sat for some time silent. But as dinner advanced, just as her ladyship was detailing to Mrs. Willis some events in the village which required superintendence, and whilst Miss Carr was making a lively attack on Lord Osborne—about his absence of mind during the dinner, Mr. Howard enquired whether her curiosity was gratified. Pleasure that he should once more resume a tone of friendship, brought a lively colour to her cheeks, and so sweet a smile to her lips, that he must have been very insensible to admiration of beauty, had he been able to resist the attraction. He continued the conversation as long as Lady Osborne's narrative served as a screen to them, and though, when that drew to a close, he found himself compelled to transfer his attention to their hostess, the impressions left by his look and tone were so very pleasing, as quite to rescue the dinner from a charge of stupidity which Emma had previously been meditating to bring against it. It was lucky that she had this little diversion, for otherwise her share of amusement would have been small. There was not a great deal said at dinner, and of that little comparatively a small portion fell to her lot.

It was over however at last, and when they had reached the drawing-room to which they were ushered, in almost as much form as they left it, though their conductor was now only the groom of the chambers, Emma hoped she might find some little relief from insipidity: nor was she disappointed; whilst Lady Osborne was sipping coffee, and prosing to Mrs. Willis, her daughter drew her younger guests into a smaller room, which she assured them was her own particular domain; here establishing themselves comfortably round the ample fire, they fell into a lively and pleasant chat, such as any three girls might be expected to do; presently they were joined by Miss Carr.

"Your lady-mother," said she, "is so deep in village politics with Mrs. Willis, that I am sure I must be de trop there, and I have, therefore, absconded here."

She seated herself as she spoke in the chimney corner on a low ottoman, and spreading out her hands to the fire; she said—

"Don't let me stop you unless you were talking of me, Miss Emma Watson, it is your turn—what do you think?"

"Think of what?" enquired Emma, rather startled by the keen eyes fixed on her—it seemed always her fate to be stared at unmercifully.

"Think, oh, of anything—of Mr. Howard for instance—what do you think of him?"

"Well, that is something—a good quality in the master of a house; I commend it seriously to your attention."

"I should think the gentlemen would not sit very long," observed Miss Osborne, "and when they come we must all adjourn to the drawing-room, for mama will wish to sit down to cards. I hope you can play cards."

"And you, Miss Emma Watson," cried Miss Carr, "do you not delight in cards—you answer with a degree of coldness that speaks rather of indifference on the subject."

"I can play if necessary," replied Emma, "but there are many occupations I prefer."

"But you shall not be obliged to make martyrs of yourselves," said Miss Osborne good-humouredly. "If you prefer it you shall sit here, either or both of you, but we do not play high."

Nothing remarkable occurred during the rest of the evening; a dull, leaden state seemed to pervade everything, and both the Miss Watsons felt an inclination to yawn, which they dared not indulge in so august a presence. They were very glad when the time for taking leave arrived, and the enlivening bustle of putting on cloaks and fur boots quite aroused them. Lord Osborne looked on whilst Mr. Howard was wrapping up Emma, with a degree of attention which held out fair hopes of his soon learning such a lesson by heart.

"It seems warmer to-night," observed Emma, "don't you think we are going to have a thaw? perhaps we may get home to-morrow."

"I hope you are not weary of us," said Mr. Howard, in a cordial voice; "if the weather does not change till we wish it, we shall keep you prisoner some days yet."

"Thank you," said she—she wanted to say something more but did not know exactly what, and they reached the carriage before she had made up her mind.

The bright fire which was burning in the comfortable little drawing room at the parsonage, irresistably invited them to enter and draw round it, before separating for the night. Their drive had dispelled their sleepiness, and they were all four in good spirits: it was just the time, the situation, when reserve seems naturally cast aside, and friendly chat and the merry laugh go round unrestrained.

"Well, Miss Watson," said Mrs. Willis, "is your curiosity gratified? how do you like the Castle? are you envious of their state?"

"No, I think not," answered Elizabeth reflectingly, "there are some things I should like, but much that would be troublesome. I dare say Lady Osborne has no worry about housekeeping, but then I should feel the responsibility of having so many dependent on me."

"And what part would you chose of her ladyship's manner of living?" asked Mr. Howard, "her jewels perhaps—or her six footmen?"

"Neither," replied Elizabeth, laughing a little; "I am used to wait on myself, and should feel it a great restraint to be obliged to wait whilst others waited on me. I could not help thinking of what my father used to say, when Lady Osborne's maid was so long bringing her ladyship a shawl. 'If you want to be served, send—if you want to be well served, go.' That was his motto—and though he never acted on it himself, I think I do—and would rather run up three pair of stairs myself, than wait whilst another does it."

"I admire the activity and independence of your spirit, Miss Watson," replied Mr. Howard; "but you have not yet told me what it is you do envy."

"No, and I do not mean to do it," replied she; "be satisfied with your own conjectures."

"I must if you will say no more. And you, Miss Emma, how were you pleased with your evening?"

"Very much—I have come back much wiser than I went; I have made up my mind that the more elevated the situation the less pleasant it would be unless one had been brought up to it."

"Then you would not change places with Lady Osborne?" said he, fixing a pair of very penetrating eyes on her. As she had noticed Lord Osborne's looks without the remotest idea of his meaning anything but to put her out of countenance, and formed no airy speculations as to the possibility of succeeding to the dominion at the Castle, she attached no peculiar meaning to his question.

"I think the supposition hardly a reasonable one," was her answer; "could you suppose I should wish to exchange with a woman old enough to be my mother—give up five and twenty years of life to be a wealthy middle-aged dowager in claret-coloured satin and diamonds."

"Remember," continued Emma as if retracting, "I mean no disparagement to your friend, who I have no doubt may be a very excellent and amiable woman, but I was speaking merely as she appeared to me to-day."

"There have been young Lady Osbornes," said he almost in a whisper, and as if rather doubtful whether or not to speak the words.

"I suppose so," replied Emma coolly, without the smallest embarrassment, but with a slight shade of reserve in her manner. She never allowed jesting on the topic of matrimony. He saw it immediately.

"Then what do you think you require to make you happy?" said he, to escape from the other subject.

"A very comprehensive question—I should like to know whether you expect a serious answer," replied she gaily.

"To be with those I love, and have money in my purse—I think that is sufficient: no—I think I should like a house too—"

"But preserve me from the slavery of living en grande dame; I was not brought up to it—and nothing but habit could make such bonds sit light and gracefully."

He looked at her with unmistakable admiration; she could not meet his eye, but coloured and fixed hers on the fender. In spite of her embarrassment, however, she felt a real pleasure in the friendly tone he had assumed, and hoped sincerely that the morning would not see him cold and formal again.

"Emma," said Elizabeth after they had retired for the night, "I am certain that Lord Osborne admires you very much."

"That I wish he would find some pleasanter way of testifying his admiration," said Emma. "I do not know whether he is the only man who ever admired me, but he is certainly the only one who ever looked at me so much."

"Oh, we must not expect everything arranged just to our taste," replied Elizabeth; "and whilst you enjoy so much of his attention, you must not complain if he is not the most sprightly of admirers—the honour itself should suffice you. His rank is higher, if his wit is not brighter than Mr. Howard's."

"To mention them in the same breath!" cried Emma; "they are the antipodes of each other—as different in sense as in rank—what a pity their position cannot be reversed!"

"Oh, then your objection to being Lady Osborne is not after all to the rank but the man," cried Elizabeth, "and you are less philosophic than you pretended to be. But if Mr. Howard had been a peer, perhaps you would never have known him."

"Very likely not," said Emma calmly, "but I do not see what that has to do with it."

"Now don't pretend to be so very innocent and simple-minded, Emma; you know, as well as I do, that the two men are both in love with you, and you, ambitious monkey, not content with things as they are, and choosing between worth and rank, wish to have every advantage combined in one, for your own special acceptance."

"I deny the accusation stoutly; it is you who are unreasonable, whilst I am talking in the most matter-of-fact way imaginable."

"I wonder what Tom Musgrove will say when he hears we have dined at the Castle?"

"Some nonsense I dare say," replied Emma; "I believe his boastings were at the bottom of your curiosity to go there; you wished to surprise him."

"Yes I think I did—but was it like what you expected? it was all so grand and formal that I felt quite uncomfortable. I am glad to have been, and still more glad that I have come away."

"It was not the first time I have been in a large house," said Emma, "and I was not surprised at anything I saw; except that Lady Osborne should take the trouble of wearing so many jewels, and dress in so very juvenile a style."

"Were you not jealous, Emma? Did you not notice how she flirted with Mr. Howard?"

"Nay, indeed it is only truth—I think he had much better marry her. I dare say she has a good jointure, and she may not be very disagreeable to him perhaps! what would you say to that?"

"That he must be a very different Mr. Howard from what I fancy him, if he can be induced to marry for the sake of a jointure," replied Emma firmly.

"I rather think he must be," continued her sister, "he looked so much pleased at her calling him to the sofa. Or I will tell you another idea that struck me, perhaps he is attached to Miss Osborne, and pays his court to her mother to gain her good word."

"My dear Elizabeth," cried Emma rather impatiently, "you have within the last five minutes, concluded Mr. Howard in love with three different people. Some of your conjectures cannot be right, but they may all be wrong—pray leave off guessing, since you cannot arrive at any conclusion."

"Better than Miss Carr," continued Miss Watson, "I have a little fear of Miss Carr; but, Emma, I wonder how my father and Margaret get on, I am afraid he will find it very dull; she does not like backgammon or reading out loud—and this snow will prevent his getting the newspaper, or seeing any one to amuse him."

"Yes, I am afraid so," sighed Emma, "it is very pleasant here, but I wish we were home again."

"I wish home were like this," continued Miss Watson, "as airy and cheerful, and elegant-looking—what a nice room this is—we have not such a room in our house—and I am sure our furniture never looks so well, take what care I can of it. You had better take this for your own room when you are Mrs. Howard."

"I really wish you would not talk in that way, Elizabeth," remonstrated Emma, "it can do no good, and it will make me feel very uncomfortable."

Long after her sister was asleep, Emma herself was thinking over the events of the morning, and recalling to memory every tone and word and look of Mr. Howard. She weighed them all, and tried to comprehend the cause of the changes which seemed to her rather sudden. She could hardly suppose it a caprice—she did not think him guilty of that—but why vary so completely.

She wished to be liked by him; she was pleased with the society both of himself and his sister, and he feared if she did not approve of her manners, or disliked her conversation, his sister likewise would draw back from the friendship which seemed to have begun so prosperously, and she should lose the pleasantest acquaintance she had found since returning to her father's house.

The aspect of the next morning did not promise any additional facility for returning home; more snow had fallen during the night, and the cutting wind which had accompanied it assured them that the lanes would be still less practicable than before. Emma, assured by the parting words of Lord Osborne that she was doomed to see and be seen by him again, tried to compose her mind and features to bear the threatened inspection. Instead of a visit from him, however, noon brought down a little note from Miss Osborne, reminding her of a wish expressed the night before to see the picture-gallery at the Castle, and offering, if Mr. Howard would escort her up in time for luncheon, to go round with her afterwards.

"Do you think your brother could spare the time to accompany me?" said she to Mrs. Willis, after communicating to her the contents of the note. "I should be so much obliged if he would—because—" she added rather hesitating, "I do not like to go alone, lest I should encounter the young lord."

"I do not mind him much," replied Emma; "but I think I would rather not throw myself in his way: going alone would be almost like inviting his escort. Will you ask your brother?"

"I will go to him immediately—but I have no doubt of his acquiescence, and I can assure you in promising you Edward's company through the picture-gallery Miss Osborne is securing you a very great pleasure."

"It would I am afraid be encroaching too much on Mr. Howard's time," replied Emma, "to exact his attentions as a cicerone. Miss Osborne has promised to go round with me herself."

"Miss Osborne sometimes breaks her word," said Mrs. Willis coolly; "and as she has usually a good many engagements, perhaps you had better trust to my brother since you seem determined to shun hers."

"I should not expect much intellectual gratification from Lord Osborne's company, or his remarks on painting," replied Emma, almost laughing at the idea.

Mrs. Willis left the room, to speak to her brother. She found him of course in his study, from whence Charles had just been dismissed.

"No; what do you want, Clara?" looking up for a moment and then returning to his papers. "I was just coming to the parlour."

Mr. Howard turned round to look at his sister with an expression half pleased, half incredulous.

"Yes indeed, so you need not stare so; Miss Osborne has sent down to ask you to bring her to lunch at the Castle, and go through the picture-gallery afterwards—that is to say, she has promised to go through the gallery, but you must be sure to accompany them."

"Why do not you answer, Edward? There is nothing to prevent your going, is there?—and I am sure you cannot dislike it."

"She begged me to come and engage you as her escort, that she might avoid falling into the company of Lord Osborne, who she seemed to apprehend might be lying in wait for her. Elizabeth Watson does not care for paintings, and means to remain with me."

"It will give me the greatest pleasure," said Mr. Howard, starting up, and beginning to put away his books and papers. "Now, or at any time she will name, I am quite at her service. When does she wish to go?"

"Immediately, I should think, as they lunch at one—that is, as soon as she can get herself ready. I will go back and give her your message at once."

They were soon on their way. The air was bright and exhilarating—and it would have been very pleasant walking but for the ground being exceedingly slippery. It may be doubtful whether Mr. Howard thought this an evil, since it compelled his companion to lean on him for support, up the steep ascent which conducted them to the castle. Even with the assistance of his arm, she was obliged to pause and take breath, before they had accomplished more than half the ascent. From the point where they stood, they commanded a beautiful view—the parsonage and the church lying snugly at their feet, and the snow-clad country stretching out beyond, chequered with rich hanging woods of beech on the sides of the hills, and thick coppices of underwood down in the valley. Emma expressed her admiration with enthusiasm. Mr. Howard assured her that if she would move a short distance along a path to the left, she would enjoy a still more splendid panorama. The snow had been swept from off the gravel, and Emma could not resist the temptation, though it was diverging from their object. There was plenty of time,—since they need not be at the castle till one—and it was now little more than half past twelve. They turned into the path accordingly, and soon reached the spot he had mentioned: from this point they likewise had a peep at the castle, situated some way above them; and whilst they were standing there, Mr. Howard observed:

"There is Lord Osborne just coming out at the side door, near his own rooms—do you see him."

"Oh! then, pray let us stay here till he is gone past," said Emma, hastily. "I do not wish to meet him in the least."

Mr. Howard looked so excessively pleased that Emma deeply coloured, and was nearly thinking his eyes as troublesome as those of his former pupil.

It will easily be believed that he did not press the proposition to meet Lord Osborne,—on the contrary, he acquiesced with very good grace in her wish to remain concealed till all danger of encountering him was passed away. As soon as the winding of the path hid him entirely from sight, they proceeded upwards and reached the castle without further incident, having only consumed half an hour in a walk which might have been easily accomplished in a third of that time. Yet Emma did not find the walk tedious, and Mr. Howard never discovered the period it had occupied.

They were shewn to Miss Osborne's own sitting room, where they found her practising on the harp. Miss Carr was lounging amongst the soft pillows of a comfortable chair—from which she hardly raised herself to address the visitors. Her friend was extremely good-humoured and civil. She pressed Emma's hand affectionately—enquired tenderly after her health, and expressed herself excessively obliged by her coming.

"Luncheon is waiting," added she, "you will not see mama, she is never visible of a morning—but did you not meet my brother?"

"I am surprised," said Miss Carr, "for I know he set off on purpose to escort Miss Emma Watson up here. Which way did you come, to pass him?"

"It is easily accounted for," replied Emma, calmly, "Mr. Howard had taken me out of the direct road to shew me a good view of the castle—and Lord Osborne passed whilst we were looking at it."

"It is a pity you did not stop him," pursued Miss Carr, "he would not then have had his walk for nothing."

Emma made no answer. She did not think it necessary to inform Miss Carr that the honor of Lord Osborne's company was not a thing that she coveted.

When their luncheon was over, Miss Osborne renewed her offer of guiding Emma through the picture gallery—observing that they had better not lose time, as there was no light to spare in a winter's afternoon.

"But you must come too," continued she, addressing Mr. Howard. "I am sure you know more about the pictures than I do—and are much better worth listening to on that subject, at least."

"Your humility, Miss Osborne, is most commendable," said he, with a playful bow.

"Oh, yes, I am the humblest creature in the world—there are some things in which I believe you and a few others are wiser than myself—Greek and mathematics for instance."

"Oh, I dare say I know as much as half those who have passed through Eton—they learnt to forget—I forgot to learn—there is not much difference."

"Not as you state it, certainly; apparently, you hold the learning of your acquaintance rather cheaply."

"Well, perhaps I do—but, really, one seldom meets with very wise men in these days: one hears such prodigies have existed in former times—but, I dare say they were not at all like the generality of our gentlemen companions, and would be sadly at a loss to comprehend our amusements, could they re-appear on the scene."

"You know scholars are proverbially awkward, bashful and absent—and, unless you would tolerate all those capital crimes, you need not wish for them in your company."

"But I do not consider you particularly awkward nor intolerably bashful—and—what was the third crime you laid to the charge of scholars?"

"What intolerable affectation," cried Miss Osborne, "you want to be accused of absence of mind. But here we are at the gallery. Now, Miss Watson, make Mr. Howard tell you all about them."

The collection was really a very good one, and Emma was delighted. Miss Osborne looked at two or three, then sauntered about the room—looked out of the window—and, at length, returning to her companions, said:

"I have just recollected an engagement, for which I must leave you—I will be back as soon as I can; but don't hurry, and don't wait for me. You may be quite comfortable here, nobody will disturb you."

She then left them to another protracted tête-à-tête; a particularly pleasant circumstance to Mr. Howard, who found an increasing charm in Emma's conversation.

When tired of walking about and straining their eyes upwards, they sat down on a comfortable sofa in a recess, where they could at once enjoy the view of a beautiful landscape, and converse comfortably.

"You surely must have been used to look at good paintings," said Mr. Howard, "It is a taste that requires as much cultivation as any other art. You evidently know how to look at a picture, and how to appreciate its merit."

"There is no occasion that you should—you have an eye and a taste, which, lead your judgment right, and I can perceive that you are well acquainted with the styles as well as the names of great artists."

"I almost suspect you of quizzing me," replied Emma, blushing, "have I been saying or affecting more than you think I felt."

"You are unjust to us both in such an idea," cried he, "I should not take such a liberty; and you are in no danger of tempting me."

"My kind uncle was extremely fond of the art," said Emma, "and he took me to every good collection and exhibition within our reach. He likewise took great pains to form and correct my taste; so that I ought rather to blush at knowing so little, than receive compliments on the subject."

"I do not know of what uncle you are speaking," said Mr. Howard, in a manner that denoted his interest in her connections; "you forget that I know almost nothing of your family."

"I—oh no—my home was formerly in my uncle's house—I have not been more than two months resident in my father's family."

"I dare say you think me a very stupid fellow for not being aware of this—but though I saw you were different from your sisters, and indeed most of the young ladies of the neighbourhood, the reason never occurred to me."

"You thought, I suppose, I was a sort of Cinderella," said Emma laughing, "let out by some benevolent fairy on the occasion of one ball, and that having once escaped into public, I could not be repressed again."

"You know I had not been in your father's house, and had therefore no reason to assign you an imaginary abode in the kitchen, in preference to the parlour, where I had never been. But I own I was surprised by your sudden apparition, since I had neither in ball-room or street, town or country, seen or heard of more than three Miss Watsons."

"I can easily believe it—so protracted an absence will naturally sink one's name in oblivion."

"Alas! no—my dear, kind uncle died not quite a twelvemonth ago—my aunt has left England to settle in Ireland—and my home is now at my father's."

"Is it not with rather a strange sensation that you meet your nearest relations; they must be almost unknown to you."

"I have made acquaintance with one brother and two sisters," replied Emma with something like a sigh; "But I have yet to meet another brother and sister."

"It seems almost a pity," said Mr. Howard thoughtfully, "to bring up one child apart and differently from the other members of a family, if they are ultimately to be rejoined. At least I feel in my own case how much I should have lost, had Clara been separated from me in childhood. I suppose it rarely happens that a brother and sister are so much together as we were—but we were orphans, and everything to each other till her marriage."

"It does not do, Mr. Howard, to indulge in retrospective considerations, if they tend to make one dissatisfied," said Emma, with an attempt to check a tear or hide it by a smile; "my friends wished to do everything for the best, and if the result has been different from their intentions, they are not to blame. But I do not know that I should choose to repeat the experiment for one under my care."

"Do you like the neighbourhood?" enquired he, feeling that he had no right to press the last subject further.

"I have seen so little; the weather has been so unfavourable, but it does not strike me as being very beautiful about Winston. I was used to fine scenery in the west of England."

"Then you will naturally think Winston flat and uninteresting.—Osborne Castle and its park have beauties, however, which you cannot despise—but in my enquiry I rather referred to the inhabitants—have you pleasant neighbours about your father's house—I do not visit in the village."

"We live so very quietly," replied Emma, who had no intention of satisfying his curiosity as to their acquaintance, "that I have had no opportunity of judging. I saw a great many people at the ball, but as you must have seen them too, you are as equal to decide on their appearance as I am."

"He is not a person of whom most young ladies answer so coolly; if I put the same question to five out of six of my acquaintance, they would reply with rapture—he is charming—divine—a perfect pattern for all gentlemen."

"I understood he was a great favorite," observed Emma, still in the same composed voice.

"I have been used to consider him such a perfect example in everything relative to the important concerns of fashion and the toilette," said Mr. Howard, gravely, "things which I know are of the first importance in the eyes of ladies, that I have seriously proposed when I wish to be particularly charming to copy him in the tying of his cravat."

"I am not quite sure whether I should think any one improved by copying Mr. Tom Musgrove, from his cravat to his shoe-buckles: but I have, I am afraid, a wicked prejudice, against any individual who is considered universally agreeable."

"Alas you discourage my young ambition; if to be universally agreeable is to be hated by you, I shall leave forthwith my attempts at pleasing. To how many individuals is it allowable to be friendly? to how many cold? to how many repulsive in order to win your good opinion."

"Impossible for me to answer without more data for my calculations. You must tell me, to begin with, how many you have been in the habit of flattering daily!"

"I do not quite believe you—but if you will not own to that—with how many do you consider yourself a particular favorite."

"That is an artful question—you wish to prove me guilty of general agreeableness—but my native modesty stands my friend there: I do not think more than two thirds of my acquaintance consider me a very charming fellow—amongst ladies, I mean—of course, a man's opinion goes for nothing."

"Ah, that is too many by half to please me—if you had always spoken with sincerity, depend upon it your particular admirers would be less numerous."

"But seriously, Miss Watson, why do you feel a particular enmity to the general favorites of your sex!"

"You think then truth must be sacrificed to popularity? Is not that rather a severe reflection on the taste of other women."

"And by what scale do you measure, so as to form a correct decision—is your standard of your own merit so accurately settled, that you can instantly perceive truth from flattery, appropriating just so much of a compliment as you deserve, and rejecting the rest."

"I think, Mr. Howard, I am more inclined to decide on the value of compliments from the character of the giver, than from my own. If an individual either man or woman dares to say a disagreeable truth, I cannot suspect them of an agreeable falsehood. Or if they are as ready to praise the absent, as to compliment the present, then I listen with more complaisance."

"It is fortunate for some men that all young ladies are not like you; their stock of conversation would be reduced very low, if neither praises of the present nor abuse of the absent were tolerated."

"I differ from you, Mr. Howard. If no one would listen to slander much less evil would happen in the world; much unhappiness would be saved—much moral guilt would be avoided."

"True: call it by its right name—slander—and every one shrinks from it; the habit of softening down our expressions leads to much evil—a little scandal, nobody minds that."

"Most detestable of all is the flattery from mercenary motives. To see a man—a young man courting, flattering, cajoling a woman for her money—one to whom he would, were she poor, hardly deign to address a word—selling himself body and soul for gold—oh, it makes one shudder—it tempts me to unjust, harsh thoughts of the whole species. Hateful!"

Mr. Howard looked at his companion with considerable surprise. She certainly was using rather strong expressions, and evidently felt acutely what she was saying. As he, however, was perfectly ignorant of the circumstances of her aunt's marriage, and never for a moment thought of anything of the sort, an idea passed through his mind that she might allude to himself and Lady Osborne, for though he could not plead guilty to anything on his own part which deserved such condemnation, it was possible his conduct might appear in this light to her eyes. He did not stop to consider whether it was probable, or in accordance with her character to make such personal reflections, but fell into a reverie on the subject of his own manners, from which he was roused by her addressing him again.

"I am quite ashamed, Mr. Howard, of having spoken so bitterly just now—pray forget what I said if possible—at least do not decide on my being a very ill-natured person because I spoke harshly—there are sometimes circumstances on which to reflect invariably creates unpleasant sensations—but the past is passed, and should not be allowed to awaken angry feelings."

"I fancy we have strayed a long way from the point which awakened these reflections," said Mr. Howard trying to recover himself likewise. "Tom Musgrove was the commencement of our dissertation on flattery."

"Mr. Musgrove—yes, so he was, but I had indeed forgotten it; my thoughts were many miles off—they had gone back many months."

"Your opinion of him does not seem very high," observed he, much relieved at the termination of her sentence.

"My opinion of him is of too little consequence to be worth discussing," replied Emma: "I have not seen a great deal of him, but I fancy my father does not estimate him very highly."

"Plenty indeed—sufficient to make any discussion amongst others on that subject unnecessary."

"On that point, Mr. Howard, I feel incredulous: independence is the very thing he wants. His principal object seems to be to follow another."

"I have no wish to combat your prejudice, or persuade you into liking him against your will."

"True, we can come again another day; I am sure you may come whenever you feel disposed—I shall be most happy to escort you."

At this moment the door was thrown back, and Lord Osborne himself appeared. After paying his compliments, he paused a moment, and then observed,

"You must have a precious strong taste for pictures, Miss Watson, to like to remain in the gallery even when it is too dark to see. I suppose breathing the same air is pleasant to those who value the art."

"We have stayed longer than we intended, my lord," said Emma; "and I really feel much obliged to your sister for allowing me such a pleasure; but we expected her to join us."

"It's a mighty fine thing to have such a lot of fine pictures, with all the fine names tacked on to them. One or two I really like myself—there's one of some horses, by somebody, excellent—and a Dutch painting of dead game, which is so like you would really think them all alive. Did you notice it?"

"Howard there knows all about them: he has the names and dates and all on the tip of his tongue. Don't you find it a deuced bore to listen to it?"

"Well I should be glad, for my part, of a piece of information: how the—I beg pardon—I mean how the wonder did I contrive to miss you as I was going down the straight path to the Parsonage."

"Well, on my honour, I just was surprised when I got there to hear you were gone—stole away in fact. 'Holloa! how can that be!' said I, 'I did not meet them—no indeed.' 'Did you not!' cried Mrs. Willis. 'Well deuce take it, that is extraordinary!'"

"I don't mean to say she used those very words—she thought them, though, I'm sure, by her look."

"But now, my lord, we must wish you good evening, or Mrs. Willis will be waiting for dinner; and though I am not afraid of her swearing at us, I do not wish to annoy her."

"Ah, yes, Mrs. Willis is mistress—I know—the Parson there, like myself, is under petticoat government; nothing like a mother or sister to keep one in order. I'll be bound a wife is nothing to it. One cannot get away from a sister, and one can't make her quiet and obedient—you see she has never undertaken anything of the kind, as I understand wives do when one marries them."

"But I have heard, my lord, that they sometimes break their word and rebel," said Emma with mock solemnity.

"Ah, but that must be the husband's fault, he gives them too much rein—keep a strict hand on them, that's my maxim."

"I recommend you, however, to keep it a secret, if you wish to find a wife; I assure you no woman would marry you if she knew your opinion."

"Oh, never mind—there is no harm done as yet—I promise not to betray you—but here we are at Miss Osborne's room, will she expect us to look in—or shall we go straight home, Mr. Howard?"

"We'll see if Rosa's here," said her brother, opening the door as he spoke. The room, however, was empty, and there was nothing to be done but return home. Emma was vexed to find the young peer persisted in escorting them. Though his conversation had been much shorter than Mr. Howard's, she was far more weary of it. To hurry her walk, was her only remedy, and the coldness of the air was a plausible excuse for this. The space which had occupied nearly half an hour in ascending, was now traversed in five minutes, and breathless but glowing, the party reached the door of the parsonage. Here Lord Osborne was really obliged to leave them, and Emma hastened to her room to prepare for dinner.

"Well, Emma," cried Elizabeth, "I should like to know what you have been doing all this time—what an age you have been gone!"

"I know what you went for indeed, but how do I know what you stayed for. Pictures indeed—looking at pictures for two hours and a half—and in the dark too!"

"Of what do you suspect me, Elizabeth?" cried she as her sister placed a candle so as to throw the light on her face.

"Which have you been flirting with?" said Elizabeth taking her sister's hand, and closely examining her countenance. "The peer or the parson, which of your two admirers do you prefer?"

"How can you ask such an unnecessary question?" returned Emma, blushing and laughing, yet struggling to disengage herself, "would you hesitate yourself—is not Lord Osborne the most captivating, elegant, lively, fascinating young nobleman who ever made rank gracious and desirable. Would you not certainly accept him?"

"Why yes, I think I should—it would be something to be Lady Osborne—mistress of all those rooms and servants, carriages and horses. I think I should like it, but then I shall never have the choice!"

"So far as I am concerned, I do not think I shall interfere with your power of accepting him—if he makes you an offer, do not refuse it on my account."

"Very well—and when I am Lady Osborne, I will be very kind to Mrs. Howard—I will send and ask her to dine with me most Sundays, and some week days too."

"Your liberality is most exemplary, but in the midst of your kind intentions to Mrs. Howard, I fear you are forgetting Mrs. Willis and her dinner. If you do not finish your dressing quickly you will keep them waiting."

Elizabeth took her sister's advice, and finished her toilette with all possible despatch. It was singular that though invariably consuming double the time that sufficed for Emma, the result of her efforts in adjusting her clothes was much less satisfactory. She never looked finished. Her hair was certain to fall down too low; or her gown burst open, or her petticoat peeped out from underneath: she was always finding a string, or a button, or a loop wanting, just when such a loss was particularly inconvenient—always in a hurry, always behind hand, always good-naturedly sorry, but always as far from amendment.

The evening was spent in quiet comfort, far removed from the stately grandeur of the yester-night's scene—they closed round the fire, chatting and laughing, cracking nuts and eating home-baked cakes with a zest which Osborne Castle and its lordly halls could not rival. They talked of the snow melting, and Charles and his uncle too persisted in the greatest incredulity on that subject. A hundred other things were discussed, made charming by the ease and good-humour with which they were canvassed, and then a book was produced. Shakespeare was placed in Mr. Howard's hands, and he read with a degree of feeling and taste, which made it very delightful to his listeners. Thus the evening passed peacefully and quickly, and when they separated for the night, it was with encreased good will and affection between the parties.

The next morning, though ushered in by no change of the weather, brought a very material alteration to the Miss Watsons. About eleven o'clock, as the ladies were working together, their attention was attracted by the sound of carriage wheels on the drive to the house. Presently a note was handed to Miss Watson, accompanied by an assurance that the carriage was waiting. With much surprise, Elizabeth opened the dispatch. It was from her father, and contained information to the effect, that wearied by their long absence, and finding that the lanes were still blocked up, he had sent their man to the post town for a chaise, in which they could return home, by taking the high road, which, although greatly adding to the distance, was the safest and most expeditious route they could adopt. He begged them to return immediately in the post-chaise, and Robert could follow with their own little vehicle after them. Kind as the family had been to them, the girls were still glad of a prospect of returning home before Sunday, being conscious that they could be ill spared from their father's house, and that every hour of enjoyment to them, was probably unpleasant and wearisome to him.

They could not be parted with, of course, without great regret and many remonstrances on the subject of the dangerous nature of the expedition they were undertaking. Charles, in particular, gave them such repeated assurances that they would certainly be upset, that Emma declared her belief that his foreknowledge arose from having bribed the postilion to bring on a catastrophe. Mrs. Willis' object seemed to be to overwhelm them with cloaks, furs, shawls, and everything she could think of to fence the cold away, and Mr. Howard obviated all difficulty about returning these articles, by volunteering to drive over as soon as the weather permitted, and fetch them all back. Hopes of a continued friendship closed the visit, and they parted on the best possible terms.

Their return home was perfectly uneventful. There was not even the cold to complain of—so well had Mrs. Willis succeeded in wrapping them up.

Most cordial was the welcome they received from Mr. Watson; and Margaret, too, really looked enlivened by the sight of them.

"I shall not let you young ladies go visiting again in a hurry," said he good-humouredly, "I began to think one of you must have eloped with Lord Osborne, and the other with Mr. Howard. I assure you, we have been very dull without you."

"Well, I hope you have been having pleasure enough—and that you will have brought home some news to enliven us. I am sure I am almost dead of stupidity and dulness. Not a creature have we seen—not an individual has come near us. Some people contrive to keep all the amusement—all the luck—everything that is good and pleasant to themselves."

The astonishment of Margaret, when she heard the detail of what had occurred, was excessive; she was ready to cry with vexation and envy, to think of her sisters having so much to amuse them—of which she did not partake. With jealous anger she insisted on knowing every particular, for the sake, apparently, of tormenting herself to the uttermost, and being as miserable and ill-used as possible.

Every dish at dinner—every jewel in Lady Osborne's necklace—every word said to be spoken by the ladies at the castle, and every amusement suggested by the inhabitants of the parsonage, was an additional sting to her mind; and she was more than ever convinced that it was an act of the most barbarous injustice, the not allowing her to accompany her sisters—though nothing could be more evident than the total impossibility of such an arrangement. In vain did Emma try to turn the conversation to some less irritating topic; Margaret pertinaciously returned to the original theme, and insisted on learning every thing which her sisters could tell her.

There are various tastes amongst the inhabitants of the world; some delight in making themselves happy, some in just the reverse; Margaret's pleasure was to fret; her pastime was to vex herself. Had she been the only victim to this peculiar taste, there would have been less harm in it; but, unfortunately, her father and sisters were likewise sufferers, and in as much as they were involuntary sufferers, and really took no pleasure in her vexation, it was rather hard upon them to be involved in the same calamity.

In progress of time the snow melted from the ground, and the inhabitants of the rectory at Winston were again set free from confinement. As soon as the roads became at all passable, Emma began to catch herself wondering when Mr. Howard would redeem his promise of coming to fetch the articles with which his sister had supplied them. She likewise detected herself in what she considered another failing; this was looking round the untidy rooms of her father's home, with their dingy carpets, faded curtains, papers soiled by the hands of the servants and children, and tables unpolished and scratched, and contrasting them mentally with the clear and cheerful aspect of the apartments where Mrs. Willis was mistress. The grandeur of Osborne Castle had none of the charms in her eyes which Mrs. Willis' little parlour presented, and she came to the conclusion that the happiest thing in the world must be to preside over such an establishment with such a companion. Those feelings, however, she did not openly express, in which she differed from Elizabeth, who repeatedly declared that she wished she could make their house resemble Mr. Howard's.

One morning, shortly after their return home, Tom Musgrove, whom they had not seen since that event, was ushered into the parlour.

Margaret, who happened to be alone, was instantly all agitation and bustle, trying to persuade him to take her chair by the fire, as she was sure he must be cold, or to accept the loan of her father's slippers whilst his boots were sent to the kitchen to dry.

He persisted, however, in declining her tender attentions, declaring she wanted to make an old man of him before his time, and placing himself on the hearth-rug, with his back to the fire, and his hands behind him, half whistled an air.

"It is long since we have seen you," said she; "and the time has passed very wearily."

"Oh, they are at home again," replied Margaret. "I believe Emma is with my father, and Elizabeth in the kitchen. Did you hear of their being away so long?"

"From Wednesday to Saturday: there was I left without a creature to speak to except my father and the servants, snowed up in the house, and if they had only taken me with them, I should have enjoyed it as much as they did."

"I dare say; but how came they to go?" said Tom, who though really knowing nothing about it, was determined to learn all he could without betraying his ignorance.

"Oh, they wanted to return Mrs. Willis' visit, and they went over in the pony-chaise, and then the snow came on and stopped them there all that time. I dare say they liked to stay, for I have no doubt but they might have come home had they tried. At last my father was obliged to send for a post-chaise to fetch them home in, and they came on Saturday."

"Oh yes, of course—was it not hard I could not go too? I am always thwarted and ill-used."

"I wish your sister Emma would come down; she is always shut up in your father's room; I called here on purpose to see her."

"I dare say she will come presently—do sit down here; I am sure you ought to rest yourself; you seem to have had a very dirty ride."

"Oh no, she will come when she has done reading to my father. Do take something—a biscuit and a glass of wine, or something of that kind."

"Quite unnecessary, I have but just breakfasted. I do not keep such gothic hours as some of my friends do. I am able to please myself—a free and independent man."

"No doubt a happy one. Ah, Mr. Musgrove, you are most fortunate. You cannot tell the misery, the low spirits, the—the—in short all we poor helpless women suffer from, how much heart-breaking sorrow we endure in silence—bitterness of heart of which the world knows nothing."

Tom only whistled again in reply to this very pathetic address, then turning round began to examine the ornaments on the chimney-piece. Even Margaret could not quite blind herself to the change in his manner since the period when her smiles seemed the object he most coveted.

Before Margaret had time to give an account of the visit to the Castle, Elizabeth entered the room.

"So I understand, Miss Watson, you have been playing the truant, and been obliged to be brought back almost by force."

"I am come to wish you joy about being overwhelmed in the snow. I little thought when I was last at Osborne Castle we were such near neighbours."

"Let me see—I think it was Thursday. I am there very often, but I think Thursday was the last day. How droll it would have been had we met."

"Emma," cried Miss Watson, as her youngest sister just then entered the room, "Mr. Musgrove says he was at the Castle on Thursday."

"I wonder we did not hear of it," pursued Elizabeth. "Miss Osborne never mentioned it."

"How do you like Miss Osborne," enquired Tom, who wanted to appear perfectly well informed as to what had passed, and was, therefore, ashamed of asking questions which might betray his real ignorance.

"She seems a very pleasant, amiable young lady," replied Elizabeth, "don't you think so, Emma."

"Did she know you were friends of mine, Miss Watson? Miss Emma, did she not talk about me?"

"No, indeed," replied Emma, with much satisfaction; "we never heard your name mentioned the whole time we were in company with her."

"I think Osborne mentioned it on Saturday, when I saw him for a minute," then seating himself by Emma, who was a little apart from the others, he whispered; "He told me the beautiful, but obdurate Miss Watson had been at Howard's parsonage. Why do you treat him with such scorn, Miss Emma? You will drive my poor friend to despair."

"I should be sorry to think that I merited your accusation, Mr. Musgrove: scorn cannot be a becoming quality in a young lady."

"Nay, there can be nothing unbecoming which you can do; youth and beauty have unlimited privileges," whispered he again. "Miss Osborne vows you eclipse Miss Carr in beauty, and she would rather have you for a friend. She is dying to be introduced to you."

"It is quite unnecessary to inflict such a death upon her even in imagination, Mr. Musgrove—for our acquaintance has progressed too far for that phrase to be at all applicable to it."

"Yes now, I dare say; Osborne told me, but I forget, you went over the castle I think."

"You did not! that was unlucky; I wish I had known you were going, I would have been there, and I could have suggested it to Miss Osborne; I dare say she would have shewn you all the rooms."

"She offered to do so, but we put it off till another time; we thought we should be too hurried."

"It's a pity you did not dine there; its something quite grand to see all the plate—I quite enjoy it—they give such good dinners."

"You do not seem aware that we did dine there," replied Emma, "and, as I had seen other large establishments before, I saw nothing so very astonishing at their table."

"You did dine there—yes—but that was in a family way; the thing is to see a regular great dinner—twenty people sitting down—that is what I like."

"I am not fond of large dinner parties; unless one has a very pleasant neighbour they are apt to be dull."

"Very much so—very much so indeed; I quite agree with you, a little, quiet, social dinner—where one person can talk and the others listen, that is pleasant. You get every thing hot and quickly—that's the thing!"

Emma was still obdurately silent, and Mr. Musgrove, to recompense himself, turned to Elizabeth, and began to talk to her.

As soon as her attention was released Emma left the room, and throwing on a bonnet and cloak, determined to take refuge in the garden as the day was fine, and she longed for fresh air. Hardly had she quitted the entrance, however, when her attention was attracted by the sound of wheels in the lane, and looking up her cheek crimsoned with pleasure at perceiving Mr. Howard.

The pleasure was certainly mutual, judging from the alacrity with which he sprang from the carriage to meet and address her. There was no mistaking the look and air with which he advanced, it was the genuine expression of a cordial welcome, met with equal though more bashful cordiality on her side.

He was come, of course, to redeem his promise of fetching back his sister's property; she would have come also, but she had a cold which confined her to the house. But he had another object in his visit—he was the bearer of an invitation to herself and sisters to attend a concert at the Castle, which was to take place in the afternoon, and to be followed by a ball in the evening. Miss Osborne hoped they would excuse her mother's not having called on them; she scarcely ever paid visits, never in the winter, or she would have accompanied her daughter to the Vicarage when they were there.

Emma read the note which was addressed to herself, and felt very much pleased. It contained, besides the invitation to the ball for herself and sisters, a most pressing request that she would pay a lengthened visit at the Castle; over this she pondered long, and then ended with coming to no conclusion, suddenly remembering that she was detaining Mr. Howard out of doors, when she ought to have allowed him to enter the house.

"You will find Mr. Tom Musgrove sitting with my sisters," continued she; "but if you will be so kind as not to mention the contents of the note before him, you would greatly oblige me."

"Could I not see Mr. Watson?" replied Mr. Howard; "I wish to call on him, and perhaps when my visit to him is over your sisters will be disengaged."

"Certainly; I am sure my father would have great pleasure in seeing you," said Emma much gratified; "allow me to show you the way."

She ushered him accordingly to her father's dressing-room, and having witnessed the very cordial reception which Mr. Watson offered him, she was about to withdraw, but her father stopped her.

"I am sure you can have nothing particular to do, Emma, so you may just as well stay and talk to Mr. Howard—I like very much to hear you, but you know I am not strong enough to converse myself."

"I am sure, my dear father, nobody talks half so well when you are equal to it, but indeed you must not fancy yourself unwell, or you will frighten Mr. Howard away."

"When Mr. Howard has reached my age, my dear, and felt half the pain that I do, from gout and dyspepsia, he will be very glad to set his daughter to talk for him, my dear; so I beg you will stay."

"I wish I enjoyed the prospect of realizing your picture, my dear sir; a daughter exactly like Miss Emma Watson would be indeed a treasure."

"But remember it is to be purchased at the expense of gout, and you must not look for it these thirty years, Mr. Howard," said Emma laughing. "When the sacrifice is complete you will talk in a very different strain."

"The Osbornes will all turn all your heads with their balls and their visits, child," said he pettishly. "I wish you had never known them."

"I am sure I do not wish to go, if you dislike it," said she, in a voice which rather trembled.

"What am I to do if you are going away for two or three days? You are but just come home as it is—I cannot do without you."

"Then I, at all events, can stay with you," replied Emma cheerfully, "and my sisters can do as they please."

Annoyed at the gentleman's selfishness, Mr. Howard felt inclined to interpose, but doubted whether he should not do more harm than good.

Emma knew better, or acted more wisely in not contradicting him, for like many irritable people, the moment he found himself unopposed, he began to relent, and said in a more placid voice,

"Well, I do not know; she does not want you all to stay over the ball—and as Elizabeth will be at home, perhaps I could spare you for a day or two."

"Yes, yes, but then she and Margaret would come home at night, and I should not be all day alone. I think you might go—you must have a post-chaise and a pair of horses to take you, I suppose, and bring your sisters back again. Would you like it, my dear?"

Like it indeed—the words served but coldly to express the pleasure with which her heart beat at the idea. It was so very kind of Miss Osborne to think of her in that way, and it was so very pleasant to see how much consequence Mr. Howard attached to her acceptance of the offer. She had not dared to look quite at him; but the first glance she had ventured on, showed in his face an expression of deep interest, not to be mistaken, and now looking up, she met his eyes fixed on her with a look which immediately sunk hers again to the ground, and seemed to call all the blood from her heart to her cheeks.

"I am sure," cried he, speaking hurriedly to relieve her embarrassment, "Miss Osborne would have been exceedingly disappointed had you settled otherwise. I can venture to assert, sir, that Miss Osborne is very fond of your daughter, and extremely anxious to cultivate her acquaintance."

"I dare say, I dare say, why should she not; but I hope Emma does not flatter her to win her good will."

"It is impossible that it should be necessary," cried Mr. Howard. "Miss Osborne is not to be propitiated by flattery, and it would require, on Miss Emma's part, nothing beyond her natural manners to produce a wish to carry on the acquaintance."

"I suppose Miss Osborne desired you to make civil speeches for her," said Mr. Watson, laughing.

Mr. Howard's visit was long and lively; Mr. Watson was evidently cheered by it, and pressed him to renew it.

"I am afraid I ask what is not agreeable," continued he; "I dare say I am dull and unpleasant; but if you knew what a treat it is to me to see cheerful faces, you would not wonder at my selfish wish. You, Mr. Howard, and Emma do me good."

There was something very pleasant to Emma's ears in hearing her name thus connected with Mr. Howard's; and it was not unwelcome to the young man either, who warmly pressed her father's hand, and promised readily to come as often as he could.

"And mind, Emma, when he does come, you bring him to me," said her father; "it is not every young man that I care to see. Your Tom Musgroves, and such young dandies, are not at all to my mind; but a young man who listens to what his elders say, and does not flout and jeer at them, but shows a proper respect to age and experience, that's what I like. I shall be happy to see you, Mr. Howard, whenever you can come."

After renewing his promise to be a regular and frequent visitor, Mr. Howard was conducted by Emma to the parlour, from whence they found Tom Musgrove had departed. Her two sisters looked up as if surprised to see Emma and her companion; but their pleasure much exceeded their surprise, when they learnt the nature of the embassy with which he was charged. Margaret especially, who had formed most exalted ideas of the nature and felicity of a visit to the castle, was at first in a perfect rapture. She was certain that the whole affair would be in the most superlative style of excellence; that Miss Osborne must be a lady of first rate taste and talent; that the company would be select in an extraordinary degree, and in short that she should never have known what grandeur, beauty, elegance, and taste meant, but for Lady Osborne's invitation to the concert and ball. She determined to do her best to make her court to the whole family of Osbornes, and had great hopes of becoming an especial favorite with them all. It was not till after Mr. Howard's departure, which took place after a visit of about ten minutes, that a cloud came over her bright vision. She then learnt the sad fact that Emma was invited to remain at the castle, but that she herself was to return home.

This discovery made her very angry; she could comprehend no reason for such a marked preference; why should Miss Osborne invite Emma who was the youngest, and exclude herself; it really surpassed her comprehension; it was most extraordinary; she had a great mind not to go at all; she would let Miss Osborne see that she was not to be treated with neglect; she was not a person to come and go at any one's bidding; if Miss Osborne could ask Emma, why not herself too; she surely had as much claim to attention. Then she turned to Emma and required her to promise that she would not accept the invitation. But Emma said she had done so already. She had written a note which Mr. Howard had charge of; and she was not to be induced to retract. Margaret grew quite angry, accusing her of being mean-spirited and servile, fawning on Miss Osborne, and winning her favor only by her base concessions; she said everything which an irritated and jealous temper could suggest, and tormented Emma into tears at her crossness and ill-will.

"I wonder you mind her, Emma," remonstrated Elizabeth, when she discovered that her sister's eyes were red, and wrung from her an acknowledgment of the cause. Elizabeth had not been present when the discussion which pained Emma so much, had taken place. "It's not the least use fretting about Margaret's ill-temper and teazing ways—she always was a plague and a torment from a child, and there's no chance of her being any better. She is so abominably selfish. But I cannot bear her to make you cry."

"I dare say you think me very foolish," replied Emma, wiping her eyes, "but I have never been used to be crossly spoken to, and it quite upsets me."

"No, I don't think you foolish, Emma; you are only much too good and tender for this situation. I shall be glad when you are married and safe with Mr. Howard, and nobody to scold you or make you spoil your beauty by crying."

"It's not nonsense, Emma, I believe he is very good-natured, and I dare say you will be very happy with him. How long were you tête-à-tête, with him, before you brought him into the parlour?"

"Oh, you need not apologise; I think you were quite right to have a comfortable chat with him, before bringing him into Margaret's company. It is but little conversation you can have when she is by. I saw you with him in the garden."

"I assure you we did not stay there five minutes; he came to call on my father, and we went to him immediately."

Elizabeth only answered by a look; but it was a look which shewed that she was not in the least convinced by Emma's assertions, but only wondered that she should think them necessary.

The invitation to the important party was not for an early date; ten days must elapse before the arrival of the day expected to bring so much happiness with it. The comfort of the Watson family suffered alternations which could only be compared to the ebbing and flowing of the tide, but that their recurrence could not be calculated on with equal certainty. When the pleasure she was to enjoy occupied her mind, Margaret was comparatively happy; the arrangement of her dress, the minor difficulties about ornaments and shoes, were even then sufficient to destroy her equanimity, and detract from her peace of mind; but this was nothing to the state of acidity and fermentation which her temper presented, when the grand insult of not being Miss Osborne's friend, and not invited to stay at the Castle, recurred in vivid colors to her memory.

But three days before the important morning, a very unexpected event threw the whole family into a ferment. Just as the two elder sisters were setting off to the town, to see if their new bonnets were making the progress which was desirable, the sudden appearance of a post-chaise startled them. Emma, who was in her father's room as usual, heard the wheels on the gravel, and naturally supposing that it was the old pony-chaise leaving the door, was perfectly astonished the next minute by the startling uproar which resounded through the hall. Loud laughter, and a mingled clatter of tongues, which might almost be denominated screaming, convinced her that whatever was the origin, it was not of a tragic nature, but her awakened curiosity made her long to know the cause, through she feared to move, as her father had fallen into a gentle doze. A shriller exclamation than before suddenly roused him from his slumber, and starting up he exclaimed:

Emma escaped from the room to obey his behest, and on reaching the turn of the stairs paused a moment to see who was there; just then she caught her own name.

"Emma is at home," said Margaret, "and as I really want to go, I shall not mind you. Pen, you can go and sit with her."

"Very well, it's all the same to me," replied a stranger, who she inferred was her unknown sister, "I am sure I don't want to keep you at home." And as she spoke she turned again to the door, "I say driver, you just get that trunk lifted in, there's a good fellow, and see you don't turn it bottom upwards, my man, or I vow I won't give you a sixpence—do you hear?"

The driver grinned and proceeded to pull down the trunk, whilst Penelope Watson stood at his elbow, and flourished an umbrella in her hand, very much as if she meant to enforce her threats with blows.

When satisfied, however, with the care which he took of her property, she had paid and dismissed him, she turned to her sisters, exclaiming:

"There, now you may bundle off too, as fast as you please, my bonnet and gown and all are in that trunk, and you shall not see them till I put them on, lest you should try and copy them."

"No, it isn't, what becomes me would never suit you, so I only prevent you making a fright of yourself. Where's Emma? I want to see her."

"Here I am," said she timidly advancing, for Penelope's loud voice quite overpowered her courage.

"Here I am," mimicked Penelope, advancing towards her, "and how does your little ladyship do, pray? Why are you so long coming to welcome your new sister? I am sure you ought to have learnt more affection from Margaret."

Emma did not know what to answer to this attack, but looked at Elizabeth rather distressed.

"Never mind, Penelope," replied Miss Watson to her look, "she always says what she pleases; well, Margaret is waiting in the chaise, so I must go; Emma, will you take Pen to my father?"

"Well," said she, "I suppose I had better go and report myself first, and then I can settle about my things; upon my word, Emma, you are very pretty, I am so glad you have dark hair and eyes; Margaret makes me quite sick of fair skins, by her nonsense about her own. Here I am, sir," cried she, advancing into her father's room as she spoke, "come to waken you all up; I am sure the old house looks as if it had gone to sleep since I went away, and there is the same fly on the window, I protest, as when I was last in the room. How do you do, my dear sir?"

"None the better for all the confounded clatter you have been making in the hall, I can tell you; I thought you had brought home a dozen children at your heels, judging from the uproar you created. What mad freak has possessed you now, Penelope?"

"Oh! I came for two things—one was to go to the Osborne Castle ball—the other I'll tell you by-and-bye."

"You are always racing over the country, and bent on having your own way, I know."

"So is every one; but they don't all know how to get it, so well as I do; but I see I'm disturbing you, so I shall go and unpack my rattle-traps—Emma come with me."

Emma seemed to obey instinctively—but she felt no pleasure in accompanying her sister. Her voice, look and manner, were alike uninviting, and she felt inclined to shrink from her. Penelope went to the parlour, and stirring the fire, drew in a chair close to the chimney—placed her feet upon the fender, and then turning abruptly round to her sister, said—

"So it is all your doing, is it, our going to the castle balls; it is really something new—Margaret wrote me word you and Miss Osborne were bosom friends?"

"How sheepish you look, Emma," cried her sister, "one would think you were ashamed of it all; I am sure I think it vastly clever of you to get up a friendship with Miss Osborne, or a flirtation with her brother. I've a great respect for girls who know how to push their way and make the most of circumstances. What sort of young fellow is Lord Osborne?,"

"As if I did not know that," cried Penelope, "why, I've seen him hundreds of time, child; almost before you were born. I mean is he pleasant?—can he talk nonsense?—does he know how to make himself agreeable?"

"That must depend upon taste," replied Emma, "he never was particularly pleasant to me; and, as to his talking, it's neither good sense, nor good nonsense."

"Do you know what good nonsense is, Emma?" cried Penelope, "Why, then, I dare say you may not be quite detestable."

"I thought your uncle might, perhaps, have made a Methodist of you, and that would not have suited me. Those musty old doctors of divinity have, sometimes, queer notions."

"I must beg, Penelope, when you mention my late uncle, you will do so with respect," said Emma, with spirit.

Penelope looked surprised—and, for a moment, was silent; when next she spoke it was to question Emma minutely, as to the quality, price and texture of her dress, for the important day and night in prospect.

"I expect Margaret will be ready to expire with envy, when she sees the real Indian muslin that I mean to wear," pursued she, in a tone of great satisfaction; "I am not going to tell you how I came by it—for that's a great secret for some days to come. Is not Margaret horridly jealous?"

"Oh, I see!" laughed Penelope, "you are too good to abuse a sister—quite a Miss Charity or Miss Meek of a good little girl's prize book. But, if you like to sit like a goose weighing every word you are about to utter, I can tell you that does not suit me at all. I always say what comes into my head, without caring for anybody."

As Emma, however, did not follow the same method, she did not express how very unpleasant a course she considered it; and the sisters did not quarrel then.

"How has Margaret got on with Tom Musgrove?" continued Penelope, "by-the-bye, have you seen Tom Musgrove, yourself?"

"And how do you like him?—what do you think of him?—do you think he is in love with Margaret?" pursued Penelope.

"Nor do I; I don't see that he is at all more in love with her, than he has been with twenty other girls—myself included. But it's very good fun talking to him when he is in spirits. Emma can you keep a secret?"

"How absurd—why, it's the best fun possible, to have a good secret; I would tell you one, if you would promise not to betray it."

"I shall be very happy to hear anything you like to tell me, and, I dare say you would not ask me to do anything wrong."

"Wrong! why, are you such a little Methodist, as to consider whether every thing is wrong—it's my own affair, and how can there be anything wrong in my telling you if I like? If one always stops to meditate whether any one would think a thing wrong, one might give over talking altogether."

Emma was silent from not very well knowing what to say in reply; and, after a momentary pause, Penelope went on:

"Now, the only reason I want you not to tell is, because I wish to surprise all the others by the news some day. You will promise not to mention it!"

"You had much better not tell me at all, Penelope; because then, your secret will certainly be safe," said Emma, good-humouredly; "if you, who are interested in it, cannot resist telling it—how can you expect me to be proof to such a temptation?"

"You are very much mistaken," said Penelope, angrily tossing her head, "if you suppose I cannot resist telling any thing I wish to keep secret; I assure you, I am quite as discreet, when occasion requires, as your little ladyship can be, though I do not set up to be so superior to all my family, and give myself airs of discretion and superfine prudence."

Emma saw she had made her sister angry—though she did know exactly how or why, and she attempted, but vainly, to apologise for the involuntary offence. Penelope was not to be propitiated.

"I can tell you, Miss Emma, it's no use at all, your trying to be so grand and indifferent; it was not a trifling mark of my regard, what I was going to tell you, but, if you do not wish to hear it, you may let it alone. I dare say, Margaret will shew more interest in my concerns; I can tell her some day."

And with these words, Penelope rose and hastily quitted the room, slamming the door after her with all her might.

During the three succeeding days there was every possible opportunity taken by her to display to Emma the superior confidence with which Margaret was treated. Slips of paper were continually thrown across the table, containing mysterious words or incomprehensible signs. There was whispering too in corners, and talking with their fingers; hints were thrown out, which convulsed Margaret with laughing, but in which the uninitiated could see no joke; and every means taken to raise a curiosity which would have flattered Pen's self-importance. Elizabeth and Emma bore this infliction with remarkable heroism—having a strong internal conviction that a secret which required so much exertion to give it importance could not be much worth knowing, or that it would soon certainly become public.

Affairs were in this state when the important day, which had already excited such intense speculation or anticipation in the minds of the four sisters. Emma's toilette was very satisfactory to herself in its results, she hoped she should not be the plainest or worst dressed person in the room, and she certainly took especial care to arrange her hair in a way that she had reason to think Mr. Howard admired.

Duly were they transported to the scene of such great anticipations, and when they had sufficiently arranged their dresses and shaken out the creases, after being so very much squeezed, they were marshalled up the grand staircase into the state-apartment.

It was worth while to watch Margaret's countenance, when, for the first time, contemplating the rich furniture and evidences of wealth which surrounded her. An overpowering sense of her own insignificance, and a conviction, that amidst so much that was rich, beautiful, and costly, her own elaborate toilette would pass unregarded, were the most prominent of her feelings. She could not resign herself to the idea of being one amongst the many unimportant individuals who contributed to form one whole and animated picture; she had flattered herself with the idea that she should be quite distinguished; she had fancied that because her dress was the most elegant she had ever worn, it would be equally superior to those of the other visitors. Suddenly she found her mistake. Around her, on every side, were gay groups dressed in a far more expensive style; jewels glittered, laces and Indian shawls, velvets and brocades rustled or waved before her eyes, and the discovery that, however superior to her usual style were her present habiliments, numbers present surpassed her in elegance, caused a bitter mortification to her vain mind. It was everywhere a scene of gay bustle: animated whispers, light laughter, finery and flirtation were on every side of her and her sisters, as they followed the stream of visitors ascending to the reception-rooms. There were few whom they knew by sight; none to speak to, amongst all the company; some who passed bestowed a stare, some put up their eye-glasses, and some their lips, as they saw the four sisters unattended by any gentleman walking together. These were ladies: men when they looked once, looked again, for the whole family were good-looking, and Emma's beauty could not fail to attract when once observed. But looks did not satisfy Margaret or Penelope, who both wanted to be conspicuous characters, envied every woman accompanied or addressed by a man, and felt extremely ill-used by everything around them.

After passing through several state-apartments, where they followed in the wake of many others, they arrived at the entrance of the music saloon, where they at last encountered Miss Osborne and her mother. The latter curtsied, and then turned to some one else; the former broke off a conversation with some young people round her, to offer her hand to Elizabeth and her youngest sister, to whom she expressed much pleasure at the meeting; and said a few civil words to the two others, when Miss Watson named them. Both Elizabeth and Emma were satisfied with their reception, and would have been glad to find quiet seats from which they might survey the company, and thus secure all the share in the amusement that they felt they had a right to expect. But the others were not so easily satisfied. They wanted to keep close to Miss Osborne, hoping for the distinction of further notice, and they both declared that they had no idea of being wedged into a corner where nobody could see them. To avoid attracting attention by their angry whispers, their sisters were obliged to comply, though they both felt uncomfortable at parading the rooms without any chaperone or gentleman to escort them, and yet did not like to attach themselves to Miss Osborne, lest she should think so large a body of followers troublesome.

Passing once more down one of the drawing-rooms, they for the first time perceived an acquaintance. This was Tom Musgrove, who was in the act of escorting a party of fashionable-looking ladies, and either did not, or would not see them. To pass him unobserved, however, suited neither Pen nor Margaret, and the latter having failed to catch his eye, the former pulled his elbow to make him look at them. Emma turned blushing away, quite ashamed of the free manner of her sister's address.

His attention thus arrested, he could not avoid speaking—but his bow was as short and hurried as it was possible, and he would again have turned to his party had Penelope or Margaret allowed it. But this they would not do.

"Bless me, Tom," cried the elder sister; "how many ages it is since we met, and yet you seem not to have a word to bestow on an old friend."

His party passed on as she spoke, and as soon as they were sufficiently far off for him to be sure he should not be heard, he replied in a very short abrupt tone,

"I am much obliged for your notice, Miss Penelope, and vastly happy to see you, only just at present, as I am particularly engaged in escorting the daughters of Sir Anthony Barnard, I must beg you will excuse my further delay; your humble servant, Miss Margaret," and he rushed away as he finished his sentence.

"How provoking," muttered Penelope, "I declare, Tom Musgrove seems to have become a perfect bear since I went away."

"I wish our father was a baronet or a lord," sighed Margaret, "then he would care for us too."

"Then I am sure I should not care for him," cried Elizabeth, with much spirit; "who would value attentions dependent on such a circumstance?"

They now stood still, and seemed quite at a loss what to do, when a voice at Emma's ear made her start, and sent all the blood thrilling through her veins. The individual on whom her thoughts were fixed, he whose presence and attention were most certain of making her feel at ease—Mr. Howard, in short, was beside her.

His eager enquiries as to whether she had met Lady Osborne—whether she was pleased with what she saw, gave her satisfaction; but his proposal that they should join his sister, who was in the music saloon, and was looking out for them, was the greatest relief imaginable.

The awkwardness of feeling, from which she had been suffering, was at once done away; they would belong to some one—they would have some one to address them—some one to make them feel at home and comfortable.

Mrs. Willis was good-humoured and agreeable as ever—receiving the two strangers cordially, for the sake of their sisters, and immediately proposing that she should act as their chaperone at the ball in the evening.

To this, not even Margaret could make an objection, and Emma, with Mr. Howard by her side, was now really happy. The happiness, however, was not of very long duration; scarcely had she been seated five minutes, when she perceived Lady Osborne's eye-glass turned in their direction—and a moment after, a young man, who stood near her, and to whom she evidently addressed some words, approached and said,

"Howard, you are wanted—her ladyship finds your assistance and presence indispensable—but, before you go, I pray you to bequeath to me your seat."

With evident reluctance—Emma's only consolation, he rose, and turning to her said—

"Since, I must leave you—will you allow me to present to you my friend, Sir William Gordon—but, remember, Gordon," he added, laughing, "I shall expect my proxy to resign in my favour, the moment I return to claim the situation."

"Don't build too much upon that," cried the young Sir William, whose gay, animated countenance, would certainly have prepossessed Emma in his favour, had he not turned out Mr. Howard.

In spite, however, of his lively address, her eyes followed the other gentleman; and she perceived that Lady Osborne, after some conversation with him, sent him to fetch some young ladies from the other side of the room; and, after a good deal of bustle and change, succeeded in locating him in a corner close to herself. It was vain to watch longer, there seemed not the slightest prospect of a release for him; and, fearful lest her looks should attract notice or betray her feelings, she endeavoured to confine her attention to what was immediately around her. The music had not yet commenced, and there was neither opportunity nor inclination wanting on the part of her neighbour to amuse her with conversation.

"Have you been often at the castle?" enquired he, presently; "I do not remember to have seen you here; yet I think I should have noticed your face, had we met before."

Emma informed him that she was a comparative stranger in the neighbourhood, and had rarely been at Osborne Castle.

"Then are you sure that you are aware of the state of family politics? Are you conversant with the position of parties in the establishment?"

"On the contrary, I am quite ignorant—possessing no knowledge, and little curiosity."

"Oh, impossible! all women are curious, more or less. You must wish to have a peep behind the scenes."

"Certainly," replied Sir William gravely, "were you not guilty of detaining Mr. Howard by your side, when her ladyship needed him?"

"To send, should have been on her part, superfluous; to go on his, impossible; he should, instinctively, have sought her side, and placed himself in her service."

"Surely not—Mr. Howard is not the individual of highest rank, and could not, therefore, rightly, appropriate such a situation; and he is a free agent, and has, surely, the power of choice."

"He has, no doubt, every thing to guide him. I cannot doubt of his having taste, judgment, discernment, sense; his choice cannot be questioned in some respects—but, if he intends to please her ladyship, he must prove his admiration for the mature charms of forty five, not the blooming graces—but, I am growing personal and particular, I forbear lest I should offend!"

"Howard is my intimate friend," added Sir William, "and I really wish him well; now, do not you think he had better marry the dowager."

"It is a point which no one can presume to decide for him," said Emma, struggling with certain painful recollections.

"After all," added he, "there is no such disparity in their years—only fifteen or thereabouts—the jointure might be sometime in his possession."

"I should really be obliged, if you would find some other subject of conversation, Sir William," replied Emma, decidedly, "I do not think it good taste to criticise our hostess."

"Suppose we talk of her daughter, then?" replied he, quietly, "don't you think her rather over-dressed?"

"I think I will follow your advice and choose another subject—what shall it be?—shall we talk of yourself? Confide to me all your peculiar tastes—your wonderful aversions—your never dying friendships. How many bosom friends have you, Miss Watson?"

"Your sister! oh, fie! no one thinks of making a friend of a sister—that is quite a burlesque—a friend's brother is, of course, a favorite—but one's own brothers or sisters are quite out of the question."

"I assure you, I am very modest, I should make an excellent friend; only try me."

"Here comes Lord Osborne into the room," continued he, "looking as if he were going to be hanged. Just turn your eyes this way, Miss Watson."

"Thank you," replied Emma, without complying; "but I will not add to Lord Osborne's modest confusion by looking at him."

"His modest confusion—what a good idea. Why he is the most impudent man in Great Britain. What bribe do you suppose his mother had to offer him, to induce him to come into the music saloon to-day?"

"It is difficult for me to guess. Agreeable company and excellent music no doubt."

"I cannot fancy either would gratify him; he is certainly one of the most unpolished boors in the county. I assure you his groom is a gentleman compared to him."

"For shame to say such things of your host—you are taking away his character, and there is surely some penalty attached to stealing in a dwelling-house."

"You are quite mistaken, I am doing just the reverse—giving him a character, out of the superfluity of my own. But now just look at him, he is making his way up to his mama—what would you bet that he does not tread on six ladies' toes before he crosses the room?"

Emma could not help smiling, but would not turn round, as she had no inclination to catch the young peer's eyes.

"Oh, it's not Lady Osborne, it's Howard he is addressing. I wonder what he is saying. Howard's countenance is a tell-tale, and it's something he does not like. Now they are both looking this way; upon my word his lordship is coming here. Do you think he is trying to find me, Miss Watson? Really such public notice confuses me—I am so very modest—am not I blushing now?"

Emma could not raise her eyes, for she was conscious that whether Sir William's blushes were real or fanciful, her own were painfully deep, and that he observed it. It was not however as Sir William supposed, because Lord Osborne was coming towards her, but it was the idea that Mr. Howard pointed out her seat with reluctance, joined to the arch tone and look of her companion that destroyed her composure, in spite of her utmost efforts to appear calm.

"You are acquainted with Lord Osborne, then?" said he, as if drawing an inference from something just passing.

"I judge from your being so well aware that he is not worth looking at; had you never seen him, you would certainly have expected something superior. Shall I vacate my place in favor of his lordship?"

"As you please. It is a perfect matter of indifference to me: don't do it on my account however."

"What a perplexing answer; I don't know how to understand it; for though well aware that a lady's private opinion is usually the reverse of her public one, I am still left in the dark as to which of us you really prefer."

All this conversation passed in whispers during the bustle of arrangement, and previous to the commencement of the overture; but now the full burst of the orchestra drowned all other sounds, and made a reply from Emma unnecessary.

The silence which followed between them proved a relief to her, and thinking that her companion's attention was engrossed by some other object, she stole a glance towards the spot occupied by Lady Osborne's party. There sat her ladyship in state, and close beside her stood Mr. Howard: he was stooping to listen with a smile to some observation of his patroness, and the painful idea crossed her mind that perhaps after all they were right who suggested the possibility of an alliance between them. She could not imagine that he loved the dowager, but it was very possible that ambition, the desire of independence, vanity, or some other motive might influence him; and as to her ladyship, she must have given some ground for a conjecture so universally whispered.

A year ago, had she then known the parties, such an idea would have been rejected as absurd; but her aunt's marriage had given a shock to her feelings which seemed to destroy her confidence both in men and women, especially in middle-aged widows with large jointures. It was true that if Mr. Howard's character were such as she supposed, he would be uninfluenced by such a consideration, but in this she might be mistaken, and where such a possibility of mistake existed, it became her not to risk her own happiness by encouraging the feeling of partiality for him, which she was conscious had been growing since the commencement of their acquaintance. She made the most heroic resolutions, determining henceforth to keep as much as possible out of his company, and do everything in her power to restore her mind to a state of equanimity. She resolved therefore not to look again, but studiously to avert her eyes, and she tried hard to fix them on the orchestra, and to forget, in listening to the music, all other considerations. She was interrupted by the sudden address of Lord Osborne, who having at length worked his way up to her, exclaimed,

"I have been trying to get to you this half hour, Miss Watson, but those fellows with their music make such a confounded row, there is no knowing what one is doing here."

There was nothing in Emma's calm and collected reception of him to encourage the notion of partiality on her part which Sir William Gordon had entertained. It was polite, but as far removed from the flutter of a gratified vanity as from the consciousness of a growing attachment.

"I wish you would make room for me to sit down," he said presently. "Gordon, I think you have been here quite long enough—go and make love to Miss Carr and you will be doing a double charity."

"Thank you, but in good truth I am not equal to the undertaking which your lordship has just so successfully performed. I could not make my way across such a room, and must pray your leave to remain in the modest seclusion of this corner, as best suited to my humble capacities."

"You abominably selfish fellow, you have the best seat in the room, and you know it—that's all."

"Then your lordship can hardly expect me to give it up; possession you know is everything."

"I can make room for your lordship," cried Margaret who had long been straining forward her head to try and catch his attention. She was seated behind Emma and Elizabeth, by the side of Mrs Willis.

Lord Osborne just turned his head and gave her a momentary glance, then stooping towards Emma, enquired who was that thin girl behind her.

"Indeed!" cried he; "I should never have guessed that—she is not a bit like you!"

At this moment a favorable movement was effected by Penelope, who had been seated at the extreme end of the form. Seeing the advantage of attaching Lord Osborne to their party, and too wise to expect to do so by superseding Emma, which seemed to be Margaret's idea, she quietly removed, and placing herself by Mrs. Willis, left a vacant seat.

He immediately requested Elizabeth to make room for him, and in another moment he was established by Emma's side, in the long desired position.

"Another sister! Why in the name of Heaven, how many sisters have you in the room?"

"Well but three is too many," replied he gravely; "it must be very awkward and disagreeable having so many—don't you find it so?"

"I never looked upon it in that light, which is fortunate, perhaps, as I see no remedy."

"That's true—you have them and cannot help it; but that does not make it less of an evil—one would not choose three sisters."

"Then your father has four daughters?" continued he, as if the result of profound calculation on his part.

"That makes six children in all—what a family. It's a great draw-back certainly."

"That must be because you are so very good-tempered. I am not sure that I could bear it myself."

"It is fortunate that you will not probably be called on to support such an infliction!"

"It will be your own fault if you do that, and with so strong a prejudice against them, I should certainly advise you not."

A long pause ensued, during which every one seemed occupied with the singing, and when, at the close of the first act, there was an opportunity again afforded for conversation, Emma's attention was claimed by Miss Osborne, who made her way up to her, and offering her arm, led her into another saloon, as she said, to enjoy a little chat with her.

"How do you find Sir William Gordon?" enquired she, presently, turning away her face as she spoke, to examine some flowers near her.

"He seems chatty and pleasant," replied Emma; "but I have hardly seen enough to form a serious idea of him."

"No, I have hardly seen him this afternoon," replied Emma, in her turn trying to conceal her countenance.

"Thank you; but I dare say he would have done so, had he wished it; and I have no claim on him, more than any one else," replied Emma, rather proudly.

Miss Osborne looked rather quickly at her. Her eyes were particularly piercing, and she seemed to read Emma's thoughts in her face. This scrutiny somewhat distressed her companion, and she was much relieved by the approach of Lord Osborne and Sir William Gordon, who joined them, with a request that they would return to the music saloon as the performance would soon be beginning.

"Nonsense," replied Miss Osborne, "there can be no occasion to hurry—and I do not care about the first piece—it's so pleasant here—sit down again, please, Miss Watson, and, Osborne, you keep quiet."

Emma complied—the room was cool and agreeable, and she was out of sight of Mr. Howard, and therefore less annoyed than when a witness to Lady Osborne's attentions to him. Miss Osborne had a fancy for some refreshment, and sent Sir William for a glass of jelly, desiring him to select the one he thought best. Sir William insisted that her brother should accompany him to bring something for Emma, with which he complied, although his sister offered to lay any wager that he would spill it before reaching them.

"I assure you," she continued, to her companion, "he is the most awkward creature in the world, though, I own, a very good-natured one. I would not trust him to carry a jelly or a cream on any account, where I had much regard for the carpet."

The gentlemen soon re-appeared, each bearing something in his hands; but Miss Osborne's prophecy happened to be amply fulfilled: just as her brother was stooping to present to Emma a glass of whipped cream, he stumbled over a foot-stool, and laid the whole contents in her lap.

Up jumped Miss Osborne in great dismay and tribulation, and poured forth the most vague apologies, her brother being far too shocked to speak at all. Emma begged her not to be concerned, it really was so entirely an accident that there could be no blame attached to any one. Nothing could exceed the good-humour with which she bore the injury to her dress, or her desire to restore Lord Osborne to his former equanimity.

"The dress will be totally spoilt," observed Miss Osborne, sorrowfully—"and such a pretty one, what a pity: what can I do for you?"

Sir William suggested that Miss Watson should immediately try some remedy for removing the stain; perhaps Miss Osborne's own woman could afford her means of relief—at all events, it was better to make use of any method that could be effected as speedily as possible, since delay would certainly increase the evil. Adopting his advice, Miss Osborne hurried her young friend away, expressing the most sincere regrets at the accident, both as regarded spoiling her gown, and interrupting her amusement.

Emma did not attempt to deny that she was sorry for her pretty dress; but she made the admission with so much good humour, and with so evident a desire of excusing Lord Osborne, that her companion was perfectly delighted with her.

An accurate investigation up-stairs, proved that the unfortunate gown was ruined almost beyond hope of remedy; and Miss Osborne suggested that she should put on one of her own, as a substitute, as they were so nearly of a size that it was certain to fit well. Her whole wardrobe was placed at Emma's disposal, and she was soon re-equipped, and ready to descend to the company again, whilst the injured dress was submitted to the inspection of a committee of waiting women, who were to take any possible measures for its reparation. But as Miss Osborne took this opportunity of adjusting her toilette for the evening, so much time was expended up-stairs, that the concert was over before they returned to the music-room, and they found the company separated into groups, some slowly parading through the different apartments—some enjoying the collation in the refreshment-room—whilst some had disappeared to prepare their dresses for the ball.

Sir William Gordon joined them almost immediately, with enquiries as to the nature and extent of the injuries inflicted, and an assurance that the culprit had retreated, being afraid once more to face Miss Watson. Emma expressed such very simple and sincere regret that he should be distressed, that Sir William volunteered to carry to him the news of her entire forgiveness, and her friendly disposition. But Miss Osborne did not seem disposed to part with him on such an errand. Detaining Emma's arm, she engaged Sir William in a lively conversation, and it seemed evident that her desire to ascertain the nature of Emma's feelings towards Sir William arose from the fact that her own were rather warmly in his favour. He was amusing, and rather clever, and Emma enjoyed listening to him. Her attention was diverted by the approach of her sisters, and she was immediately called on to explain the change in her dress which, of course, attracted their eyes. This she did by merely relating that her gown had met with an accident, and that Miss Osborne had been so kind as to lend her another.

Now that they were standing under the immediate patronage of Miss Osborne, Tom Musgrove thought proper to approach and join them. Emma, of course, was his object, not only on her own account, but because her arm was linked in that of the honorable Miss Osborne.

"How rejoiced I am to see you looking so well, Miss Emma Watson?" cried he. "Winston must certainly agree remarkably well with you; but it is a most unexpected pleasure to meet you under this noble roof; it is the first time I have had that satisfaction."

"On what a magnificent scale our noble hostess entertains," continued he, "there is not such hospitality exercised in any other mansion where I visit. Does it not remind you of the old feudal times, when fair ladies held their court, and knights and squires vied with one another for their bright smiles."

"I wish you would go and see for my brother, Mr. Musgrove," said Miss Osborne, looking quickly round.

"No, indeed; you must just have the goodness to search till you find him—from the turret to the cellar; from the library to the stable; including the dog-kennel—it is impossible to say where he may be."

"I obey your gracious commands with the precipitation naturally your due," cried he, bowing again, but not moving; in fact, he was too much delighted to speak to the young lady at all, to be in any hurry to conclude the interview.

"Don't put yourself out of breath in the chace," said Sir William. "I am sure Miss Osborne will not require that of you. Take your time, and look carefully, for I suspect much he is artfully hidden from sight."

He tried once more to secure further orders from Miss Osborne; but she would not look round again, and he was forced to console himself by wandering over the reception rooms, and enquiring of every acquaintance if they could tell him where "Osborne" was, as he was sent by Miss Osborne to find him.

"How I detest that chattering magpie of a man," cried Miss Osborne as soon as he was out of hearing, "I hope he is no friend of yours, Miss Watson?" appealing to Emma, "I have been told that some women admire him prodigiously."

"I am glad of that; he is just the sort of person I thoroughly despise. He has not an opinion of his own, and is as mischievous as he is idle and vain."

"Upon my word, Miss Osborne," cried Sir William, "if you express such very strong opinions, you will frighten me out of your company. If you treat Tom Musgrove with such severity, I wonder what character you would give to me?"

"You! Sir William, I make no scruple in telling you how vain, disagreeable, and idle you are. What else can you expect me to say? Do not you waste your days in fox hunting and coursing; your nights in drinking or flirting? are you not well known as the worst master, the worst landlord, the worst magistrate, the worst member in the county? Your misdeeds are notorious; do you not pull down schools, and destroy churches? did I not hear of a fire on your estate where much damage was done—were you not supposed to be deeply concerned in that?"

"I pray your mercy, Miss Osborne; do not enumerate any more of my misdeeds, or you will indeed drive me away. Such public censure is more than I can stand."

Miss Osborne now proposed that they should adjourn to the room where the collation was spread, as she protested the anxiety of mind she had undergone had given her a prodigious appetite, and she thought she could eat an ice or a cream, with at least two-thirds of a wafer.

After a search of half an hour, Tom Musgrove was successful in discovering the owner of the mansion, and when he learnt that Emma Watson was with his sister, he consented to return to her. He looked rather ashamed of himself as he approached the ladies, but still he ventured on; his first glance was at Emma's gown, and seeing no stain upon it, and never discovering that the dress itself had been changed, he looked much relieved, and ventured to whisper:

Emma warmly assured him that she was incapable of supposing such a thing for a moment. He exclaimed at her extreme good-nature, protesting that he should never forget it; then looking down at her dress, observed that he did not think it was hurt by it. Emma was diverted at his entire want of suspicion that it was another gown she wore, and would not distress him by telling him of the change; his solicitude that she should have what was nice, and his care to prevent another catastrophe were most praiseworthy, and amused her till a summons came from Lady Osborne to her daughter, announcing that they were waiting for her to open the ball.

To the ball-room accordingly they all proceeded, Lord Osborne still keeping close to Emma, in such a way as to lead to the natural conclusion amongst the spectators, that they were going to dance together. This did not seem to be his intention, as he presently asked her who she was going to dance with. She told him in reply that she was disengaged; and she internally fancied that he was about to propose himself as her partner, an honor which she did not desire. But when she found this was not the case, and that he was quite contented with thinking somebody must soon ask her, she certainly felt a little disappointed, and rather annoyed fancying that he wished to prevent her dancing at all. Miss Osborne had taken pains to procure partners for her sisters, knowing that they had but few acquaintances in the room, and Emma thought it strange she should take no notice of her. A few words she whispered to her brother, to which he replied by a nod; and then she too disappeared amongst a group, and left her standing by her extraordinary and taciturn admirer. She began to feel rather strange and uncomfortable, and to wish herself quietly in a corner out of sight, or with Mrs. Willis, whom she could not discover; anywhere in fact but in a conspicuous station in the ball-room, with none near her whom she knew, except their host.

At length she took courage to say that as they would probably be in the way where they now stood, she should be glad to find Mrs. Willis, and sit with her. Before Lord Osborne had time to reply, the lady they were speaking of appeared accompanied by her brother.

"Oh, Howard, I'm monstrous glad you're come. You shall dance with Miss Emma Watson, I've been trying to get her a partner for this great while."

Mr. Howard who had but recently escaped from the attentions required of him by Lady Osborne, and who had been searching for Emma with this very intention, felt all his expectation of pleasure die away at the sight of the young couple standing together. He knew enough of his pupil to be aware of the extraordinary interest he must take in his companion even to think of procuring her a partner, and he could hardly suppose that she would be quite undazzled by the devotion which was thus testified by a young nobleman. It was therefore with a grave though civil air that he took up the request that Lord Osborne had dictated, and solicited the honor of her hand.

To refuse was out of the question, and yet she could not bear to accept what seemed so unwillingly proffered. She thought he disliked the proposition; he concluded she was disappointed in not having the young baron for her partner; this feeling produced on each side a natural coldness of manner, very unfavorable to securing an agreeable dance. She could think of nothing to say which would serve to introduce the topic of her thoughts, though she was longing to explain how uncomfortable she had felt, whilst standing apart with Lord Osborne; and he seemed to be labouring under a total absence of all ideas whatever, in the least productive of conversation. Their dance was as different as possible from that of the happy evening when they had first stood up together, and in spite of her philosophic resolutions to cultivate indifference towards him, she could not get over her regret at his manner. It was over at last, and whilst trying to find her party she encountered Miss Osborne and her brother. The former immediately addressed her with a hope that she had enjoyed the dance, but before she had time to reply, with the most astonishing quickness Lord Osborne answered:

"I am sure she did not, Rosa, for both she and Howard looked as if they were following a funeral, and scarcely spoke a word to each other."

The lady and gentleman were both rather put out of countenance at this accusation, and Miss Osborne looking archly at Emma, said:

Emma only answered by blushing still more deeply; and Lord Osborne, who appeared seized with the spirit of communicativeness just at the wrong moment, continued:

"Next time you send her a partner, Rosa, I hope he will be more to her mind," from which sentence Emma conjectured that it was to Miss Osborne's intervention that she was indebted for Mr. Howard's appearance.

"Suppose you were to dance with me, Miss Watson, and see whether I could not be agreeable; only, Rosa, you must call a very easy dance, for I shall not be able to get through an intricate one."

Miss Osborne looked rather surprised at this extraordinary exertion on her brother's part; Mr. Howard turned away. Just at this moment Tom Musgrove approached again, and Lord Osborne instantly addressing him, desired he would go and ask that good-natured Miss Watson to dance, as he felt particularly obliged to her. It would have amused a spectator to watch his countenance on receiving this command: he could not make up his mind to disobey; indeed as he found the whole family so much in favor at the Castle, he intended to take them under his patronage likewise, but he wished to dance only with Emma, and had come to seek her for that purpose. After a moment's hesitation he turned to her, and affecting to believe she was the one intended, requested the honor of her hand, in compliance equally with his own wishes and his noble friend's commands. His noble friend, however, was by no means inclined to cede his prior claim on her hand in favor of Mr. Musgrove, but plainly told him that the Miss Watson whom he was to ask was an elder one, who had been very good-natured when he wanted a seat. Since he could not dance with Miss Osborne, who was likewise engaged, Tom thought the next thing must be to take the sister of Lord Osborne's partner, and he accordingly went to find the young lady whose good nature had made so deep an impression on that nobleman. But Penelope was engaged, and he, desirous of obeying the orders he had received so far as he could, but preferring Margaret to her sister, was very glad on this occasion to ask her to dance with him.

Margaret received him in a flutter of gratified vanity and delight, which displayed itself in her looks and actions; it was such a very unexpected compliment, that she felt certain that his affections were once more returning to her—and that, before long, he would become her avowed admirer.

Emma's dance was little more lively than her last; Lord Osborne was so very much occupied in keeping his feet in time, and giving the proper hand at the proper moment, to his vis-à-vis, that he had no faculties to spare for engaging in conversation. She saw Mr. Howard did not dance and more than once she met his eyes fixed on her with a look which she could not understand. It was not dislike or disapproval that his countenance expressed—she would rather have described it as depicting concern and a friendly interest—as if he were gifted with second sight, and foresaw for her some great misfortune. She tried to avoid looking at him, and was provoked with herself for thinking so much about his looks and manners, in spite of her repeatedly formed resolutions to the contrary.

At the conclusion of this dance, there was a general movement to the supper-room, and Emma found herself escorted there by her late partner, rather to her own astonishment, as she could not help feeling that her place should have been occupied by some one of the more distinguished guests. Indeed she fancied, for a moment, that both his mother and sister looked a little annoyed at his selection. She was quite separated from all her own family, except Margaret, who, with the assistance of Tom Musgrove, was placed nearly opposite to them—and who was now, in a peculiarly happy state of spirits. In fact, Emma saw, with some little surprise, that they were carrying on a very lively flirtation—which, as the excellent champagne took effect on his head, became every moment more tender on his part.

On rising from supper, Miss Osborne again passed her arm under Emma's, and led her out of the room: complaining that she was tired and heated, she proposed adjourning to the conservatory, where, by the light of beautiful lamps amidst the murmur of a fountain, the delicious odour of flowers, and the chequered glimpses of a bright wintry moon playing on the blossoms and shrubs, they sauntered in silence. At the end of the conservatory was an alcove fitted up with sofas, and almost concealed from observation by a row of orange trees, whose beautiful blossoms perfumed the air. Into this recess Miss Osborne conducted her friend—and here they had been sitting only a few minutes when they heard voices approaching.

After reconnoitring through the boughs, Miss Osborne softly whispered, "It's only your sister and Mr. Musgrove—sit still, or we shall be plagued with his company."

Trusting that they would not loiter long, the two young ladies remained concealed; and, in another moment, the couple approached so close as to enable them distinctly to hear what they said.

"But you need not envy us, I assure you, Mr. Musgrove, we, poor, weak women, who have no defence from slander—no pity for the deep heart-wounds we are ever compelled to bear in silence; oh! I assure you, if, as you say, we are like angels, our lot is any thing but angelic."

"But women have so much more—I mean to say they are so much less—that is, you know, they have not any thing at all?"

He did not seem quite aware of what he did mean; and Miss Osborne's looks expressed a degree of amusement that threatened the security of their concealment. She succeeded, however, in stifling her laughter, and catching up his words—

"So they have—you say very true—you mean, no doubt, they have more tenderness and less thought than you—but that increases our evils. We love and dare not shew it—and we smile whilst a dagger is placed in our hearts—and die happy, if, in dying, we can secure the peace of some beloved object."

"What are these flowers, Miss Margaret?" said Tom, who evidently found it difficult to sustain his part in this very pathetic conversation.

"You take an interest, indeed!" cried Margaret, laughing affectedly; "ah! I know you better."

"If you doubt my word, you don't know me at all—tell me, is there one of all those men in that bright assembly, for whom you would put on those mystic blossoms?"

"None, upon my word," cried she, again; "none for whom I would consent to deck myself—none who could tempt me to such a sacrifice of life and liberty."

"True, indeed; but why should you ask; you care not for me—you take no interest in me—you profess much indeed—but you are a man of professions."

"Cruel assertion—you cannot believe it possible. I assure you I have the most feeling heart in the world."

"In professing my admiration—my attachment—impossible—by this fair hand, I swear I love you beyond expression. Will you wear the orange blossoms for me?"

"Will I? ah! dearest Tom—you little know my heart if you doubt the willingness—but may I trust you?"

"I vow to you by the bright moon above us—by all the honor of my ancestors; by every thing that is dear to me, that you are the fairest, best, most amiable, lovely, perfect woman of my acquaintance."

"Flatter you! you indulge in an idea derogatory to yourself, to me—some women I might flatter—some I have flattered—but not you—that is impossible—tell me, Margaret, do you love me."

"Doubt you my love? Can you question my feelings—would you probe my heart—ecstatic moment—bliss beyond conception. Tom, I am yours in life and death."

"You are mine and I am yours—but hush, there are voices coming—let us return to the dancing—"

With slow, and apparently, reluctant step, Margaret was drawn away; and, the moment they were out of hearing, Miss Osborne turned to her companion and aroused her from the state of almost stupid astonishment, in which she was plunged, by commencing a rapid, but whispered apology, for having become unintentionally the confidante of her sister's happy prospects. She assured her it was entirely from a friendly feeling towards her, that she had sat silent—for she felt had they started out and put the lovers out of countenance by their appearance, the declaration would have been interrupted, the whole affair disarranged—and more mischief might have been perpetrated, than they would ever have hoped to repair.

At the same time she promised honorably to conceal the secret thus unintentionally come to her knowledge, until it was generally published, and she was able to present her congratulations to Miss Margaret. She did not think it necessary to add how singularly absurd she had thought both gentleman and lady on the occasion, or with how great a risk of choking her effort to suppress her laughter had been.

To Emma the sentences overheard had conveyed a sensation of illimitable wonder. That Tom Musgrove should have thought of marrying any woman, and especially Margaret, a girl with whom he had formerly flirted till he was tired, that he should really be enough in love to marry her without money or connexions appeared almost miraculous. She was vexed that Miss Osborne should have overheard all the nonsense passing between them, for she could not help fearing, from the glance of her eye, that she would ridicule such affection and folly.

Then too she felt very doubtful as to her sister's happiness with a man whose present levity and idleness promised but ill for the future. Certainly Margaret loved him, but hers was a love which doubtless might have been transferred to some other object, and was but little likely to make her seriously unhappy.

All these thoughts passed through her mind whilst slowly accompanying her companion to the ball-room, where they neither sought nor saw the two whose conversation had so much interested her.

The evening to Emma had decidedly been one of more pain than pleasure; she was bitterly disappointed by the conduct and manners of Mr. Howard, and this interview, instead of increasing their acquaintance, or promoting their friendship, seemed to have ended only in finishing and strengthening that incomprehensible division between them which had once or twice before this surprised or alarmed her.

Regret at this circumstance combined with a feeling of lassitude and weariness, from not being accustomed to such late hours, sufficed to rob her movements, at first, of all spirit and grace during the next dance, and to take away all sprightliness from her conversation. Her partner, the lively Sir William Gordon, expressed a fear that she was ill, and proposed sitting down, but desirous not to attract attention, she asserted herself perfectly competent to continue the figure, and exerted herself more effectually to dispel his ideas, lest he should succeed in guessing the origin of her want of spirits. The effort was perfectly successful, and carefully smothering her own feelings, she allowed her partner to talk in his usual gay and careless style, and rewarded his conversation with smiles which encouraged him to proceed.

He ascertained that she was to remain at the Castle that night, and informed her that he was also to be an inmate for a few days, so that he had the satisfaction of knowing that he should have the opportunity of following up the acquaintance so happily begun, and that her appearance was not only that of a dazzling meteor to shine across his path with rare brilliancy for a few minutes, and then leave him to darkness and despair for the future.

"No," said Emma; "I trust I have an orbit, though a small one, but too distant and remote a one from yours, Sir William, for it ever to be likely that our paths should cross again."

"You don't say so, Miss Watson; surely if Miss Osborne has discovered and learnt to appreciate your worth—your brilliancy—it is very possible for an inferior individual like me equally to keep you in sight."

"No," said Emma; "it requires Miss Osborne's abilities for that, and I am sure you cannot pretend to vie with her in that respect."

"Beyond all question, no," cried Sir William; "I have not such vanity or impertinence; have I not already informed you I am the most modest creature breathing?"

"Oh, yes," replied Emma smiling; "we settled that point so long ago that it had almost escaped my memory in the interval; but now you mention it, I do recollect that you said so before."

"I think you wrong me—you should say too good, in thus readily allowing your claim to superior merit."

"I must decline discussing that point, being incapable of forming a judgment on the subject."

"By no means—all I can allow you to infer from my silence is, that Miss Osborne has been, voluntarily, so very kind to me, that she deserves my gratitude, but that I have seen too little of her to warrant my forming an opinion as to her talents or abilities."

"Exceedingly so," replied Emma warmly; "it is a countenance that improves on one so very much—surely you must admire her."

Sir William did not return a direct answer, and Emma suspected that he would have been more ready with a reply, had his admiration been merely superficial. Yet it had struck her that Miss Osborne's manner to him was uncertain and capricious, as if she did not wish to give him encouragement, or was trying to play with his feelings, whilst Sir William, instead of seeking to overcome this, appeared rather desirous of amusing himself with some other objects.

She began to think she was the subject of some spell, destined to be the puppet of one or other of her companions, who seemed continually acting towards her some part which she could not understand. Perhaps they were all trifling with her feelings, or amusing themselves at her expense by giving her encouragement which induced her to enter society decidedly above what was her proper situation.

She tried to shake off this very uncomfortable feeling, but it seemed to have taken fast hold of her mind, and her hitherto animated countenance became again clouded, her steps were dull, and her whole air exhibited fatigue and depression.

Sir William was evidently watching her closely, and this annoyed her; presently he said again,

Totally forgetful, at the moment, of the subject on which they had just been conversing, Emma started at this address, and looked puzzled without replying.

"I mean," continued he, answering her look, "that I had fancied you were particular friends, and I wished to hear your opinion of her—of Miss Osborne."

"My opinion, I assure you, would not be worth giving, Sir William; but I will inform you though I cannot presume to call myself her friend, I have received very great attention from Miss Osborne, which has naturally prepossessed me in her favor; and what I have seen of her gives me such an opinion of her, that if our situations in life had made us equal, I dare say our acquaintance might have grown into friendship."

This assurance apparently satisfied Sir William, as he dropped the subject of Miss Osborne, and started off on a lively dissertation on the nature of friendship, which amused Emma as long as she had strength for the dance or attention to bestow on him. Her weariness however had increased so much that she at last gave up, and was glad to rest in a corner, before she had completed the allotted two dances. Here she was discovered by Miss Osborne, who moved to compassion by her weary looks, or influenced perhaps by some other unacknowledged motive, was persuaded, after a faint opposition, to allow her to retire to rest.

And so ended Emma's enjoyments of the ball at Osborne Castle; it had certainly been productive of little pleasure, and had cost her a handsome dress; yet upon the whole she found herself regretting less the actual injury inflicted on her than the unrealized pleasure which her imagination had promised.

She was convinced, on reflection, that this dissatisfaction must spring from some fault in her own mind; had her feelings been under proper regulation, she would have entered with contentment or satisfaction into the amusement before her, instead of worrying and wearying her spirit in wishes for what was withheld. Her partiality for Mr. Howard was the origin of all this; and if this incipient partiality already produced her so much discontent and evil feeling, it became her to check it at once, and vigorously, lest she should find herself deprived of her peace of mind, before she was aware that she had gone astray.

The conjoined effects of excitement of mind, and unusual dissipation tended naturally to produce a restless and sleepless night, and finding early the next morning that her head would be the better for fresh air, she resolved to try and find her way out of doors before the breakfast which would probably be at a very late hour.

The wintry sun-beams were sparkling on the hoar frost, and glancing red upon the naked boughs of the trees around, as she quitted the porch; the air was brisk and enlivening—the sky free from clouds—and promising herself a pleasant ramble, she walked into the park. The path she chose lay along the side of beautiful hanging wood of beech, and she pursued it in profound solitude for some time, hearing no other sound than the echo of her own footsteps on the hard ringing gravel; but after walking a considerable distance, it struck her that there was a sound of other feet in her vicinity which seemed to be keeping parallel with herself, but farther in the wood. Supposing it might be some labourer or gamekeeper, she paused to listen, and allow them to pass on; but the steps likewise ceased when she did, and that so immediately as to make her doubt if it were not fancy altogether.

Again resuming her walk, she immediately heard the accompanying sound, and this time being convinced it was no delusion, she tried to see through the wood, and ascertain who was thus her silent companion, but the shrubs and underwood were too thick to allow her to see anything.

Not quite liking to be thus accompanied, she resolved to return home, and an opening which appeared to her to lead in the direction of the castle at that moment presenting itself, she, unhesitatingly, struck off in that direction. The footsteps no longer met her ear; but no sooner was her attention released from this object, than she saw with a different kind of alarm that the rapidly gathering clouds predicted rain. Not liking the prospect of a wetting, she became rather anxious about the direction of the path she was following—the turns and windings of which began to perplex her, and she soon came to the conclusion that she had quite lost her way. Certain, however, that the castle must be within a mile of her, though not visible from where she stood, she would have rambled on indifferent to this consideration, but for the state of the weather, which became every moment more threatening.

Hoping to discover the turrets of the castle amidst the trees, she climbed up a small eminence, in order to obtain a more extensive prospect, and from this spot, though no view of Osborne Castle met her eyes, she saw in a little glen beneath a cottage, apparently belonging to a keeper or gardener, and there she determined to apply for directions as to the shortest way home.

During the momentary pause, whilst taking this survey of the landscape, her quick ear again caught the sound of the footsteps which had before seemed to follow her. Well aware that there could in reality be no cause for alarm, she overcame, as well as she could, the sort of nervous excitement which had increased upon her feelings, and listened attentively.

Her nerves were naturally firm, though her fancy was lively, and she, under ordinary circumstances, would have cared little for her invisible companion, but the excitement of last night's dissipation, probably, affected her in some degree, as it was with a sensible palpitation of her heart that she awaited the appearance of the intruder, as she thought he must immediately be visible between the open trees near her. The tread was light and steady, evidently that of a gentleman, too light, she thought, for Lord Osborne, who was not remarkable for his grace in walking; and her heart suggested the idea that it might be Mr. Howard.

She would not speak to him, if it were, that she was resolved on; she would not allow him to be friendly only in private, whilst he was cold and distant before witnesses; but she thought she should like to ascertain if it was he, and like to see how he would be disposed to behave.

The steps were now so close, another moment must reveal the figure; she would not seem to be waiting for him, and turned once more to look at the lodge below, to which a few large heavy drops of rain made it advisable she should speedily retreat; and whilst her head was thus averted a few rapid bounds brought to her side Sir William Gordon.

The young man would in all probability have felt but little gratified had he known that the flush on her cheek at his sight was entirely one of mortification and disappointment, for whatever she might try to persuade herself, she was really quite disappointed that the intruder was not Mr. Howard, as she had fancied.

She gave him as friendly a return to his salutation as she could force from her lips—far more than she felt from the fear of betraying her feelings; whilst he professed most unbounded satisfaction at his good luck in thus overtaking her.

On his enquiring where she was going, she owned she had lost her way, and was thinking of taking shelter in the cottage before them from the rapidly encreasing rain.

"Do you require shelter?" cried he; "then let us hasten there at once; but I thought you must be a fairy or a sprite, no mortal maiden could be walking at this hour after dancing all night as you did. Seeing you could go without rest, I naturally concluded you would be alike indifferent to the variations of the elements—proof to the storm—impervious to the rain."

Emma smilingly assured him she was very far from this; and that she must now condescend to make haste to avoid a thorough wetting. He begged to be allowed to show her the way, and as they descended the steep side of the glen together, she felt that she ought to be thankful for his arrival, as the path was so abrupt, and in some places almost precipitous that his support was, if not absolutely necessary, at least very convenient, when in a hurry, as she was at present.

With all their haste, however, she was not a little wet, by the time they stood in the porch of the lodge, and were right glad when, on the door unclosing, in answer to their knock, they saw a bright fire burning on the hearth.

The keeper's wife, a pretty and neat-looking young woman, very hospitably pressed them to enter, exerted herself to dry Emma's cloak and hat, and then asking if they had breakfasted, set about preparing them a meal with all expedition, probably pitying the uncomfortable lot of those who were obliged by fashion to defer their morning meal so long. The keen appetite which a walk on a winter's morning would produce was sufficient to have made welcome even inferior fare to that which she displayed. The excellent bread and butter, the eggs, the apples, the raspberry jam, were all tempting in themselves, and the jug of home-brewed ale which she placed for Sir William was declared by him to be an excellent substitute for chocolate after a late supper and an early walk.

Whilst she was preparing these things, her child, an infant of a few months old, awoke in its cradle near the chimney corner. Perceiving that the mother was too busy to attend to him, Emma volunteered to act the part of nurse; and, being really fond of children, took much pleasure in the occupation. Sir William looked at her with admiration—he had been struck with her when dressed for the ball, and surrounded by a crowd of other elegant women, but here the effect was doubled by the accompaniments. The small and plainly furnished room, was brightly illumined by the blazing fire—which, in spite of the gloom without, threw a ruddy glow over every thing beside it.

Emma's simple dress shewing her figure unencumbered by ornament or superfluous clothing, her dark hair, now wetted by the rain carelessly pushed back from her glowing cheeks, highly coloured by the rapid exercise which she had just undergone; her graceful movements as she tossed and played with the infant in her arms, and the sweet smiles which she bestowed on the really pretty child, struck him as forming the prettiest picture he had ever seen. He drew back a little to contemplate it, and being an excellent artist, he could not resist the temptation of trying a sketch of her figure on a leaf in his pocket-book.

Engrossed with her charge, and not much caring for his company, she did not for some time notice his occupation, and he had made a very satisfactory though slight sketch of her, before she was in the least aware of it. But suddenly turning to him, and catching his eyes fixed on her, whilst the pencil was suspended under his fingers, the idea of what he was doing struck her at once. The perfect simplicity of her manner when charging him with it, the freedom from all affectation, and all appearance of gratified vanity, seemed to him no less remarkable than her grace and beauty, and he no longer wondered at the effect her presence had visibly exercised over both Lord Osborne and Mr. Howard, and only felt surprise that Miss Osborne herself should not feel uneasy at placing her brother in proximity to so captivating a girl. He was sure, had his heart been free, she would inevitably have conquered it, but his long standing partiality for Miss Osborne herself was not to be overthrown by the unconscious rivalry of Emma Watson.

"I was not aware you were an artist, Sir William," said she, quietly taking the paper from his hand and looking over it, "this indicates that you are a master of the pencil. You will allow me to keep it I hope, it can be of no use to you."

"Excuse me, the sketch I cannot part with, at least not at present, I wish to make a drawing of the subject; as the interior of a cottage it will be perfect; pray do not require me to give it up." As he spoke he took the sketch from her, as if afraid she might detain it against his wishes.

She said no more in opposition, but looking out of the window, began to wonder whether there was any prospect of the rain ceasing, so as to give them a chance of reaching the Castle in comfort.

"I assure you we shall not be missed these two hours," said he, "there is not the remotest chance of any one being up in the Castle before noon, after such a ball as that of last night."

"I should not like to spend many such nights," observed Emma, "one soon tires of pleasure or rather of dissipation."

"What sort of life would you have, Miss Watson, could you decide your lot with a wish—have you made up your mind?"

"Hardly, it is a point that requires reflection, and I cannot say that I have bestowed much on it," replied Emma.

"Indeed—you don't say so—I thought all young ladies settled that before hand—the situation, residence, fortune, even the name which the future was to bring them, do you not arrange that entirely."

"It is never too late to mend, that must be your comfort; begin now—do you prefer the country, or are you ambitious of a house in town?"

"Oh, the latter of course; a house in town and ten thousand a-year; you cannot imagine I should stop short if I once began wishing, what would be the good of that?"

"Bravo, I like to hear a lady speak her opinion boldly—so you are ambitious after all; I should not have thought that from your face, I am a great studier of countenance."

"But indeed you must blame yourself for my ambitious wishes," retorted Emma, "I am sure it was you who put them into my head, I told you I had never thought of anything of the kind."

"Very well, I see you are a promising pupil, I shall be proud of your progress, I have no doubt, but now to tell you the truth I should have assigned you a quiet cot in the country, a retired home, domestic cares and joys, a round of parochial duties, cheered by peace and content—a clever and well educated companion, not a dashing or ambitious one. I read your feelings as I thought in your face, and should have expected you to chose such a lot; you see how the best physiognomist may be mistaken—you blush for me I perceive."

Emma did blush more than she wished, and she felt too much to dare to answer for a moment, then recovering herself with an effort, she replied:

"Are you aware, Sir William, how nearly you have drawn my lot—did you know I was the daughter of a country parson, and am situated nearly as you describe?"

"No indeed," replied he with much animation, "I am after all then a better guesser than I took credit for, it is curious that I should have so closely described you. You live in the midst of content and peace do you!"

"I always thought content was an internal, not an external blessing," replied Emma, again evading his question, "one which it became our duty to cultivate for ourselves, and I was blaming myself for enjoying so little of it at this moment, being sensible that I feel rather discontented at the detention in this cottage."

"Well, I am certainly more amiable than you, Miss Watson, for I am as happy as possible, or nearly so at least. But now you mention it, it occurs to me that perhaps the rain may continue all day, in which case we should be really confined in our present refuge. Suppose we were to consult with the hostess as to the means of escape."

"But what means can she suggest?" enquired Emma, "except walking home, and in that case we shall certainly get wet through."

"I do not see that that catastrophe is absolutely inevitable," replied he, "we might send to the Castle for a carriage; this seems to me the most simple remedy; do you object?"

Emma was rather startled at the idea of taking such a liberty, but she thought, perhaps, Sir William knew the ways of the family best, and she did not raise any objection. Mrs. Browning, the keeper's wife, when called into counsel, regretted extremely that she had no one about whom she could send on such an errand, her husband being out with the boy that helped; she would have gone herself but she had a cough, and was afraid of the wet. This was an unexpected dilemma. Sir William meditated in silence.

"Bless you, no, sir—only one little tilted cart, which my husband drives to church on Sunday."

"Well and is not that at home—can we not have that? it would do admirably if we could;" cried he, delighted at the idea.

"Certainly, sir, I think I could harness it for you, the horse is at home to-day unluckily—I will go and see about it."

"No, no, my good woman, let me go and see,—I dare say, I can manage the affair without troubling you," said Sir William.

But she assured him her presence was necessary to show him the way, at least; but, if the young lady would be so kind as again to hold the infant, they would soon have every thing right. To this, of course, Emma readily agreed, and she soon, from the thinness of the partition, heard Sir William's voice joking with their hostess about the horse and harness.

"Miss Watson," said he, "your carriage is waiting—are you ready to undertake the expedition under my escort?"

Emma assented; and, after thanking the mother, and kissing the child—a process which Sir William pretended likewise to imitate, she was conducted to the door, and assisted into the neat, little chay-cart by him—and, under his protection, commenced the journey.

"What a charming little scene," cried he, slackening the reins to allow the horse to walk up a long hill; "I wish you would write a pastoral poem descriptive of the little cottage and its inhabitants, Miss Watson."

"And make you the hero of it, of course," replied Emma, "I wish I could, the subject would be decidedly novel and amusing."

"Oh! by all means, make me the hero; introduce me in any way you like, you could not do wrong."

"I should particularly celebrate your great and glorious appetite, and the heroic way in which you attacked the bread and butter," said she.

"Miss Watson, you are growing satirical, I will not trust you; I know you will say something cruel of me, I see it in your eyes."

"Your dexterity in harnessing a horse, that shall likewise be commemorated—we will say nothing about your buckling the traces all wrong, or the assistance Mrs. Browning was compelled to give you."

"Are you a witch, Miss Watson?" cried he. "How came you to know of my little blunders; upon my word, I begin to suspect you of something strange."

"Likewise your extreme partiality for little babies, and your amiable caresses bestowed on them."

"Why, the baby was not exactly the thing I should have chosen to kiss," replied he, slyly, "but mothers and nurses seem to prefer it to having such fees paid to themselves; but, if you think I was wrong, we will go another day and I will make a more judicious selection."

"Far from it; I think you displayed peculiar judgment and taste—I am serious in commending it. On the whole, I think you have behaved nobly this morning, and posterity should learn your merits through my song, if it were only in my power to write verses."

"Nay, now, I trust you are not going to have the cruelty to retract; remember, whilst I celebrate the adventure with my pencil, I shall trust to you to do so with your pen," cried he.

She only smiled and shook her head in reply, then, after a moment's pause, she suggested that it might, perhaps, be in his power to quicken the pace of the horse.

He assured her he was in no hurry; and he feared it would jolt her inconveniently, if they drove very fast. She was obliged to submit, as she saw he was determined to have his own way—but she thought the drive rather tedious, and was quite relieved when they reached the porch.

"Holla, what have you got there?" cried a voice, which she had no difficulty in recognising. "Why, Gordon, when did you set up that handsome equipage?"

"I will tell you, presently, Osborne—but I must first assist Miss Watson out," replied Sir William, gravely.

"Miss Watson! why, in the name of all that's wonderful, what frolic is this? If you wanted to take a drive with Miss Watson, why did you not take her in your curricle, Gordon?"

"Because, my good fellow," replied the baronet; "the curricle being uncovered, would have exposed us to the rain; you had better trust to me, Miss Watson, and let me lift you out—the step is very awkward for a lady—gently, now, there, you are safe," as he set her down within the porch, "I hope you are none the worse for your expedition. Do you not see, Osborne, this, our coach, is weather proof—and, therefore, convenient in such a rainy day."

"Only driving in the park—surely your lordship cannot object to so innocent a recreation."

"Why did you not ask for one of the carriages" said he reproachfully turning to Emma, who was trying not to laugh at his wondering look. "Then I could have accompanied you!"

"But," interrupted Sir William, "we were quite content with each other's society—and, as to our equipage, I defy you to produce one from your coach-house, at all to be compared to this elegant vehicle. Miss Watson, were you ever in one you liked better?"

"Never in one, for the loan of which I felt more obliged, I admit," replied she.

"There, I knew it; only add you never had a better charioteer, and then I shall be satisfied. I want a little commendation myself," added Sir William.

"I do not think you do—you seem so uncommonly well satisfied with your own exploits," returned Emma, laughing.

"Do come and have something to eat," interposed Lord Osborne, "I've done mine, but my sister and Miss Carr are in the breakfast-room."

Sir William, after sending for his groom to take home the cart, ran after his companions and joined them at the door of the breakfast-room. Both the young ladies raised their eyes in astonishment and visible curiosity, at their entrance together.

"Been out walking, Miss Watson," cried Miss Carr, "there must be something superlatively delightful in such a morning as this—are you partial to rain?"

"Not at all," replied Emma, "but it did not rain when I left the castle, and I did not think it would."

"Did you walk far?—and are you not wet?" enquired Miss Osborne, rather coldly.

"Where do you think we breakfasted, Miss Osborne?" commenced Sir William, "for I beg to inform you, we, early risers, have had a walk, a breakfast and a drive, this morning, before your finished you first meal."

"Really, I cannot pretend to guess where so eccentric a person as Sir William Gordon takes his breakfast, or what his amusements are."

"Oh, do tell us," cried Miss Carr, "so you and Miss Watson have been visiting together, have you; in some gipsy-camp or where?"

"Not I," replied Miss Carr, pushing back her chair from the breakfast table, "I have no talents for divination. Rosa, I am going to your room to try your harp—will you come when you are at leisure?"

Emma, who had not sat down, declined all breakfast, and proposed to go to her own room to remove her walking dress—enquiring of Miss Osborne where she should find her afterwards.

"I will shew you your way," cried that young lady—then leading her into the hall, "that flight of stairs leads to the gallery where your bed-room is. I will wait for you here, before this fire."

Emma walked slowly up-stairs, and turning her head, she saw Sir William join Miss Osborne and address her. His reception was any thing but gracious—the young lady seemed bitterly offended about something, drew up her head—pouted her under lip, and gave unmistakeable signs of being out of temper with him. Emma did not wait to see whether he succeeded in propitiating her anger, which she suspected arose from the supposition that they had been walking together; and, to allay which, she determined to give an accurate account of their adventure. On descending again to the hall, she found only her friend, the gentleman having disappeared, and with her she proceeded to the sitting room where Miss Osborne usually spent her mornings.

Here the three girls were sufficiently merry and talkative, but Emma could not find an opportunity of introducing the subject of her morning walk, which she could not help fancying was scrupulously avoided by her young hostess—a circumstance which rather annoyed her, as she particularly desired to explain the reason of her return with Sir William.

The whole day was too wet to allow anything like exercise out of doors, and Miss Carr complained bitterly of the stupidity and dullness of a wet morning after a ball; indeed she found it so great an evil that she threw herself on a sofa and fell into a doze, from which she was roused by the entrance of Lord Osborne. At sight of him she started up, and tried to be animated and agreeable, but it was evidently thrown away upon him, as he seated himself by Emma, who was engaged in embroidering for his sister, and began to admire her work.

Emma's manners were too quiet and reserved to give Miss Carr any ground for supposing she was a voluntary rival, but his were so unusually animated as to make his admiration of her indubitable, and Miss Carr's jealousy extreme. Emma's thoughts were wandering—two wonders continually occupied her mind, one on the subject of Margaret and Tom Musgrove—the other more nearly connected with her own feelings and sentiments. She was roused by Miss Osborne's enquiring of her brother if he had seen any of their friends at the Parsonage that day. His answer was in the affirmative; he had been walking with Howard and had a long chat with him about something of importance, and Howard was thinking of going away for a few weeks, if he could get any one to take his duty; he thought his sister wanted change of air, and it was a long time since he had enjoyed a holiday.

"Going away!" exclaimed Miss Osborne, with a look of utter amazement; "this does take me entirely by surprise. What in the world can influence him to such a freak as that! going away, and at such a time!"

"I do not see why he should not go if he likes travelling in the cold," observed Lord Osborne coolly; "he has a right to a holiday if he chooses."

"And he has worked particularly hard of late," added Miss Carr maliciously; "he has had double duty to perform."

"Yes, both to old and young—the charitable visits that he pays to some old ladies are most exemplary," continued Miss Carr in a sarcastic tone. "No doubt he will be rewarded for his exertions, but I fear he will be much missed in his absence."

Miss Osborne frowned and bit her lip; Emma continued to devote an apparently steady attention to her work, and would not speak. Lord Osborne added,

"I gave him leave to go, as far as I was concerned, but I do not know whether her ladyship will like it. However, I think it rather hard if the poor man cannot have a holiday now and then; he's a very good sort of fellow, that Howard, though he was my tutor, I have a great regard for him; don't you think so too, Miss Watson."

"It is very natural that you should," replied Emma as steadily as she could, but not very well understanding what his lordship meant.

"I asked him to dine here to-day," continued he; "he said he should like to see you, Rosa, before he went, or something of that sort, but he did not seem certain about dining here, or when he should come up. I almost fancy he is not well, he is so different from usual."

"Something must be the matter with him indeed, if you notice a change, Osborne!" exclaimed his sister; "for I do not think you in general very quick at observing faces or expressions. I must certainly see him."

"I fancy he played his cards ill last night," said Miss Carr; "he made some blunder between hearts and diamonds I believe—I am certain he mistook one suit for another."

"You know very little of Mr. Howard, Fanny," replied her friend; "pray don't pretend to judge him, it's absurd."

"Of course it is," carelessly answered she; "it's not to be expected I should know anything of a man so completely out of my sphere. I dare say he is a mighty good sort of man, but he rather tires me when he talks."

"Where is Sir William Gordon?" enquired Miss Carr after a pause. "I wish he would come here, he amuses me with his nonsense."

"In the library painting. By the bye, Miss Watson, that's one thing I meant to speak about," continued his lordship with eager animation. "Do you know he has got the most capital likeness of you I ever saw; how came you to sit to him?—and he vows he will not give it to me."

"I did not sit to him," replied Emma, eager to clear up the mystery of her walk; "he made it without my knowing it, this morning. We happened to meet just as it began to rain, and both took shelter in the keeper's cottage, when he amused himself drawing, whilst I was playing with the baby."

"I cannot interfere with it, my lord," said she smiling. "I begged for the sketch myself and was refused."

"I vow I must see it," cried Miss Carr: "do come, Rosa, and keep me in countenance in intruding on his studio."

Miss Osborne declined, but suggested that her brother would do as well, if she wished for a companion, or fancied a guard was necessary.

"Quite unnecessary, Miss Carr—Sir William neither bites nor stings," replied she coolly and without attempting to move.

"You are a—what name shall I call you bad enough! Rosa, I vow I will go and have a tête-à-tête with Sir William—a nice little quiet flirtation, if you will not come with me."

"Very well, it will serve to keep you awake—pray do," replied she apparently quite unmoved.

Miss Carr departed, and a moment after Miss Osborne rose and walking to the window stood there in deep contemplation for some time. The other two were perfectly silent in the interval—at length returning to her companions, she took her brother's arm, and saying she wanted some conversation with him, she led him out to the conservatory to which a door opened from the room, and they disappeared from Emma. Left alone she sank into a profound reverie, and was engaged in trying, but not very successfully, to bring her own thoughts into order and discipline, when a gentle knock was heard at the door, and on her inviting the visitor to enter, Mr. Howard presented himself.

Both lady and gentleman were excessively embarrassed at this unexpected encounter.

"She has just left the room," replied she, sitting down again, and then not another word was spoken by either for some minutes. He was trying to be cold, she to be easy and natural; apparently she had the greatest success in her efforts, for after some deliberation, she said in as calm a voice as she could command:

"I hear you are thinking of leaving home, Mr. Howard, I hope I shall see Mrs. Willis again before you do."

"I suppose Lord Osborne told you?" replied he with a tone and emphasis which she could not quite comprehend.

"I certainly heard it from him," answered she, rather annoyed at his abruptness, and puzzled what to say next.

Another pause of some duration followed, and then he broke it, by an enquiry if she had enjoyed the ball last night. She answered rather eagerly, not nearly so much as the first one she had attended.

"I am surprised," replied he in a cold voice, "I fancied the friendly kindness of Miss Osborne, and the attentions of her brother would have secured you a pleasant evening."

"I hope I am not ungrateful for Miss Osborne's goodness, but she could not with her best endeavours secure happiness even for a single evening; and as to the attentions of her brother, to tell you the truth, such as they are they are not particularly conducive to pleasure. There was far more exaltation than excitement in being honored as his partner."

"We are, perhaps, all inclined to undervalue what is in our power," replied he very gravely.

"I beg your pardon, but I do not see what that has to do with the present case," said Emma, "it is not in my power to think Lord Osborne an entertaining partner, or a good dancer, and though I mean no reflection on him, I should not be sorry to think it was the last time we shall ever stand up together."

She could not make him out at all, and resolved not to speak again, since he seemed determined to quarrel with her. Again he broke the silence by an observation:

"I suppose now you have seen more of Osborne Castle, Miss Emma Watson, you have become better reconciled to it."

"I like it very much," said Emma, finding she was expected to say something, and not quite certain what would be best.

"I remember not long ago that you expressed very different sentiments," continued he, "but circumstances are altered now, no doubt, and it is astonishing how soon the mind becomes accustomed to such a change. We feel inclined to doubt that we ever thought otherwise from what we do now."

"Perhaps that is the reason," said Emma, "why I am unconscious of any change in my thoughts and feelings regarding the Castle and its inmates, except the natural feelings of being more at home here than before."

"That will probably encrease," said he significantly, "you will be much here in future."

"I do not think that," said Emma, "I have no claim on Miss Osborne which can lead me to expect such an honor."

"Those who have rank and wealth in their hands have a heavy responsibility," exclaimed he in a sort of reverie.

She made no reply, but continued her embroidery with exemplary perseverance, secretly entertaining a hope that some one would soon come in, to relieve her from the embarrassment of a very uncomfortable tête-à-tête. Presently looking up, when about to change the silk in her needle, she met his eyes fixed on her with a look which seemed at once to contradict the coldness of his tones and the gravity of his expressions. It called a deep blush into her cheeks, to see the earnest yet sad interest with which he regarded her; and she eagerly busied herself with her work in order to conceal her own emotion. She wished to speak, but could think of nothing to say sufficiently unconnected with her present feelings to make it safe to discuss. He was the first to break the silence.

"You do not agree with me, Miss Watson, I perceive; has your further intimacy in the Castle taught you that a pre-eminent situation is one of pleasure as well as honor; have you become convinced that happiness can be purchased and secured more easily in an exalted circle, or that distinction and luxury are good substitutes for liberty and ease."

"If I had thought my simple silence would have laid me open to such an imputation, Mr. Howard," replied Emma, "I should certainly have assented to your proposition."

"Forgive me for attributing the idea to you," said he in a more animated tone "honored as I have been with so much intercourse with you, it would be impossible for me to avoid feeling interested in your sentiments, and desirous for your happiness."

"I am much obliged for your kind expressions, but I trust that a visit of a few days in this family, need not give rise to any very alarming apprehensions amongst my friends, for my peace of mind and general content. These would be hardly worth caring for, if they were so easily thrown into disorder."

"Eyes unaccustomed to face the light, are easily dazzled," replied he significantly, "and for long afterwards can see nothing in its true colours."

"Am I to infer from what you say, that you think my acquaintance with Miss Osborne or even her brother likely to make me dissatisfied or unhappy; to induce me to disregard former friends, or despise those who have before been kind to me? Tell me plainly what you mean, Mr. Howard; it would be much easier and safer to be at once explicit, if you really wish to act the part of a friend."

She fixed her eyes on him as she spoke, her bashfulness overcome or forgotten in her eager anxiety for an answer—an explanation. His countenance, in his turn, betrayed extreme embarrassment, and he evidently hesitated what to say. She continued after a short pause, finding he gave no reply:

"I cannot help being afraid from your words, that you have some such charge to lay against me. Tell me, did Mrs. Willis think I neglected her last night; that I was too much engrossed with Miss Osborne. I should be extremely grieved were this the case, for nothing could be further from my wishes; if she felt hurt at anything, I fear I must have been wrong, and would willingly do anything in my power to explain the circumstance."

Mr. Howard's countenance betrayed that he was feeling much; but of what nature Emma could not exactly decide. He answered evidently with an effort,

"I assure you, you quite misunderstood me; I never intended to give you the impression that Clara was jealous of Miss Osborne. Your mutual friendship need not exclude you from intimacy with others—friendship is not like love—it should not—it certainly need not be encumbered by jealousy. But, Miss Watson, there is a feeling, a sentiment—a species of friendship, which will not bear a rival; an affection which is covetous of the smiles bestowed on others; which can only be satisfied by an entire return—" he paused a moment, and then added, "I beg your pardon, I have said too much, and I cannot expect you to understand me. We are going in a few days to some distance, and, perhaps, I may not see you again—I wish you every happiness—may you never have reason to do otherwise than rejoice in the friendships you contract," he stopped very abruptly, and after a momentary hesitation hastily quitted the room.

Emma was left alone to try and comprehend, as well as she could, the meaning and object of his very desultory conversation. There began to dawn upon her mind a new idea: he was jealous of Lord Osborne. It was undoubtedly the fact; but her own feelings were in such a state of confusion that she hardly comprehended whether it gave her more pain than pleasure to think this.

It was a very great pleasure to feel that he really cared for her. Jealousy by its existence proved love, and after her doubts as to his feelings and wishes this unexpected manifestation of his mind was at first very welcome. Certainly his going away was unfortunate and, in her opinion, ill-judged—it was resigning without a struggle—it was leaving the field open to his rival—it was, for anything he knew to the contrary, losing all chance of success, absolutely throwing away the opportunity. Did this look like a very ardent or determined affection—she feared not—to run away without necessity seemed rather to indicate a wish to give up the contest—perhaps he loved her against his will, his judgment, his sense of duty; but no—then he would not have waited for the appearance of a rival to teach him the necessity of avoiding her presence. Perhaps he only wished to give her time to know her own wishes—and form her own judgment of Lord Osborne, to allow him an open and undisputed field; and when he found his fears were visionary and groundless he would return. This she hoped to be the case.

As to his lordship, she never entertained a serious idea about him till this moment; and now, but for Mr. Howard's superior knowledge of his disposition, she should certainly have supposed that there was no risk of his making any one jealous by his attentions.

She could not suppose the idea of allying himself with a family plain and undistinguished like hers could possibly have entered his head; nor could she easily imagine any one who in person, habits, and taste would be less tempting to her. There was no credit due to her for not liking him—the absence of all ambition to become a baroness seemed so perfectly natural when the rank must be shared with such an individual. Superiority of station could not weigh a moment in her estimation, against superiority of intellect; her ambition did not prompt her to wish for distinction and honor only possessed because they were hereditary—but for the distinction of talent—the honor of virtue and worth: this was what had charms for her above all the gold, the splendour, the rank which the baron could offer.

Yet seriously she never expected to have the opportunity of proving her entire disinterestedness; the choice would never lie in her power; Lord Osborne could not seriously contemplate such a mesalliance, nor could his mother and sister possibly countenance it if he did. The idea carried absurdity and contradiction with itself: he certainly looked at her a good deal; but she could not build a substantial edifice of hope on so narrow a foundation in reality. He probably had looked at twenty girls before in the same way; and as to any other attentions, they were not so marked as to have raised any speculations in her own mind.

It was true Elizabeth had laughingly accused her of captivating him—but Elizabeth was only in joke—she could not have really imagined it possible. This idea raised a new dilemma in her mind.

Suppose Mr. Howard should have retired only to make way for the passive admiration of Lord Osborne; suppose he was waiting till his lordship left off looking at her; and suppose he never should do that—that his devotion should never proceed beyond a look—no expression escape him—but the expression which his eyes might chance to convey, what should she do, to show her indifference to his looks, and the absence of all speculation on their meaning which she really felt. She could not tell how to repulse him into a state of inoffensive acquiescence, or how to convince Mr. Howard, under such circumstances, that there was nothing to fear from his rivalry. Besides she was not to see him again for a long time. How very unkind of him to go away and leave her merely because Lord Osborne had such a fancy for looking at her.

Mr. Howard had paid her more attention, had shown more interest in her, had made a much deeper impression on her feelings than any one she had ever known, and now he was voluntarily leaving her. It was unkind—unjust—ungenerous—it was all sorts of bad things; she began to look on it in a new light—to get almost angry with him, to think him unreasonable—capricious—not worth caring about—for five minutes, at least, she was quite indignant, and resolute not to interest herself any more about him.

How long this new state of feeling might have lasted, if left to itself, it was impossible to say, she was interrupted by the entrance of Lord Osborne, who hurried into the room with an entreaty that she would return with him to the library.

Emma rather demurred to this request; at that moment, she felt little inclined to go any where, especially in compliance with Lord Osborne's wishes. But on her begging to know what he wanted, he reiterated his entreaty with more urgency, and no explanation. She, therefore, decidedly declined, he then expressed great mortification and regret, ending with an assurance that Sir William Gordon wanted her.

She continued to refuse, quickly observing that she was sorry to disappoint Sir William Gordon by disobeying his summons, but she did not feel equal to such an exertion—and, therefore, if the interview was inevitable, he had better come to her.

Lord Osborne declared he would go and tell him so. She had no idea that he was seriously intending so to do; but as soon as he had left the room she began to put away her work that she might escape into solitude. This and the necessary arrangements took her up some time—she found he had entangled her silk whilst sitting by her side; and before she had put every thing in proper order, she found her solitude again invaded by Lord Osborne, who returned together with Sir William and Miss Carr, when all three united in entreating her to come at once to the library.

Emma still persisted in begging for an explanation of their request; and as soon as any of the party would attend to her sufficiently to give her an answer, she learnt that the object they had in view was, that she should sit to Sir William, in order to give him the opportunity of correctly finishing the sketch he had hastily made in the morning. Emma declined; the original sketch, she declared, had been surreptitiously taken, and must now be finished in the best way it could without any intervention on her part.

"How cruel—how unkind!" exclaimed Miss Carr; "my dear Miss Watson, you will break Sir William's heart. I assure you he is bent on carrying away a faithful remembrance of you."

"No, no, Gordon is to give it to me," interposed Lord Osborne, "I told him so, and I shall certainly expect it."

"I shall do no such thing, I assure you," returned Sir William, "if I part with it at all, I shall give it to Mrs. Willis, my particular friend and favorite, Mrs. Willis, to hang in the parlour at the parsonage."

"Finish it as you please—and hang it where you please, but excuse my undergoing the penance of a sitting for any such object," replied Emma.

"I had not the presumption to ask it," said Sir William, "and only accompanied my good friends here, lest they should take liberties in my name which I could not sanction. The utmost I request is, that you should come and look at my picture."

To get rid of their importunity, she consented to go with them; and in the library she found Miss Osborne, who had not joined the embassy, and did not look in a particularly happy mood. Emma saw at once that all was not right there, and regarded her friend's disturbed countenance with some anxiety. Miss Carr amused herself with finding all manner of fault in the painting, which Sir William persisted in denying, declaring the defects she saw arose only from the unfinished state of the work. Emma did not attend to them, but turned to Miss Osborne, and began to explain to her, how, when, and where, the sketch was made.

Miss Osborne listened in silence for some time, but looked relieved, and then begged her to oblige Sir William by consenting. She was much surprised, but the grave and earnest way in which the request was made, induced her, after a momentary hesitation to comply.

Miss Osborne engaged for her, that she should not be detained more than an hour, a stipulation which was the pleasantest part of the arrangement, as both Lord Osborne and Miss Carr stationed themselves behind Sir William, one chattering about every stroke he drew, and commenting on her figure as if she had been an inanimate object—the other staring in his unmerciful way at her face, delighted to be furnished with so excellent an opportunity, and so good an excuse.

"Be sure and make her complexion dark enough, Sir William," cried Miss Carr, "Miss Watson is so very dark—quite a brunette; I think you have made the hand a little too small, it strikes me she has not quite such slender hands—and the hair—surely, you have indulged in a little imagination there—that luxuriant braid—our eyes must see differently if you think that natural and like her own."

"I have no doubt in the world that our eyes do see very differently, Miss Carr," replied Sir William, "I have always observed it to be the case where feminine beauty is concerned."

"There is not a bit too much hair," interposed Lord Osborne, "but she does not wear it in that tumble-down fashion—she is always particularly neat and tidy about the head. I like to see a small head and pretty ear—why don't you show her ear; it's a mark of blood to see a small ear—all ladies should have small ears."

"So they should all have pretty hands," replied Fanny Carr, "but, my dear Lord, they cannot always get them."

Lord Osborne moved his arm and allowed the little hand to drop unregarded. The fair Fanny thought him a great brute for the same.

"My good people," cried Sir William, "my very dear friends, I really must trouble you to move a little farther off. I think I shall send you out of the room, Miss Carr, be so good as to take Lord Osborne into the conservatory and select a bouquet for my refreshment. I cannot stand all your critical remarks at my back."

"I shall not make you a copy if you do not," interposed Sir William, "nor ever let you see the original again."

"Well," said his lordship, moving reluctantly away, "I'll go on those conditions."

"I have no objection to Miss Osborne remaining," continued he in a saucy tone, "if she is determined to patronise a poor artist with her presence."

"I am waiting for Miss Watson's sake, Sir William," returned the lady addressed, "I cannot for a moment imagine that my presence can make any difference to you."

Emma thought her friend looked remarkably unamiable as she spoke, and wondered what was the matter.

Sir William looked up quickly, in time to catch the deep blush with which Emma's cheek was tinged, as she answered in the affirmative.

"How did you think him—my brother said he seemed unwell—what did he appear to you?"

Emma could only answer that she did not know, and wished to drop the subject. She turned to Sir William,

"I hope you are not going to try my patience much longer. I only promised for half an hour you know."

"Very true, but half an hour of that kind is of an elastic sort, extending from one hour to three at least, as I am sure you must have experienced when obliged to wait for a friend."

"Possibly," said Emma, "but ask yourself in that case what you would do—vote it a great bore, and run away."

"An impatient, frail mortal like myself might do so, but you are too near perfection to exhibit any such weak unkindness."

"Your flattery shall not bribe me to remain. Miss Osborne, may I not go? it was at your request I stayed—pray release me from the spell."

"Fair ladies, will you not first condescend to cast an eye on the production of my humble pencil. Have you no curiosity, Miss Watson—no sympathy, Miss Osborne? do give me your opinion."

"My opinion would, you know, be totally useless," said Emma, turning round from the door which she had just reached; she stopped in her speech from catching a glance of Sir William's directed towards Miss Osborne, which seemed to say her own was not exactly the opinion he most desired. She left the room without another word, and her exit was followed by a silence of some moments' space between the two who remained.

"Are you absolutely determined against exhibiting any interest in my proceedings—against giving me any encouragement in my efforts?"

Miss Osborne colored deeply, then walking up to the easel said, as she affected to be examining the drawing,

"Sir William, you have no doubt an accurate eye for likenesses, but I doubt from the expression you give, whether you possess equal penetration with regard to characters."

"Give me an instance of my failure," cried he, delighted to have induced her to speak at all, "explain your critique, Miss Osborne."

"No," replied she, "I leave the application of the moral to you—you expect to produce a great effect, but the opposition jars on the senses, and produces harshness, not softness, in consequence."

He fixed his eyes on her with a look of deep penetration, as if trying to read her thoughts in her countenance. She continued calmly to contemplate the painting, as if quite engrossed by that object.

"Are you referring entirely to this picture," enquired he, "or to some other design of mine?"

She colored still more deeply, and answered that he best knew if her censure was applicable or not.

"But I think you wrong me," he continued, "do you suppose I should dare flatter myself that you would take any interest in my proceedings, that you would condescend to feel any concern about where I went, with whom I associated—what I was doing. Should you not condemn it as unpardonable impertinence if I presumed thus far."

"Very likely I might, Sir William, but I have an idea that it would not be the first time you had been guilty of impertinence, or expected forgiveness when you were unpardonable."

"I will be very candid, Miss Osborne," said he, "and if I sin in doing so, remember your own accusations are alone to blame for it. I own your caprice and the variations in your conduct towards me, have for a moment made me seek the comfort of contrast in Emma Watson—but it was your own fault—you knew I loved you, and you wished to torment me."

"Sir William, this appears to me a most extraordinary style of address—you have never, to my knowledge, uttered a word indicative of the love you now allude to as a well known feeling. However, let that pass—the love you say has done the same—why then mention it now?"

"The love has not, and cannot pass, Rosa—it is of too old and stubborn a nature, has been nursed with too much care in its infancy to be easily extinguished now. You have been unkind and variable as the wind—you have refused to speak to me—sometimes to look at me—you have said the most bitter things you could devise—you have been unjust in every possible way—now be candid and kind for once. Tell me how you really regard me!"

"As the most extraordinary of mortals, Sir William. Your manner of address may possibly have the charm of novelty—I have little experience in that way, and cannot therefore tell; but I should suppose there were few men who preface a declaration of affection with violent abuse."

He saw that her gaiety was affected—that she really trembled, and had some trouble in commanding her countenance: he proceeded.

"What else remains to me; the devotion, the silent adoration of a twelvemonth have been of no avail—you have persisted in slighting me—now I will speak out; I love you, Rosa—you know it—give me an answer at once—reject or accept—but trifle with me no more—or I will never see your face again!"

She tried to speak, but quite overcome, she burst into tears, and seemed on the point of quitting the room, but he resolutely detained her. His arm was round her waist, his hand clasping hers, and as he whispered in her ear—"Rosa, you do love me"—she did not deny it.

Had Emma Watson known precisely what had passed between Mr. Howard and Lord Osborne, on the morning preceding her last interview with the former, a great deal of suspense, anxiety and doubt would have been spared to her.

The young lord, in fact, had fallen deeply in love with her, and had chosen to confide his affection to his former tutor in these terms.

"Undoubtedly, my lord," was the reply, given rather reluctantly, and with evident embarrassment.

"I don't know that I ever liked any girl half so well," continued the young lover; "don't you think she would make a famous wife?"

"Do you know I mean to marry her?" this was a great effort; and having made this declaration, he drew a long breath.

"You mean, my lord, to propose to her? or have you done so already?" enquired Howard, in as steady a voice as he could command.

"Oh not yet; that's the worst part of it—confound it, I wish I could get out of that. I say, Howard, you could not do it for me, could you? would not that do as well?"

"I fear not," replied he, gravely; "I am afraid I could not trust myself; I might make some blunder which would ruin the suit, and the blame of miscarriage would fall on me."

"Well, I suppose I must do my best some day—she's so monstrous good-natured, that I am not so much afraid of her as of many women; but I would bet you a hundred to one, I shall make some unpardonable blunder."

"But, my dear lord, have you considered what the consequences will be if you take this step."

"And do you imagine such a marriage will be at all agreeable to your mother and sister? Will not Lady Osborne be shocked at your forming such an alliance?"

"Perhaps she may—I dare say she will—but then you see, Howard, that does not signify in the least, because, whenever I marry, she will leave the Castle and go to the old Dower House, so her not liking my wife will not signify in the smallest degree."

"Well, but what would you have me do? I don't marry to please her only; and it cannot matter to her what my wife was before; for when she is my wife, she will be Lady Osborne, had she been even a cook-maid before. It's much more consequence to me to have a woman I like, than one whose pedigree is as long as my arm, if she is disagreeable. As to Rosa, she likes Emma, and I dare say she would not mind it at all; but at all events, she can marry somebody, and be happy her own way, if she will only let me be happy mine."

The animation of Lord Osborne's love had quite made him eloquent, and Howard listened to him with surprise. He saw he was bent on the step proposed; one doubt, however, remained—would he be accepted? He suggested this to his lordship.

"Why now that's just a question I cannot answer myself," replied he; "if I only knew that I should have no anxiety at all. But I think she is so very good-natured she will very likely accept me. Don't you?"

"As to her good-nature, my lord, I can answer without hesitation, but as to her accepting you, that must depend on other things—on her opinion of yourself perhaps in some degree. If she loves you, I dare say she will not refuse you."

"Only think, Howard," cried he with enthusiasm, "how pleasant it would be to be loved by her—to have her for one's wife—to say, 'Emma come and ride with me'—'Emma I want you to walk,' and she doing it immediately; always at hand to chat when one wanted, and never cross or tired, or playing whist all the evening."

"She shall have such a beautiful house," he continued; "and she shall go to court if she likes—all women like that—how well she will look in my mother's diamonds—she must let her have them, I declare. I wish I had made the offer and it was all settled now—don't you?"

"That's the worst part of it, and you say you will not help me. Do you think it would do to send Tom Musgrove to make the proposals? Perhaps she might not dislike that—Tom has a very winning way with the girls."

"I do not think it would do at all," replied Mr. Howard. "Independent of her possibly considering such a reference to a third person disagreeable, I know, that is I think, that she has a particular dislike to Mr. Musgrove, which would make but an unfavorable commencement for your suit."

"Indeed!—that's unlucky; I am sure I do not know what to do then, there seems no alternative but addressing her myself, and that certainly needs a great deal of courage; I had much rather leap that ditch on Clapham Common—would not you—it's desperate work. Suppose she should refuse me! a pretty confounded scrape I should be in then—what should I do Howard, then?"

"That's easy talking. I say, don't you think a man must feel preciously uncomfortable and foolish when a girl has refused him? If I were to write, it would not be so bad quite."

"What should I say? that's the thing; I never know what words to use: I say, I am in a complete dilemma, and must take some time to think about it and make up my mind. I want you to promise to be my friend, and faithfully keep my counsel."

He gave the required promise, and then ventured to ask if his lordship had in his own opinion any ground, from Miss Watson's conduct and manners, to expect a favorable result to his proposals. Lord Osborne flattered himself that he had; she was always very kind and cordial, smiled most sweetly, and gave him all the encouragement he could expect.

"Though you know after all, Howard," he added in conclusion, "she may still refuse me."

Mr. Howard did know this, and this knowledge was in fact his chief comfort under the infliction of such a discussion.

If he had previously entertained any doubt as to the state of his own feelings, this conversation must have enlightened him. Once or twice on previous occasions he had been seized with a temporary jealousy of Lord Osborne's place in her estimation, but from this moment the fit came strongly on him.

He was one of those individuals who never feel any confidence in their own merit, who estimate every one in some respect above themselves, and are continually mistrusting the influence which they really possess over their friends. Had he been properly aware of his own worth, his knowledge of Emma Watson's character would effectually have preserved her from the imputation he now mentally cast on her, of preferring the young lord to himself. Had phrenology then been in fashion, it is possible that the origin of this weakness would have been discovered in the absence of the bump of self-esteem; but this not being the case, and in consequence, his head never having been phrenologically examined, I cannot answer for more than the entire absence of the quality, and Mr. Howard cannot be brought forward in evidence of any phrenological theory whatever.

He felt now that he must withdraw his attentions and give up his dearest plans, to allow a fair field to Lord Osborne's attempts—though, in doing so, he might lose her entirely. He had, for a moment, entertained the idea of explaining his wishes to his rival and asserting an equal right to compete for her hand. But he could not bring himself to confess his own attachment to a young man like his pupil; he could not depend on the secret being preserved, and he shrunk from profaning his love by making it the possible joke of Tom Musgrove and his associates. No, he would withdraw from the competition—he would not be the means of depriving her of wealth and rank—if she valued them—and if not—if, as was possible, his lordship should be refused, then, with hope and joy, he would return to try his fate in the same adventure.

For this end it was, in part, that he determined to obtain a holiday; he had long begun to feel that he ought to go for another reason, but Emma Watson's attractions had kept him stationary. The other reason arose from the sentiments which the dowager Lady Osborne began to make very apparent to him. His modesty had long resisted the idea and denied the fact, when, as often happened, he was charged by young men of his acquaintance with designs upon the well-jointured widow.

But even his modest estimation of himself was forced to yield before the conviction which her looks, her manners, and her language conveyed to his mind.

Most unwelcome this conviction certainly was, as it could end, he thought, in nothing but a positive rupture between his family and the Osbornes; and unless he had the power of obtaining another home, it would certainly render them exceedingly uncomfortable. He knew the dowager to be of a vindictive disposition when she considered herself injured or insulted, and both to his own family and that of his beloved Emma, he foresaw nothing but evil from the prospect before then. If Emma should accept the son, the rage of his mother would certainly be intense, and if she refused him and accepted Mr. Howard instead, there was but little probability she would be better pleased. All hopes of further advancement from the family patronage would be at an end, and he was not sure that upon the small income his present living afforded him, it would be prudent to marry, as his sister and her little boy were quite dependent on himself. There were Charles' maintenance at a public school, and his subsequent expenses at the university to be looked forward to and provided for; he had engaged to do this, voluntarily engaged himself, and now that he came seriously to reflect on his position and ties, on the expenses of a married man, and the probabilities of any better future provision, he began to wonder what infatuation had before closed his eyes, and hurried him on against his better judgment, to an affection which threatened so much of care and difficulty. Yet it was hard, very hard to give up the charming hopes with which he had flattered his fancy; he did not feel equal to such a sacrifice; he did not feel positively called to it. For the present he would quit her, but he would make no desperate resolves for the future: when he came nearer that part of his path, he should be better able to tell in which direction his duty would guide him.

When he unexpectedly found himself in Emma's presence, and alone with her, his contending feelings had almost deprived him of self-control, and he had been scarcely conscious what he said or did, though on quitting her, he carried away a decided conviction that he had behaved extremely ill, and no doubt she was disgusted with him. With this pleasing notion he returned to his house, and his sister soon saw that there was something the matter, by the absence of his mind, and the air of depression which hung over him.

He told her he wanted to leave home for a time, that he thought it would do them both good, that he had been talking to Lord Osborne about it, that he must apply to her ladyship, and that he expected her to refuse. Mrs. Willis was a good deal puzzled by all this, but could obtain from him no more satisfactory answer. Playfully she accused him of having been refused by some lady, which of course he denied; then of having affronted some one by refusing her, which met with a similar answer. Her invention and imagination seemed to go no farther, and she was obliged to be quiet and watchful.

Whilst Lord Osborne was thus hopefully planning, and Mr. Howard despondingly meditating, a very different termination to Emma's visit was impending over her. She was roused from a late and heavy slumber, natural after the sleeplessness of the preceding night, by the receipt of a note from Winston, sent over by a special messenger. Its contents were as follows:—

"I am sadly grieved to have to tell you such bad news, but our father has been taken very ill, he had a seizure last night, up to which time he seemed quite well, and has not recovered his senses since: nor does the doctor lead us to hope that he will. I need not say come home, for I am sure that will be your first wish; I dare say they can send you, as our man is gone down to the village to fetch something for my father's use, and I cannot, therefore, send the pony-chaise.

Starting up in the greatest dismay, Emma instantly sent an imploring message to Miss Osborne to request an interview with her, and in the meantime hurried over her dressing and other necessary preparations with the greatest possible despatch. Miss Osborne did not make her wait long, showed the most friendly sympathy in her distress, instantly ordered a carriage to take her home, and insisted on her allowing her own maid to arrange Emma's things, whilst she attempted to take some breakfast.

To satisfy her Emma made an effort to eat, but could scarcely swallow a cup of coffee; and as the coachman did not keep her long waiting, in less than an hour from her receiving Elizabeth's note, she was on her way home. Wrapped up in fearful anticipations of what would meet her there, she had been almost unconscious of what was passing before her eyes; she had an impression that Miss Osborne had been very kind, that just at last her brother had been there also, that he had squeezed her hand at parting, with much warmth, and had said something which she did not understand about wishing to help her; she thought of it for a moment only, and then her mind again reverted to her father's situation, and her sister's distress.

The rapidity with which the journey was now performed, was a most important comfort, very different from the creeping jog-trot of their old horse, and she felt quite thankful that Elizabeth had spared her such torture as would have been caused by the delay their own chaise would have occasioned.

Before Elizabeth was expecting her she was at home, and the door proving to be open, and nobody at hand to receive her, she was obliged to have her few things set down in the passage by the footman, and then dismissed the carriage, before she was able to see any one who could acquaint her with her father's state.

Softly she looked into the parlour, the shutters were open, but the room otherwise bore no symptoms of having been disturbed since last night, the candles were still on the table, the supper tray unremoved, and the chairs all in disorder. She then proceeded up-stairs, and was just on the point of opening the bed-room door, when Elizabeth came out of it. One glance at her face told her that there was no better news in store for her.

Mr. Watson was fast sinking—he lay apparently in a deep slumber, and there seemed no probability of his ever recovering sufficiently to recognise those around him, or to speak again.

Elizabeth had been watching beside him, alternately, with Penelope through the night; the village apothecary had said there was now no more to do; all the remedies his skill could suggest had proved unavailing, and they must patiently wait the result.

Margaret had gone to bed in hysterics, and required Nanny to sit up with her, so that it was a great blessing Penelope had been at home, as she had a head and nerves which were always in good order, and knew as much of medical treatment as the doctor.

At this moment Penelope joined them; she left the patient unchanged; the apothecary and the maid were with him, and hearing Emma's voice, she had come out for a moment to meet her.

"A sad ending to our Osborne Castle festivities, Emma," said she, as she shook her hand; "who would have thought it, when we set out? Elizabeth, don't you think we ought to have better advice? I am certain that man there does not know in the least what he is about; there must be a better doctor at some of the towns round here—Bradford, or somewhere—could not we send for one?"

Elizabeth could not tell; they had never had occasion to send for a physician; and she did not know where one could be found. Emma enquired if notice of their father's danger had been despatched to their brothers; it appeared neither of them had thought of this; but it must be done immediately.

They were about twenty miles from Croydon; and by sending a letter by the mail-coach, which passed through Bradford, they knew Robert would hear the same evening, and might be at Winston easily within twenty-four hours. This much they settled on, and a note was written, and despatched by a trusty messenger, who was to catch the coach at the inn at Bradford, and then try and bring back a physician with him.

Mr. —— seemed much relieved when he learnt the project of calling in farther advice, and thus shifting the weight of responsibility from his own shoulders. He thought it probable that the patient might linger many hours, possibly two or three days; and with a promise to return in a few hours, he now took his leave for the present.

It is needless to attempt to describe all the feelings which oppressed the sisters as they sat watching the sick-bed—perhaps the death-bed of their only parent. Hours stole away, bringing no change, and no alleviation of their fears. Margaret did not join the watch; her sensibility, as she designated it, bringing on violent hysterics, which made attention and nursing necessary for her. Emma tried to soothe her, in vain; Penelope was sarcastic and bitter; Elizabeth declared she had no time to attend to her vagaries, and that she would be soon as well as any of them, if she was not meddled with.

About two o'clock they were roused by the sound of carriage wheels at the door, and Elizabeth stealing into the passage, where a window looked on the entrance, came back with the information that it was a post-chariot, from which a gentleman, dressed like a physician, had alighted, and that there was somebody else in the carriage, but she could not tell who it was.

In another moment, a card was handed into the room, with the name of Dr. Denham on it, a name which they knew belonged to a celebrated physician, residing at many miles distance. Much surprised, the girls hesitated a moment as to the meaning of this, but, of course, decided that the two eldest should descend to the parlour to receive him and his explanation immediately.

After a consultation of about ten minutes, Emma hearing their voices and steps on the stairs, quitted the room of the invalid that she might not be in the way, and when they were safely shut in there, she ran down stairs to refresh herself by a moment's breathing the fresh air.

Great was her surprise on reaching the entrance passage, to see Lord Osborne standing there, and evidently looking about for somebody. Her light footstep instantly caught his ear, and he turned to meet her with eagerness.

"Ha! Miss Watson," cried he, "I hoped to see you here; how's your father, hey—not very bad. I hope."

"Indeed, I am sorry—upon my honour—I'm grieved to hear that," looking quite compassionately at her. "Poor old gentleman—what a pity—I dare say he is a monstrous good fellow—but don't fret—I shall be quite unhappy if I think you are fretting."

"How came you here, Lord Osborne?" exclaimed she. "Had you anything to do with Dr. Denham?"

"I'll tell you how it was," replied he, taking hold of her hand, and drawing her towards the parlour door, "only don't stand here in the cold, that's so uncomfortable. There now, sit down there, and let me sit down beside you—and I'll tell you. We know Dr. Denham very well, he's a great friend of my sister's, and she's a great favorite of his—so when she heard your father was ill, she wrote him a note, and sent me with it, to ask him as a great favour to visit Mr. Watson, for her sake—you know—and I fetched him in the carriage, so it's only the drive, and he's to take no fee, you see—he just comes from friendship to Rosa, that's all."

"I am sure we are exceedingly obliged to you all," said Emma, colouring from a variety of feelings; "it was very kind of Miss Osborne to think of it, and of you to take so much trouble."

"Do you know it gave me a great deal of pleasure—a very great deal; I don't know when ever I was happier than just while I was thinking of obliging you—I did not mind the trouble in the least."

His eyes were fixed on Emma with a far more eloquent expression than was at all usual with them, and he really seemed to think as he spoke, and to feel particularly happy.

To what extremes of eloquence his new-found felicity might have led him there is now no means of knowing; he was interrupted before he had committed himself by any very pointed declaration, by the sound of the physician's return, which startled Emma into a sudden recollection that to be found by him, sitting tête-à-tête and side by side on the sofa with the young nobleman, might perhaps not unreasonably surprise him. She therefore told him she should be wanted in the sick room, and quietly withdrew; when he, his pleasant reveries broken off thus suddenly, felt himself unequal to meeting any one else with composure, and likewise quitted the room for a seat in the carriage.

As Emma resumed her seat at her father's bedside, she could not for a moment banish the idea which had suddenly entered her mind, that perhaps after all Mr. Howard's jealousy was not ill-founded, and that Lord Osborne did entertain a more than ordinary partiality towards herself. The notion was accompanied with no feeling of self-exaltation; she was positively ashamed that it had intruded itself at such a time, and she felt that had even the moment been more appropriate, the supposition would have given her no pleasure at all. She did not want him to like her for his own sake, and she was annoyed by it for the sake of Mr. Howard's attachment.

But this was not the time when such reflections could or ought to be indulged; it was her business to think of her father, not of herself, and she roused herself to shake them off. As soon as Dr. Denham had taken his leave, her sisters returned to the sick room to tell her what he had said. He had given them no encouragement; had said there was nothing further to be done, that it was true that while there was breath there was hope, but that Mr. Watson's advanced age and broken health made a recovery most unlikely, and even a temporary return of his intellects extremely improbable.

The next morning brought no alteration in the situation of the patient, but it brought Robert Watson to the house. He came, cool and self-possessed as ever, taken up entirely with facts, not feelings, and looking decidedly as if his mind at least never quitted his office, but was still engrossed with the business there transacting. "Deeds not words," was his motto, but the deeds he delighted in would have been uninteresting to nine-tenths of the world, and seemed rather intended to mystify than benefit mankind.

Emma felt she could not love Robert; she shrank from him, and it needed all her self-command and strong sense of propriety to avoid showing how repulsive she found him. The excessive egotism of his conversation and habits seemed to yield to nothing; no feeling, no softness was evinced by his conduct. There was scarcely an emotion betrayed on seeing his father, and what little was discernible whilst in his sick room, had all vanished before he reached the parlour door.

"Well, I must say this is a most unfortunate thing," said he sitting down in his father's vacant chair and stretching out his feet to the fender; "a most unfortunate thing for me indeed: one might have calculated my father would have lived ten years more—he's not such an old man—ten years at least I had reckoned on, and you see how I am taken in. Heaven knows what is to become of you girls—there will not be more than a thousand pounds to divide between you: and it's so unlucky to happen just now, for of course you must come home to Croydon."

"That would be very unlucky indeed, at any time," cried Penelope; "but I hope not quite inevitable. I shall not live at Croydon, I promise you."

"So much the better, if you have any other plan; three on one's hands are quite enough. There must have been some great mismanagement, or some of you would certainly have married;" and Robert Watson, in a fit of vexation at his sisters' celibacy, stirred the fire into a vehement blaze.

"Well to relieve your mind," replied Pen in a sarcastic tone, "in return for the extraordinary fraternal solicitude you evince, I will inform you I am engaged to be married, and expect to be a wife in about a month."

"Are you indeed, my dear sister I congratulate you. What settlements are you to have? If the papers pass through our office I promise you I will pay every attention to see it advantageously arranged for you."

"Your liberality, my dear Robert, is most exemplary, and far beyond what I had ventured to expect of you. But I shall not encroach so far, I assure you. The marriage settlements are preparing at Chichester, and I do not anticipate that it will be even necessary for me to have recourse to the hospitality of yourself and your amiable lady."

She spoke with a strong and bitter emphasis, which Robert could not possibly misunderstand, but which he prudently resolved not to notice.

"It is a very delicate matter to talk of," whispered Margaret, who had now made her appearance, "one from which a young woman of sensibility naturally shrinks; but I will so far overcome my blushing bashfulness, as to inform you, Robert, that I too am engaged to be married, and that, therefore, delighted as I should be to reside with my dear Jane, I still hope before long to be able to receive her in my own house, and, as Mrs. Tom Musgrove, to return the kindness showed to Margaret Watson."

"What!" said Robert, staring at her with undisguised amazement, "are you mad, Margaret."

"Indeed, I hope not," replied she, simpering; "I am engaged to my dear Tom Musgrove, that's all I mean; and no doubt we shall be married in time."

Her brother still looked doubtfully at her, but after a moment's consideration, replied—

"Well, Margaret, if that's the case, you deserve more credit than I had ever thought possible, for I would not have given much for your chance with Tom—but, since you say he is engaged to you, I am heartily glad to hear it. Have you any witnesses? or was the contract in writing?"

"No, it was in the conservatory at Osborne Castle, and as to witnesses, oh, dear Robert, you don't suppose ladies and gentlemen chose to have such tender scenes pass before witnesses," cried Margaret, trying to look very young and sentimental.

"I am sure it would be a deuced deal better if they did," said he, sharply; "there would be much less trouble to their friends; and they would stand a much fairer chance of having the contract fulfilled. However, since it is so, I hope he'll keep his word, for the sake of yourself and your friends. As times go, it's not a bad match."

"A bad match—I should think not," cried Margaret, disdainfully tossing her head. "I only wish all my sisters may make half as good a one, that's all. Tom Musgrove is a man every woman may well envy me."

"I doubt if his income was ever a clear thousand a year, Margaret," replied Robert, as if that were the point on which, in his mind, the advisability of the match entirely rested. "But if he's not in debt, he may do very well. I wish Elizabeth and Emma had equal good luck, to prevent their becoming a burden on their friends."

A burden on their friends! how those words rang in Emma's ears, and grated on all the feelings of her affectionate heart. Was it possible that her brother could not only think of them in this light, but could calmly express the feeling; that he should not only be void of affection, but that even the wish to seem hospitable, kind, or generous should be wanting. What would be a home in his house—what comforts—what peace could it promise, where such an expression was to meet them ere they crossed his threshold.

Before the colour which these feelings called up had died away from her cheeks, Robert continued—

"Jane is of opinion that there must have been great want of tact and management on your part, Emma, during your visits to the Howards and the Castle, or you might certainly have turned them to better account."

"I am sorry Jane sees anything to blame in my conduct," replied Emma, meekly; "but I do not know what she expected of me."

"I told her she was far too sanguine," continued Robert; "but she would have it, that, with proper attention, you might have succeeded in securing the young lord. You must have been thrown in his way a good deal; and, certainly, for an unprovided girl like you, it becomes an important duty to omit no opportunity of advancing your own interests, and those of your family, by securing a good establishment when in your power."

Emma was silent; her prevailing feeling being too lively a sense of indignation to make it safe for her to speak.

"I hope you are not to blame through any culpable negligence; the young lord is to be sure a great ass I believe; but the match would be a capital one for you—the making of your family. I should like of all things to be agent and manager of his property—remember that!"

"I am afraid," replied Emma, struggling to speak calmly, "that if your wish depends for fulfilment on my marrying Lord Osborne, there is but little chance of its being gratified."

"I am sorry to hear it," replied he, gravely; "but I know such desirable alliances are not to be compassed without a little trouble and exertion: and, perhaps, if you were to remain a little longer in the neighbourhood your chance would be better. I'll think about that."

Emma longed to tell him not to trouble himself, but she thought it most prudent to remain silent.

The next time she was alone with the eldest sister, Elizabeth confided to her the extreme satisfaction which the news of Penelope's engagement gave her. It seemed to be quite certain, from what she could learn, everything was preparing apace, an the marriage would have soon been performed if their father's illness had not interfered. As far as money went, it was decidedly a good match for Pen; and though Elizabeth herself, did not fancy an asthmatic, elderly widower, yet she could not expect every one to have her tastes, and if Penelope herself was satisfied, that was all that could be required.

Emma could not think and feel the same; she wished that her sister should have required more; that she should have been incapable of considering a sufficient jointure to be the principal aim and end of engaging in matrimony.

Something must be wanting—something either of delicacy or principle, which could lead her to such results; and she wondered Elizabeth did not feel this too. Miss Watson then proceeded to discuss Margaret's engagement, which she declared, seemed to her incredible; she told Emma that the night of the ball, whilst returning home, Margaret had, after a great deal of nonsense, announced her engagement with Tom, and declared that he was to come the next day and ask her father's consent. That she evidently expected him herself in the afternoon—having bestowed uncommon care on her toilette, and persuaded Elizabeth to add another dish to their dinner, in case he should remain the afternoon with them; but that the gentleman had never made his appearance; and in the evening, the seizure of their father had put it all out of her head. She doubted very much now, whether the whole was not a mistake—the illusion of Margaret's vanity, or the consequence of some extra flattery on Tom's part, arising from the excitement of champagne and flirtation. There were two whole days now passed, and he had not been near them—Margaret had written to him yesterday, but had received no answer; and if Elizabeth were in her place, she should certainly not feel satisfied with such conduct.

After a little internal hesitation, Emma told Elizabeth, that so far as the fact of Tom's having proposed and been accepted was concerned, she could herself answer for the truth of Margaret's statement. She related to her, under a promise of secrecy for the present, the circumstance of her own and Miss Osborne's being accidental listeners to the whole occurrence; this, of course, settled the point, but did not diminish the wonder of the girls, both that Mr. Musgrove should have proposed to Margaret, and that he should since, have taken no further steps in the business. They wondered in vain—and they had not much time to devote to wonder—their father's situation soon recalled their thoughts and demanded all their attention.

But still in the interval of repose, which this occupation necessarily allowed, Emma found her mind continually reverting to past scenes; to the hopes which had once been so pleasant and lively, and the disappointment which had succeeded them. She told herself she must not think of it; she determined that she would not—sometimes she almost persuaded herself that she did not; but she could not regulate her feelings as she wished; and many a time she was unconsciously dwelling on the past, whilst she fancied herself meditating on her present duty.

It was Penelope's turn to remain during dinner with her father, and Emma was once more in company with her repulsive brother. It was really with a sensible reluctance that she sat down to the same table with him—but she struggled against the feeling, aware that it ought to be overcome if there was to be any future peace or comfort for her.

The dinner was more than plain—unfortunately, it was almost entirely cold; but, in the hurry occasioned by the illness of Mr. Watson, the rest of his family might reasonably expect to be less comfortably accommodated than usual. Elizabeth had hardly given the subject a thought; and not at all indeed, until it was too late for amendment, beyond a steak hurriedly cooked for Robert's sake. But this was tough—tough as the table, so Robert said, and he had a particular dislike to cold mutton. His plate was pushed away with an air of uncontrollable disgust—and he sat eyeing the table with gloomy looks, whilst his sister good-humouredly apologised for the hardness of the fare.

"Shall I have the satisfaction of helping you to a little of this cow?" enquired he, balancing his knife and fork in his hand, and pointing with them to the condemned steak. "I recommend you to try it, Elizabeth, and then you may, perhaps, remember another time, and make better provision for such unfortunate individuals as are compelled, through circumstances to become your guests—you ought to be ashamed of yourself, Elizabeth-"

"Upon my word, Robert, I could not help it; I will try and give you a better dinner to-morrow; but it's not my fault entirely, that the steak is tough. I thought, perhaps, it would be; but it was the only thing we could dress—and I thought you would like that better than nothing."

"I cannot comprehend such bad management—why is not your cook to dress a dinner for me?—what else had she to do of more importance?—she cannot be wanted by my father! For me—you will look very blank, I expect, when you come to live with me, if I set you down to such fare as this!"

Elizabeth had the sense and the forbearance to remain perfectly silent; and Robert, finding that all his indignation could not overcome impossibilities, or cook him a dinner where the materials were actually wanting, thought it best to make some attempts at eating; and proceeded, with an air of injured dignity, to devour the unfortunate subject of his wrath.

"I think, Jane would be rather astonished if she knew what sort of dinner I have been compelled to make," was his observation when he laid down his knife and fork. "She would hardly expect to find me dining so contentedly off a tough old steak—ill-cooked, and no sauce. I always have observed in most houses, here especially, none are so badly provided for as the eldest sons. I suppose any thing is good enough for them—it does not signify what I eat at all—I am only your brother—only the head of the house—only the man on whom you will be dependent when—but no matter, I hope you will fare better in my house, that's all!"

"I am very sorry," repeated Elizabeth, "I know it's very disagreeable to have a bad dinner, but I hope it will not happen again, and I'll try and get you something you will like for supper; a broiled fowl and an omelette—could you fancy that, Robert?"

Robert assented; but his wrath was evidently mollified at the promise, and no more was said about the unfortunate dinner at that time.

Another day put a period to their suspense, and confirmed their worst anticipation. Mr. Watson was no more; and his four daughters were left to all the evils which Robert had so providentially pointed out to them. Their feelings and their manner of expressing them, were as different as their characters, and their ways of thinking. Emma, who knew the least of him, certainly experienced the greatest grief—Elizabeth mourned too—but there were so many things for her to think of—much to plan and arrange—so much of economy to be mingled with a wish of doing every thing as handsomely as possible, that she had no time to cultivate sorrow as a duty, or indulge in its appearance as a recreation. Emma was active and useful likewise—but she busied herself in spite of her grief—Miss Watson grieved only in the intervals of her business.

When first Robert came to Winston, Elizabeth had consulted him on the subject of sending for Sam, but her brother opposed it. Emma had listened in silent anxiety to the debate, and in keen disappointment to its termination. From her sister's conversation, she had an ardent desire to meet her unknown brother; she expected to be able to like him—Elizabeth had, in speaking of him, told many little traits of character, which convinced her that he must possess a generous disposition and an affectionate heart; she longed to see him—to know him—to be loved by him.

But Robert had decided that though he was, of course, to be informed of his father's illness, there was no need to say any thing which should induce him to come himself—no doubt it would be excessively inconvenient to his master—a needless expense to himself—perfectly undesirable in every way, and quite unnecessary; for, of what use could Sam be when Robert himself was there. He was nobody—a younger son—the most unimportant being in the world. As to his wishing to see his father again, what did that signify? People could not always have what they wished for—young men in their apprenticeship must not look for holidays; he was sure he should never have thought of any thing of the sort whilst he was serving his articles; and now, how seldom did he ever take a holiday from the office? Let Sam look to him and his application to business, if he wanted an example of steadiness and good conduct.

But Emma's wish to see her brother was not fated to be entirely disappointed, for no sooner did he receive the news of his father's death, than he obtained leave of absence from his master without difficulty, and arrived unexpectedly at Winston. She was sitting alone in the darkened parlour, when an unknown step arrested her attention; it was not the slow, measured consequential tread of Robert; it was quicker, lighter, more like one which had sometimes made her heart beat before; at least so she fancied for a moment, perhaps only because she had just been thinking of him. The footstep passed the door, then paused, returned and entered slowly.

It was not more than the doubt of a moment, as to the identity of the intruder; there was so strange a family likeness on each side, a likeness of more than features, a likeness in mind and temper, a sympathy of feeling, that the hesitation of the brother and sister was brief indeed.

"My dear Emma, how I have longed to see you," cried he advancing, "I am your youngest brother, will you not welcome me?"

The cordial, fraternal embrace with which the words were accompanied, overcame her firmness, and she burst into tears in his arms. He was much affected likewise, but struggled for composure in order to soothe her, opened the window to give her air, brought her a glass of water from the side-board, and then sitting down with his arm round her waist, drew from her all the circumstances of his father's death, and learnt that it was Robert's doing that he had not been summoned sooner. That hour repaid Emma for much that she had suffered mentally in her father's house. She had found a friend in her brother. The dearest, the least selfish, the most equal bond which nature ties; children of the same parents, sharing the same fears, the same sorrows; from that moment was laid the foundation of an affection which added so greatly to her happiness; feelings till then sleeping unknown in her heart, were suddenly awakened; and affections which almost unconsciously had been craving for subsistence, having now found an aliment to nourish and satisfy them, grew rapidly into strength and beauty.

One hour's delightful intercourse was theirs, before they were interrupted by the rest of the family; but when her other sisters entered the room, Emma could not but wonder at the indifference with which he was received both by Pen and Margaret, and imputing to him the sensitive feelings of her own heart, felt doubly pained by each cold word or careless look bestowed on her new brother.

"A most needless waste of time and money, I must say—a young fellow not out of his apprenticeship, has no right to be flying over the country in this way, without any suitable reason."

"Excuse me, Robert, Mr. Allen voluntarily gave me permission to come here, and most kindly made me master of my own time for a week."

"I believe he thought that even an apprentice might have feeling," replied Sam with emphasis.

"You might at least have asked my opinion, I think—as your elder brother you might have consulted me, before incurring so much expense."

"Robert, I am accountable to Mr. Allen alone for my time—as to my pecuniary affairs, I am not answerable to you; and as to coming to this house, Elizabeth, who is mistress here, has told me I am welcome, and I require no more from any one. My sense of duty led me here, but depend upon it, I will ask your leave, before I intrude on your house at Croydon."

Robert turned away, and had recourse to his usual expedient when vexed, namely, stirring the fire into a vehement blaze. It was in pursuance of a system of counter-irritation, by creating a greater degree of external warmth, no doubt he counteracted the internal heat from which he was suffering.

The whole of the week which Sam spent at home, was one of consolation and comfort to poor Emma; he listened to all she could tell him, made her describe her past life, talked of her uncle and aunt, questioned her as to the effects of her change, entered into her feelings, anticipated what they must have been, sympathised warmly in them all, and was in fact a true, warm-hearted brother to the forlorn girl. Together they talked of their father, praised his amiable disposition, sorrowed for his loss; then Sam told her his prospects and wishes, confided to her his attachment to Mary Edwards, and his wavering hopes of success; his plans for his future subsistence, and his anticipations of the brilliant success which was to await him in his profession.

Emma's future prospects likewise were canvassed. He could not bear the idea of her having to reside with Robert and his wife.

"You will tell me it's wrong, I dare say," said he, "but I detest Mrs. Robert, she is so self-sufficient, so cold-hearted, and so in-sincere—indeed I wish her no ill, Emma, I am not malicious; my detestation does not go so far as that, but I cannot wish her to have your society for a constancy—it would be thrown away on her, and she would torment you to death."

"Oh no, I hope not; I trust if my home must be there, that I shall have strength of mind and patience to bear with her. You must not weaken my mind by commiseration; you should rather teach me to look forward with hope, or at least resignation; do not pity me, that does me harm."

Sam protested that Emma was in every respect much too good for such a situation, and that the moment he had a house and an income, however small, she should share it with him. Her promise to do so was as cordially given as it was required, and her heart already felt lighter and happier from her acquaintance with her dear brother.

When their father's will came to be examined, it appeared that it was dated three years previously, and that of the sum of two thousand pounds, which Mr. Watson had to bequeath, neither Emma or Robert were to receive any share. The latter had already been put in possession of all that he could reasonably expect, his father having made considerable advances to establish him in business, and at the time when the will was made, every one supposed Emma would be provided for by her uncle, and though that expectation had been entirely frustrated, it seemed that Mr. Watson had never summoned sufficient energy to alter his will, and give her any share in the little he possessed.

It did not transpire whether Robert was much disappointed at finding he was to have no further benefit from being the eldest son; perhaps the idea that Emma, by becoming entirely dependent on him, would be liable to be subject to all his caprices, and might be made a complete slave of in his house, soothed away the bitterness of his mortification. He took leave of the family immediately, and returned to Croydon, having arranged, that when everything was settled at Winston, three of his sisters should follow him there; Penelope professing it to be her intention to return to Chichester as soon as she conveniently could. Sam's week was not yet expired, and he remained with his sisters. The morning after Robert's departure, as Emma and her brother were sitting together, Margaret joined them, and sitting down beside Sam, told him with a consequential air, that she wanted very much to consult him.

"I want your advice on an affair of great importance, Sam, and you must promise to give it to me."

"Readily, Margaret, that's a thing you know everybody likes to be asked for, so come, let's have the whole history—I will not even require you to follow my advice when I have given it: that would be too much altogether."

"Oh, I assure you it is a very desirable match, a most excellent young man—so amiable, and fashionable, and clever, as you will at once allow when you hear it is—Mr. Tom Musgrove!"

"Tom Musgrove—indeed, I am surprised, Margaret—that he should marry, and marry you, would, I own, astonish me."

"But I tell you it is a fact, Sam, we are engaged beyond all doubt, and why you should be surprised at my being his choice, I cannot understand."

"I beg your pardon, Margaret, tell me what you want my advice about—not as to accepting him I presume?"

"No, indeed—but I am in an unfortunate situation; I am so miserable; ever since the happy night at Osborne Castle, when he plighted his troth to me, we have not met, and I have heard nothing of him."

"That is very extraordinary, Margaret—nothing at all—and can you not account for it."

"No, otherwise than I am sure he is ill—nothing else could be the reason of such unexampled silence. It was after supper when he made the offer, and I cannot help fearing that the champagne and the lobster salad may have been too much for his constitution."

"Much—no, not much, that is, not enough to—to—just you know to raise his spirits a good deal; I did not count the glasses!"

"And it was then he proposed to you—are you sure he was sober at the time, Margaret?"

"What questions you ask, Sam—sober! you quite shock me—remember you are talking to a young lady."

"Well, I will not forget that, but really I don't see anything so bad in the question, and I know no more delicate way of putting it to suit you: are you sure he was not drunk at the time?—will that do?"

"Upon my word—worse and worse, as if I should talk to a man who was drunk, what do you take me for?"

"I am sorry to offend you, my dear sister, but I have known Tom Musgrove a long time, and some times seen him very drunk. Indeed, in my opinion, he is just the sort of man to make a fool of himself first, and then of any girl who would listen to him."

"How excessively unkind you are, Sam," pouted Margaret, apparently on the point of crying—"I am quite sure you are wrong. Tom never could or would make a fool of me. He is not the sort of man at all; but, as I have heard nothing of him since that evening, I wish you to go and call on him—tell him how much pleased you are to hear of the engagement, and beg him to come and see me—there is no occasion to shut him out of the house, though we do not admit other visitors."

"That's your plan, is it? But suppose he declines altogether—suppose he should say it was a dream on your part—a delusion—a mistake; suppose that is the reason of his silence, what am I to do then?"

"Oh! if he were to do that, you must challenge him! You could not do less for such an insult to your sister, you must send him a challenge, and I could bring an action against him for breach of promise!"

"Well, if you mean to do that, I think I had better let the challenge alone; because the one might interfere with the other; if I were to shoot him, you know your action could not be brought."

"Then I think you most unkind and ungenerous; I always understood it was a brother's duty to fight with every man who insulted his sister or broke an engagement to her."

"But, allowing us such high privileges, my dear Margaret, I think I am justified in requiring proof; first, that the engagement was made; secondly, that it has been broken. I am not clear yet on either of these points."

"I see what it is, you are determined not to help me; and I think it very ill-natured and cowardly of you to stand by and see your sister insulted and robbed of her best affections, and not interfere the least for her sake."

"Indeed, my dear Margaret, I cannot see that my interference has the least chance of doing any good; if Tom was serious and sober, he will need no intervention of mine to remind him of his promises; if he was drunk and did not know what he was saying, the less that is publicly known of such a transaction, the better in every respect for your dignity."

"I see you will not take my part—you are no use at all; I shall just take my own way, and see if I consult you in a hurry again."

Whilst the silence and indifference of Margaret's lover, gave her so much concern—the attention and assiduity of Emma's, occasioned almost as much excitement in the mind of the latter. Not a day had Passed without Lord Osborne either calling himself at the door, or sending a groom with a joint message of inquiry from his sister and himself; several kind little notes had been received from the young lady, expressing concern and sympathy, and it was quite evident that they did not wish to drop the acquaintance. Nothing had been seen of Mr. Howard; but a note from Mrs. Willis, assured Emma that they had heard every day through Lord Osborne or they would have sent more frequently to enquire for her welfare.

This was consolotary, as serving to convince her that she was not forgotten at the parsonage: but she could not help murmuring a little to herself, that Mr. Howard should have so entirely withdrawn from personal intercourse. Sam had received from her, a minute history of her acquaintances at the Castle and Parsonage; and when he subsequently became aware of the visits of Lord Osborne, he immediately formed the very natural conclusion that the young peer must be in love with his sister.

Emma appeared to him so pretty and so amiable, that her being loved was the most simple and probable event; and he only wished that Lord Osborne had been more worthy of her; but the peerage and fortune of the supposed lover, did not quite blind the brother's eyes to the fact, that their owner was not distinguished by any characteristic worthy of his high birth; and Sam could not wish his sister to sacrifice domestic happiness for the glitter of a coronet, or the harmony of a title. She must have a husband who united mental and moral qualifications to those of birth, wealth and station; and if he possessed the means of advancing Sam himself in his profession, it would be so much the better.

"Did you ever, in your life, see such a fool as Margaret makes of herself, Sam?" was Penelope's observation one day, when the whole family were sitting together. "She will persist in asserting that she is engaged to Tom Musgrove, though I have taken the trouble of ascertaining that he has left home, and the servants are not sure whether he is gone to London or Bath. I asked the baker's boy to enquire, in order to set her mind at ease. I must say, I think her story very incompatible with facts."

"I am sure I am necessarily obliged to you, Penelope, for your kind way of speaking to me; but I know very well what it is, you are all envious of my good luck, and that's the reason you will none of you believe me; but, some day, I shall pay you off, you will see."

"In the mean time, I will give you ample credit, Margaret, feeling confident you will never forget a debt of that kind; but, if you are Mrs. Tom Musgrove six months hence, I will admit that I know nothing of you—nothing of Tom—nothing of men in general, and that I am little better than an idiot."

"I do not see why you should doubt it at all," cried Elizabeth, interposing, "I am sure I believe it entirely, don't you Emma?"

"The gentleman is probably gone to London to give instructions for preparing the settlements," observed Sam, gravely, preventing, by his interposition, any necessity for Emma to answer her eldest sister's question.

Margaret assented to this proposition, and Penelope took no further trouble to vex her at that moment.

Meantime all the necessary arrangements for the girls quitting their old home were made, with all possible despatch. Margaret indeed took no interest in the proceedings, contenting herself with wandering about, and fretting for Mr. Musgrove; but the others were busy from the time Sam left them; and towards the end of a month, the time for removing to Croydon, began to be discussed. Pen still held to her resolution of not visiting her brother, she determined to return to her friend at Chichester, and marry from her house; and she announced that the marriage would take place within a few weeks of her quitting her home.

Emma was sorry at parting with her—she had got over the shock which her coarse manners had at first inflicted; and they had always agreed very well since the day at Osborne Castle. In fact, what Penelope had observed there of the kindness and attention which Emma received from that family had greatly raised her sister in importance in her mind; a girl so much noticed and liked by people who had never stooped to them before must be worth agreeing with; and as there was everything in Emma's own manners and temper to recommend her to the kindly disposed, Penelope had always avoided quarrelling with her, as she constantly did with her other sisters. Consequently, Emma could not help wishing it was Margaret who was going to Chichester, and Pen who was to share their home at Croydon.

Things, however, were really better arranged than she could have ordered them, for it would have been impossible for Penelope and Jane Watson to have continued in the same house, without the certain destruction of the peace of all around. There was no one in the neighbourhood to regret, excepting Mrs. Willis, for Emma would not allow even to herself that the separation from Mr. Howard gave her any concern; and it was a satisfaction to quit the vicinity of Osborne Castle, and the scenes where she had been so happy. The Osborne family were all gone to town without her having seen anything more of them; or the suit of the young nobleman having made any progress. She did not expect ever to see them again. Her own plan for the future was to try to procure a situation as teacher in a boarding school, or private governess; anything by which she could feel she was earning the food she eat, in preference to becoming as her brother expressed it, a burden on his family. She began now to comprehend more fully than she had done before, what an evil poverty might be, and felt a vivid sensation of regret that her uncle had left her so entirely dependent on others after giving her an education which quite unfitted her for filling the situation of humble companion to her sister-in-law.

She struggled to suppress the feeling that she had been unjustly and unkindly dealt with, but it would intrude, to her great discomfort.

But though there were few people to regret amongst her associates, there were sufficient discomforts and worries of other kinds attending their removal. The dismantling of their old home—the sale of the furniture—a portion of which was taken by the succeeding rector, the rest was to be disposed of by auction; the disputes about dilapidations; the finding situations for their servants; the vain attempts to procure a purchaser amongst their acquaintance for their old horse, even the parting with the house-dog and their two cows made Emma sorrowful. Added to all this was the incessant repining of Margaret, who was fretting herself almost into a decline, at the disappearance of Tom Musgrove, and the ill-natured letters of Robert Watson, who regularly quarrelled with everything Elizabeth did or did not do; who disputed all their proposals, and suggested nothing but impossibilities himself.

Emma could not make up her mind on another point, and this was an additional worry to her. She knew that Margaret's assertions were correct, that Tom Musgrove had really made the offer which no one else believed, and she doubted whether it was not her duty to support her sister's declarations by her testimony. But this threatened to involve so great an evil, that she shrank from it; it was evident that had Robert been aware she was a witness to the proceeding, he would immediately have taken advantage of the fact to compel Tom to fulfil his promise, or threaten him with an action, in case he refused. Margaret seemed likewise to be much inclined to this course, as the determined silence and prolonged absence of her lover naturally gave her doubts of his fidelity. The idea was horrible to Emma, and the possibility of her having to appear in a court of justice was most overpowering. Elizabeth, with whom she consulted on the subject, and who, from her partiality to Emma, was far more inclined to consider her feelings than those of Margaret, advised her, for the present, at least, to hold her tongue, and see how the affair would be settled without her intervention, and from not knowing what better to do, Emma finally decided to take her sister's advice.

At length, just before quitting Winston, she had a farewell visit from Mrs. Willis and her brother, whose plan for leaving home, she was already aware, had been renounced. The lady was the same as ever, friendly and warm in her manners; but Mr. Howard looked pale and ill, and was evidently out of spirits. The visit was short; and when they parted, Emma found the interview had only added an additional pang to all the sufferings she had previously endured.

And thus, for a second time, was Emma Watson driven out from the home where she had vainly hoped to find a continued shelter, and a second time compelled to look for protection from strange relatives. It was strange that though at this moment she really had more subjects of anxiety, more sources of depression and sorrow, she bore it so much better than the first. Then she had seemed overwhelmed—now strengthened by the blow. She was learning to see life, its duties, and its trials, in a new light; she discovered that suffering was not an accidental circumstance, like a transitory illness, to be cured and forgotten as soon as possible; it was the condition of life itself—peace was the exception—and she had enjoyed her share; henceforth, she must look forward to trial and endurance, she must struggle as millions had struggled before her, and learn to draw contentment not from circumstances but from temper of mind.

Conscious that whilst in her brother's house she should probably have much to bear, she sought for strength greater than her own to go through with it; and endeavoured by viewing her expected trials, as a system of mental discipline which would benefit her, if well supported, to bring her mind into a frame to endure them with patience.

The journey to Croydon was safely performed and as expeditiously as could be expected by three young ladies and a quantity of luggage travelling through cross roads with post-horses. Margaret was quite at home in the streets of Croydon and its neighbourhood, and pointed out to whom the various houses belonged with a feeling of exultation, as if knowing the names of the owners when her sisters did not were the next thing to possessing them herself. The bright green door, with its brass-handled bell, was easily recognised by the large plate bearing the owner's name which adorned it.

The door was opened by a footman who informed them that master was at the office, missus was out in the town, but they could step into the drawing-room whilst they waited for her return. With evident nonchalance, and something like insolence, he assisted the post-boy to unload the carriage, and summoning the house-maid, enquired if she knew what was to be done with all them things. The waiting-woman decided that nothing could be ventured on till the missus came home; she had changed her mind so often about the rooms, that it was quite uncertain what would be settled on at last; and if she should happen to alter her arrangements whilst she was out, it was evident they would have had all their trouble for nothing. The three girls were therefore sentenced to sit in the parlour during the interval, which Emma could not help feeling might have been more profitably employed in unpacking and arranging their property.

There was little to amuse them during their temporary confinement. A copy of "The Lady's Magazine," containing the recent Parisian fashions, was instantly seized on by Margaret; a cookery-book and a child's doll were lying beside it, and a cat and a kitten were reposing on the hearth rug, which, judging from its texture and the ugliness of its pattern, was probably the work of some domestic needle. Some uncommonly rare paintings hung against the walls—rare from the total want of taste harmony and merit which they displayed. Beside them were two most striking portraits which were considerately labelled as intending to represent the master and mistress of the house, thereby preventing such mistakes as to identity as might have occurred. The carpet was faded, the chairs and couch covered with slippery black horse-hair, bumping up into hard offensive things called cushions; the table was covered with green-baize much stained with wine, and the easy chair by the fire showed the exact spot where the owner was accustomed to repose his powdered and pomatumed head.

Presently the door opened and the little girl appeared. Margaret instantly rushed up to embrace her, but the child, who seemed peculiarly self-possessed for her age, repulsed her.

Her niece considered her attentively with an air of surprise, then said, "But you are quite tidy and clean—not ragged and dirty!"

"No my dear," replied Emma smiling at her puzzled look; "why did you expect to see me otherwise?"

"Because the people my nurse tells me are beggars in the street go without shoes, and wear old clothes."

Emma coloured slightly and made no reply, but Margaret, pressing forwards, again asked what that had to do with aunt Emma.

"Papa and mama said she was a beggar, and I thought she would look like them—but she is nice and looks good, and I will not mind you teaching me at all: will you make me pretty frocks?—mama said you should."

"I shall be very glad, love," replied Emma, "to do anything I can for you and your mama too; will you sit on my knee and tell me what I shall make your frocks of?"

Whilst Emma was making friends with her little niece, Mrs. Robert Watson herself arrived. She received her sisters-in-law with more cordiality than Emma expected from the epithet applied to herself, which the child had just betrayed. In fact she was rather pleased than otherwise at this accession to her family; she felt that she had secured a careful assistant to the cook in Elizabeth, who was well versed in the mysteries of pastry and custards, cakes, jellies, and raised pies; and in Emma she hoped to find a competent nursery-governess who would relieve her of all cares as to the child, and supply, unsalaried, the place of the nurse-maid, to whom, under this impression, she had already given warning.

After chatting some time with them, she rang for the house-maid to show them to their rooms, and the child declared she would accompany them as aunt Emma's room was close to the nursery. And so Emma found it was, for she was shown into a small closet containing a bed with room to walk round it, an old chest of drawers and a high stool. This was her apartment. There was no chimney, and the window looked out upon a small space of flat leads, surmounted by high, black, tiled roofs. It had commenced raining since they entered the house, and the gurgle of the water in the gutter, and drip from the window on the leads had a peculiarly monotonous sound. Emma looked at the forlorn and cheerless closet, and felt she was a beggar indeed. She hoped, however, that when her boxes and books were brought up she should be able to make it a little more comfortable; at least she had it to herself, and should be able to pass her time there in peace.

Her niece dragged her off to see the nurseries—the two rooms devoted to her occupied the rest of that floor, they were spacious and in every respect comfortable, except that they were littered with playthings which their owner apparently had not learnt to value.

As it drew near to the dinner-hour Emma ventured down stairs, and found her brother and his wife in the parlour. Robert received her in his usual manner: in another moment her two sisters entered, and they sat round the fire whilst waiting for dinner.

"I hope you like your rooms, girls," said Mrs. Watson; "I thought it would not matter putting Elizabeth and you together, Margaret, because I know it's only for a time. I have heard—a little bird whispered to me a certain story which you need not blush about—of a certain young man—I know who—and I am sure I congratulate you: when did you hear from him last, my dear?"

"Oh, my dear Jane I have not heard from him at all. Ever since the evening when he proposed he has disappeared from the country, and I cannot find out where he is gone, nor induce him to make any answer to my repeated letters."

"I cannot tell what he means, for my own part; I think some one has been slandering me to him, telling him things to my disadvantage, or perhaps intercepting one of my letters. Oh, I have thought of a thousand reasons for his silence, without charging him with infidelity, and I console myself with the hope that when the romantic interruption to our correspondence is removed, and the mystery which now envelops the affair is cleared away, that I shall find he has been suffering as much from the misunderstanding as myself."

"I am sure I hope you may—but are you certain there is no mistake on your part?" said her sister-in-law; "are you sure that he really proposed to you?"

"I am as positive of the fact," said Margaret, "as I ever was of anything in my life."

"Well that is a good deal," observed Robert, "for you can be pretty positive when you please. But I only wish, if it's true, you had had some witnesses—then I could have helped you."

"Would you have called him out?" enquired his wife in a tone of indifference which quite startled Emma.

"No, I should have called him in," said Robert laughing, "if the fellow refused to marry her, I would have had him up for a breach of promise, without ceremony."

"You might perhaps have got a couple of thousands—I think I would lay the damages at three."

"Only three, Robert! I am sure that is not enough for deceiving me, robbing me of my best affections, betraying my trust—oh, three thousand pounds would be no compensation for such conduct, no adequate compensation. I am sure my heart is worth more than that."

"I dare say you think so, Margaret," replied Robert coolly; "but you might not persuade a jury to think it likewise; there would be the difficulty."

"But would you really go to law about it?" enquired Emma. "Only think how it would make you talked about."

"Well, so much the better," replied Margaret sharply; "why should I mind that? I am not afraid of being spoken of."

"It would be much better to make him pay damages than compel him to marry you," observed Elizabeth. "I always wonder women venture to do that—I should be afraid he would beat me afterwards."

"Two or three thousand pounds would secure you a respectable husband, Margaret," continued Robert. "My friend, George Millar, would perhaps take you then."

"I think I would rather marry Tom Musgrove than anybody," replied Margaret. "George Millar is only a brewer, after all, and Tom is a gentleman and has nothing to do."

"But Millar has a capital business, I can tell you," cried Mrs. Watson; "I should not mind my own sister marrying him. Why I know he used to allow his late wife more than a hundred a month to keep the table and find herself in gowns—a very pretty allowance—and very pretty gowns she used to wear."

"Aye, George Millar could count thousands for Musgrove's hundreds," said Robert, "and a capital fellow he is. I only wish you might have such luck as to marry him, either of you girls."

The conversation was interrupted by the dinner, which was a welcome sight to the hungry travellers, who had tasted nothing since their early breakfast at Winston. Their brother looked at the table with evident pride.

"Well, Elizabeth, I promised you rather a better dinner than you gave me at Winston," observed he. He had the habit of reverting to past grievances.

"Oh, my dear creature," cried Jane, "Robert told me of the shocking dinner he had—poor fellow, you certainly always managed very badly about such things; perhaps it might do you no harm if I gave you some lessons; I have rather a genius for housekeeping—at least so my friends tell me—my uncle Sir Thomas used to like me to order his dinner."

"My dear Jane, I am afraid your instructions would be quite wasted on me, unless you would give me your income to supply my wishes—when any one allows me a hundred a month for the table expenses, I will give capital dinners," said Elizabeth.

"You are not thinking of what you are doing, Jane," said her husband reproachfully, "you know I cannot eat the wing of a fowl unless it is torn properly—Emma, I'll trouble you to cut some bacon—good heavens, I cannot eat it so thick as that-you are not helping a Winston plough boy remember!"

Emma endeavoured to comply but she grew nervous, and her brother was angry, and sent for the dish that he might help himself. Emma coloured and apologised.

"You should try to oblige, Emma," said Jane coolly, "a little pains bestowed on such things, is quite as useful and essential to good breeding as painting or books. Careless ways of carving are very detrimental to the comfort of a family, and though it may seem of no importance to you, it makes all the difference to a delicate palate—one used to the niceties of life—a gentleman in fact."

Emma felt, though she did not say, that there was no delicacy of feeling, whatever there might be of palate, in her sister-in-law—but she wisely held her tongue on the subject.

After dinner the little girl made her appearance, and immediately required of her mother a share in the walnuts on the table.

"No, my darling, they stain my fingers—ask your aunt Emma, I dare say she will do it."

Emma readily agreed to do so, wishing, so far as lay in her power, to shew that she really was anxious to oblige. The little girl seated herself on her knee, and endeavoured at first to assist in the operation, but soon relinquished the attempt, and contented herself with slyly dropping the walnut shells down Emma's neck, and slipping them under her gown, a playful trick which amused her mother excessively when she discovered it, and gave Emma the trouble of going to her room to undress, before she could free herself from the disagreeable sensations they occasioned.

The conversation before dinner still dwelt heavy in her mind; she felt persuaded that the time would come, when she and Miss Osborne too must step forward to prove the truth of her sister's words, and she shuddered at the idea. She felt that she must make some apology, or at least some announcement of her intentions to Miss Osborne, before she could venture to risk such very unpleasant consequences to them both: and she determined to write to her, and tell her the circumstances as they occurred, and ask her to support and substantiate her word when it came to be questioned.

Her head was too weary and dizzy to undertake anything of the kind that night, but she resolved not to defer it very long for Margaret's sake.

A day or two passed on, and Emma began to wonder when she should find time for writing the projected letter. Her sister-in-law kept her so fully employed, that a spare quarter of an hour was not to be had; her talents with needle and scissors had attracted Jane's observation when at Winston, and now they were put into constant requisition in mending the child's wardrobe, or improving the mother's. Her niece's lessons were likewise turned over to her, for she was to learn her alphabet, her parents expecting her to be a little prodigy, and Emma must spare no pains to produce the desired result. Take this as a specimen of their usual routine.

"I wish, Elizabeth, now you seem to be at leisure," said Jane entering the parlour, "you would just go and teach my cook to make those custard puddings, and if you would put her in the way of making almond cakes, such as you had at your father's, I should thank you. We have some friends coming to tea, and I should like them to taste those."

Elizabeth, who was just taking up her needle to mend a garment of her own, very good-temperedly put it away, and repaired to the kitchen to superintend her sister's confectionary affairs.

"Now, Emma," cried Jane, turning to her, "I'll call Janetta, and you shall give her a lesson, I should like her to know the 'Busy Bee' to say to the visitors to-night."

"That little darling," exclaimed Margaret, as her sister brought in the child, "has quite her mother's talents—my sweet pet," stroking down her hair as she spoke, "my little beauty will grow up a clever, good woman like mama some day, will you not, dearest."

"Like me, dearest Margaret? do not wish her such an evil, a poor weak creature like me—the child of impulse, the slave of excitement. May she be better and happier than her poor mother!"

Emma commenced the painful task of cramming infant brains with what they could not comprehend, for exhibition to people who did want to hear it. Jane shewed Margaret a piece of work she wanted done, and then threw herself into a lounging chair.

"Who do you expect here this evening, Jane?" enquired Margaret, "I did not know you meant to have company."

"It's a country client of my husband's who is coming to dine," replied Mrs. Watson, "and I asked one or two friends to meet him; one cannot very well help that, or else I don't know that just now, considering how lately your old father died, that I should have had any company—but Mr. Terry is a man of much influence!"

All Emma's sensitive feelings recoiled at this indifferent reference to their recent loss; that he was Robert's father likewise, did not seem to occur to his wife, who had never looked on him with either affection or respect. Meantime the little Janetta—for such was her niece's name, made but small progress towards acquiring the much desired learning; and presently, her mother, turning sharply round, cried out:—

"I am sure, Emma, you are taking no pains about that child—for she is so quick in general, at learning any thing; I must say, considering the circumstances, and the liberality with which your brother has received you, it is not asking such a very wonderful favor, requesting you to attend a little to his child."

"I am sure, I am very happy to do so," replied Emma, meekly; "but your little girl does not seem disposed to attend to me."

"That must be the fault of your manner of instructing then; you do not adopt an interesting way; but I have observed, constantly, where most gratitude is due, least is paid; Janetta, darling, does not your aunt teach you nicely?"

"I want to look at aunt Emma's watch," replied the child, "I hear it ticking in her pocket, and she says I must not see it till I have done!"

"How came you by a watch, Emma?" enquired Mrs. Watson, in a tone which seemed to imply a suspicion of its being honestly acquired. "Let me see it!"

"It was a gift from my uncle," replied poor Emma, producing it rather unwillingly.

"I want a watch very much—mine is not to my taste," observed Mrs. Watson, greedily eyeing her sister-in-law's property. "You would not like to exchange, would you, Emma?"

"Certainly not," replied she hastily; "it was a keepsake from him, and I would not willingly part with it for any thing."

"Don't you think you had better take Janetta to the nursery?" said Mrs. Watson, "I am sure she would learn a great deal better there than here, where we are talking. There, darling, go with Emma like a pet."

Emma saw that her sister-in-law wanted to get rid of her, but she really thought the quiet of the nursery would be preferable to the drawing-room worries, and she gladly withdrew.

"I don't quite understand that sister of yours, Margaret," said Jane, as soon as they were left together; "I think she seems very proud and unpleasant—a good deal of conceit and pertness, mingled in her manner."

"Exactly so, dear Jane, with your usual candour and penetration, you have precisely described her character."

"Yes," said Mrs. Watson, with an air of great satisfaction, "I hope I can see through people a little. If there is one quality I pride myself on, it is my penetration. I am blessed, I acknowledge, with a singular facility for discerning characters, and what I think I must say. I speak my feelings almost unconsciously!"

"You are a wonderfully clever creature, Jane; I am sure I never knew any one to be compared to you; but, as to Emma, I think it's her intimacy with the Osbornes that has set her up so abominably; really, since she has been there so much, there is no speaking to her sometimes."

"That is often the case where young girls are much noticed by those above them in rank, Margaret; I wonder what they saw in her to like so much—even if they thought her pretty—which I do not—I don't see why they should notice her for that—do you think Lord Osborne liked her?"

"I really don't know—he used to look at her—and he danced with her—and called on her—I sometimes thought he did care for her."

"I wish I could devise any means of bringing them together; if I were quite sure on that point, it would make a great difference; but I don't suppose anything will come of it now. There's the postman's knock—just step out in the passage and bring in the letters here; I know Mr. Watson is out, so I can get a peep at his dispatches now."

Margaret did as she was desired and returned presently with a handful of letters. Mrs. Watson took them on her lap and examined the post-mark and address of each. Several were, from their size and appearance, letters of business—she put them aside—over one she paused:

"Here's one in a lady's hand," said she, "and to my husband! London, I wonder who that's from? I never saw the seal before or the hand writing—there's some mystery there. I wonder whether it's from some mistress or improper person? I dare say it is—men are always deceiving one!"

"Oh, Jane!" cried Margaret, "that's impossible! You, of all people, cannot fear a rival. Robert could not serve you so!"

"Oh! the best of women, my dear, fare no better than the worst, with some men; the best of men are worth very little; and, as to Mr. Watson, he's no better than his neighbours. I can tell you I would not trust him without watching—and I'll see him open and read that letter, or my name is not Jane Watson; but let's see—" turning again to her letters; "what else have we here? One for me—one for Elizabeth—who's that from? look Margaret!"

Margaret readily obeyed, and kneeling down besides her sister's chair, looked at the letter in question.

"I think," said she, "it's from the upholsterer who purchased some of our old furniture, that's H on the seal, and his name was Hill."

"Very likely, but look, Margaret, here's one for Emma—a lady's hand too—the London post-mark, and a coronet on the seal—good gracious, that must be from Miss Osborne, or perhaps from her brother—I wonder if one could see anything inside. You see Lord Osborne has franked it, and it's in an envelope, how tiresome: if it had only been folded like another letter we could have read some of it."

"So we might, I dare say Emma will never tell us a word, she's so close, she never chats comfortably with one about anything; I am sure to this day I know nothing at all about what she thinks of Lord Osborne, or any of his family—it's so provoking and disagreeable."

"So it is, I hate such nasty close dispositions; I, who am all openness and frankness, cannot comprehend anything secret and underhand: well, we cannot help it, and I suppose we shall not know what it is about. Take those letters to the office, Margaret, and tell the clerk they were brought into the drawing-room by mistake."

Whilst Margaret fulfilled this commission, and stopped to flirt with the young clerk who received them, an old acquaintance of hers, Mrs. Watson, having first carefully laid aside the suspected epistle to her husband, proceeded up-stairs with Emma's letter, and after turning it over in every direction, and even holding it up to the light at the stair-case window, but without benefit, she suddenly entered the nursery. There she found Janetta had dropped asleep on a bed, and Emma taking advantage of the leisure thus afforded, was preparing to write a letter.

"Janetta asleep, oh!" said the anxious mother, "well then you will have time, Emma, to do a little job for me, I want some alterations in the trimmings of my bombazine gown, and I wish you would do it for me before evening."

"I shall be happy," replied Emma, "to do anything in my power to oblige you, if you will only explain it to me."

"Very well, come with me, and I will shew you what I want; oh, by the bye, here's a letter for you, I think it must be from Miss Osborne from the seal—does she write to you often?"

"No," replied Emma, surprised at hearing this, and holding out her hand for the letter which Mrs. Watson still detained to examine, "I never heard from her before since she left the country!"

"Indeed, what do you suppose she writes about—by the way, I suppose you are not accustomed to receive letters and give no account of them, are you?"

"Indeed I am," replied Emma, quite ashamed at the idea of supervision in such a particular, "I have never been controlled in either receiving or writing a letter."

"I consider that an exceedingly improper liberty for a young girl," observed Mrs. Watson drily, "at your time of life, under age, I should hold your guardian as very culpable if he took no account of your letters, and I am much mistaken if your brother does not expect, as a matter of course, to overlook all the correspondence you chose to carry on."

"Surely he cannot consider it necessary," remonstrated Emma seriously, "at my age—it is not as if I were a baby quite, but I am almost twenty."

"Possibly so, but whilst you are under age you are his ward, and must have to submit to any restrictions he lays on you with a good grace. It's no use colouring and pouting, there's nothing like bearing things with a good temper, and not giving yourself airs and graces about it. There's your letter!"

"Read your letter first, Emma, it may be a matter of business, and you should never delay business—your brother always says, 'do what is to be done directly, and do it yourself.'"

Emma silently drew forth the letter, and breaking the seal read the following words:

"I am sorry to trouble you with any unpleasant subjects, but I cannot forbear mentioning a circumstance which nearly concerns your family; and when you know the particulars, you can judge for yourself. Mr. Tom Musgrove, whom I had, as you know, reason to suppose engaged to one of your sisters, is now in town, and has not only been for some time past paying great attention to a young lady of fortune, a friend of my own, but, as I understand, has denied all engagement to Miss Watson, spoken very disparagingly of her, and even shewn letters written by her under the impression that such an engagement existed. Not knowing precisely how affairs stood between your sister and Mr. M., I dare not interfere, lest by revealing what she may perhaps wish concealed, I should injure her, and mortify you. I shall not, however, feel justified in preserving silence much longer, unless I am positively assured that all engagement is at an end between them. If she has released him from the promise to which we both are witnesses, it may be important to preserve silence on its previous existence, but if, as I cannot help suspecting, he has only released himself, has deceived or deserted her, I cannot allow my friend to be misled by him, and must insist on having his conduct cleared up and set in a proper light. I am sorry to be obliged to trouble you, as I feel convinced that whether secretly deceiving, openly deserting your sister, he is certainly using her extremely ill: you know I never had a good opinion of his character. I am over-whelmed with gaiety, and look back with a feeling of regret to the tranquil hours at Osborne Castle.

"P.S. Mr. Musgrove's address is, 75, Bond-street.—My brother and Sir William desire all sorts of proper messages to you; have you seen the Howards lately?"

Whilst Emma was reading these words, Jane was standing near her, playing with the sheet of paper in which it had been enveloped, and anxiously watching Emma's countenance to see the effect produced by the communication. She saw enough to discover that the emotion occasioned by the contents was not of a pleasurable nature. It was something which required deliberation and consideration. Mrs. Watson grew impatient.

"Well, what is it?" cried she. "You sit there pondering and pondering as if it were a dispatch from the king himself; tell me what your difficulty is, and I will help you!"

"I think," said Emma, hesitating and embarrassed, "I think I must speak to my brother about this, and, perhaps, I had better—I mean, he would like me to consult him first, before speaking even to you!"

"Tell me what it is," said Mrs. Watson, burning with curiosity, "let me know all about it, and I can tell you if it is necessary to consult him first!"

"But if I tell you now, I cannot apply first to him," remonstrated Emma, "and so that will not do."

"Oh, but you need not tell him that you told me," said Jane; "and as I am his wife, I should be sure to know it eventually."

"Can I not go to him at once?" said Emma, rising; "it would be much better, and as it must be done, the sooner I get over it the better."

"Is it anything you are afraid of telling him then?" enquired Mrs. Watson, still more eagerly, as she followed Emma from the room. "Is it about yourself? or Miss Osborne? oh, I know—it is for Mr. Watson to draw the marriage settlements—they say she is going to be married to Sir William Gordon, is that true? or is it an offer from Lord Osborne, I wonder? how obstinate the child is; and how fast she runs, I must make haste, or I shall lose some of it."

Mrs. Watson overtook Emma at the door of the private room, where so many important matters were settled by her husband, in time to hear an impatient "Come in," and to enter in her company. Robert was pacing up and down the room, and looked excessively surprised to see the intruders.

"What in the name of all that's troublesome brings you here to-day?" was his courteous salutation to his wife and sister.

"I wished to show you this letter, brother," said Emma, very humbly, with Miss Osborne's letter in her hand; "and as it seemed to me, no time should be lost in acting on it, I have ventured to intrude—"

Robert did not allow her to finish her sentence, but took the paper from her hand, and read it deliberately and attentively through. Anything in the shape of business received his strictest attention, or he would never have occupied the position which he now held. When he came to the conclusion, he looked up, and observed,

"I don't see that Jane has anything to do with this, and shall therefore beg she will leave the room—directly," added he, seeing that his wife hesitated.

She knew the tone, and was obliged to withdraw; but it was with a mental determination to plague her husband for a resolution so contrary to her wishes, though she could not settle whether the punishment should consist of boiling a leg of mutton, omitting his favorite pudding, or spoiling his chocolate.

Whilst she was arranging her plans for vengeance, her husband was holding council high on the subject of this letter.

How came Miss Osborne to know anything about it? what did she mean by saying that she and Emma were witnesses to the engagement? was that really the case? why had Margaret never alluded to it?

Emma explained as briefly as possible when and how they two had overheard the whole conversation. Robert rubbed his hands with inexpressible glee.

"He's caught then, fairly caught—that is good—we shall soon bring him to terms now: capital, to think of your eavesdropping with so much effect; but why did you never mention this before, child, when you heard me lamenting the want of witnesses?"

Emma asserted that she was only waiting to consult Miss Osborne on the subject, for as they had been mutually pledged to secrecy, she could not divulge it without her agreeing to it. Robert was in an ecstasy of hope and enjoyment; he saw a brilliant perspective of litigation, an action for breach of promise of marriage to be conducted, with all the éclat that could be given to such a proceeding, and damages given to his sister which would enable her to marry decently out of hand. This was delightful. His first step he determined should be a letter from himself to the culprit, claiming his promise to Margaret, but without alluding to the witnesses to be produced, and he instructed Emma to write to Miss Osborne, and tell her that her sister had never released Tom from his engagement, but was still acting on the belief that it existed, and that therefore she, Miss Osborne, was at liberty to inform her friend—indeed had better do so at once—that Mr. Musgrove was acting an equivocal part in paying attention to any other woman, as his hand was positively pledged to Miss Margaret Watson. This assurance from a party whom he naturally supposed unacquainted with the fact would alarm Tom, and it was possible, but Robert did not depend on it, that it might bring some offer of a compromise. Emma enquired what would be the result if, as was very probable, Mr. Musgrove should deny the engagement altogether, and trusting to there being no witnesses, refuse to fulfil it. Robert assured her that in that case he should have the means of compelling him either to fulfil the contract or pay large damages; he should not have a moment's hesitation in commencing an action against him, and with Miss Osborne and Emma to support Margaret's evidence there was no doubt of the result.

She was horrified to hear what was impending over her, and enquired, in a tone of something between fright and incredulity, whether he really contemplated forcing Miss Osborne to appeal in a public court of justice.

"Why should she not?" was his cool answer; "she is as capable of giving evidence, I presume, as any other woman, and her appearance will give a great publicity to the proceeding."

"But do you think she will like it?" suggested poor Emma, trembling for her own share of the trial as much as for her friend's.

"I shall not trouble my head about that—I will have her subpœned as a witness, and she must come, whether she likes it or not."

Emma was silent, but looked extremely uneasy. Her brother observed her distressed appearance, and after thinking a few minutes, addressed her.

"As you know so much of the Osbornes, Emma, and it really appears that you can keep a secret, which considering your age and sex is rather remarkable, I will tell you my whole plan, and we will see whether your wit can help me carry it out. Look here—suppose Tom Musgrove refuses all acknowledgment of the engagement, I threaten an action, call on you and Miss Osborne as witnesses; if it really comes before a jury she will be compelled to appear; but say she dislikes it—is too fine or too delicate—well let her family use their influence with Musgrove to induce a marriage, and they may succeed. By threatening to make his perfidy public, by menacing him with the indignation of the family, if he compels us to resort to such extremities—possibly even by the judicious application of family interests to procure him some situation, some sinecure appointment, or in many similar ways, the Osbornes may work upon his feelings in a way which we could never do. Meantime say nothing; I will explain enough to Margaret, and you have only to answer all enquiries by the assurance that you are not allowed by me to mention the matter. Go now."

Emma would gladly have retreated to her own room, but Jane was too sharp for her.

"What an immense time you have been," cried she impatiently clutching hold of Emma's shoulder; "I thought you would never come out; and I could not hear a word you said. Now tell me all about it."

Emma assured her that she dared not—her brother had so strictly forbidden all allusion to the subject; she really was not at liberty to mention a single word.

"Well really that's great impertinence of Mr. Watson—I'll give it him well for that: what can it signify whether I know it or not—I dare say a mighty matter to make so much fuss about—any affair you are concerned in must be so very important: no, don't go up-stairs, I want you in the parlour, child."

Emma reluctantly returned to the parlour. Elizabeth and Margaret were both there; but before Jane had time to expatiate upon the injustice and tyranny of her husband in denying her knowledge which did not concern her, a morning visitor was announced.

The lady who entered was a Mrs. Turner, a widow, with an unfashionable black dress, a good-humoured but unmeaning face, and a cheerful manner.

"Well, Mrs. Watson," cried she, "here you are, amiable and industrious as ever; I am sure your husband must thank his lucky stars which gave him such a wife—I always consider you quite as the pattern for all housekeepers and married ladies. And such a cheerful party as I find—who are these sweet girls?—charming creatures I have no doubt."

"Ah I remember—poor things, orphans—Miss Margaret I beg your pardon, I ought to have known you—I believe it was the black gown deceived me—elegant—black always looks well—and Miss Margaret's slender figure sets it off to advantage. What a sweet pretty face," (eyeing Emma) "really you must be quite proud of your new sisters, Mrs. Watson. Now I don't know anything pleasanter than a pretty face—it's so cheerful—all three so remarkably good-looking too—they are not the least like you, Mrs. Watson."

Mrs. Watson made no other answer than an enquiry for Mrs. Turner's son-in-law—Mr. Millar.

"George, oh, he's charming, thank you," replied the merry lady, who seemed to view everything couleur de rose, "up to his elbows in hops and malt—I often tell him, it's well if he be never smothered with his business. I do believe it's the most flourishing one in the town. Those little darlings, his children—you cannot think what angels they are; but they do want a mother sadly; now, Mrs. Watson—you could not recommend one, could you?" looking slyly at the three young ladies; "any nice, steady, sensible young woman of six or seven and twenty—George need not look out for a fortune, thank Heaven—he's a plenty, and to spare, of his own—but a nice, good-humoured wife, who would not thwart him, or vex his children—that's what he wants."

"Well," cried Mrs. Watson, with delight, "let him come here; I dare say either of the girls would not say him nay—they have no money, so they must take what they can get. It does not do for such to be too nice; not but what even the nicest might well be satisfied with George Millar."

"Aye, indeed, well they might. Do you know I am at him, day and night, to marry again; and he always says I must chose him a wife, for he has not time to see for himself. Now I'll make him come here to-night, and see what he'll say."

"Do so pray," said Jane, "we are expecting a few friends to dinner and tea; let him come in the evening when his business is over; but don't say a word of our plans, let him be taken by surprise, you know."

"Well," exclaimed Elizabeth, "I like your plan amazingly, and I give you fair warning, Mrs. Turner, that I shall do my utmost to please your son-in-law, and take the situation of Mrs. Millar. I am convinced he is a most delightful man, and well worth looking after."

"Well done my dear," cried Mrs. Turner, "I like honesty and candour of all things, and am delighted to find you are not too proud to own that you, like all other girls, want to be married. Some pretend to deny it; but it makes no difference, I know what they think secretly, and see through them all the same."

"We will not try to trifle with such penetration," said Elizabeth, laughing—"ask my sisters if they agree to your assertion."

"Oh, I know Miss Margaret does," cried Mrs. Turner; "she is longing to be married at this moment—and I could point out the gentleman too—my George has no chance with her."

"Only think of my affairs becoming so public, as my wishes to be known like that. You are a dangerous person, I know of old, Mrs. Turner!"

"Well, I must be going—I have to call on the Greenes this morning—sweet girls, the Greenes, ain't they—amazingly clever—very plain though—well, well, one can't have everything; do you know, I plague George about being in love with Ann Greene, and he cannot bear the sight of her in consequence—it is such fun."

"I know very little of the Greenes," observed Mrs. Watson, grandly, "they are not in our set. I dare say soap-boiling is a very good trade; but I have a fancy it must soil the fingers. Mr. Millar will not meet the Greenes here at all."

Mrs. Turner did not stay to defend the Greenes from the aspersions cast on them by the amiable Mrs. Watson, but hurried away to praise them to themselves, certain that in this case her eulogy would be well received.

Hardly had she left the room, when Robert entered, with an open letter in his hand, and enquired of Emma, if she had written as he desired her to do. Emma acknowledged that she had not.

"Then do it directly," said he, "and learn never to delay letters of business—always do what you have to do at once—it is idle, and worse to put it off."

Emma did not attempt to offer any excuse, but was preparing to leave the room to obey, when Jane stopped her, and recommended her remaining where she was to write; there were plenty of paper, pens, and ink in the room, and there could not be the smallest occasion for leaving the parlour.

She could not very well avoid yielding to this request, which, however, she suspected strongly was only made in hopes of obtaining some information relative to the letter in question. Meanwhile, Robert, going up to Margaret, showed her the letter he held in his hand, and desired her to read it.

"Oh, how very good of you," cried Margaret, when she had run through the contents, "how kind of you to take it up so warmly; you who never believed that what I said was true; how glad I am that you have come round at last to believe my assertions; now, I trust, Tom will relent, and my blighted affections will once more revive and flourish!"

"Don't talk to me of blighted affections," replied her brother, impatiently; "don't bother me with such nonsense; do learn, if you can, to think of matters of business as business; and in an affair of this kind, try to speak in a rational, sensible way. Do you think Musgrove will yield to this representation?"

"Oh, no doubt of it," said Margaret, "at least, I dare say he will; but suppose he should not, what will you do then?" fixed

"It appears," replied Robert, "that both Emma and Miss Osborne heard what passed between you, and as, in that case, they can both appear as witnesses for you, I have no doubt of getting a verdict in your favour, and very considerable damages from any jury in the county."

"Miss Osborne and Emma, are you sure," and turning to Emma, she exclaimed, "Where were you then, I should like to know."

"We were concealed from your sight," replied her sister, "by some orange trees, and thus we heard all you said without intending it."

"Listening were you—very pretty indeed—honorable conduct—from you too, who make such a fuss about propriety and honesty, and all that; but, after all, you are no better than your neighbours, it seems," said she, spitefully.

"I am sure I am very sorry," said Emma, with tears in her eyes, "if I have done anything to vex you; but indeed, though it may seem strange, I really could not help it."

"Oh no, of course not!" pursued Margaret, tossing her head back; "people never can help doing any thing which happens to suit their fancy—however, before I venture to talk another time, I will take care and ascertain if you are in the room or not—such meanness listening!"

"It appears very strange to me," cried Mrs. Watson, anxious to understand it all; "that we should suddenly hear that Emma knew all about it, when Margaret was so long wishing to have some evidence to prove her words; why did not Emma say so sooner, then?"

"And it seems still more extraordinary to me," interposed Elizabeth, "that Margaret should be so angry when she thus, unexpectedly, finds what she wishes for. Emma told me of this long ago, and told me that Miss Osborne had induced her to be silent on the subject for several reasons; but I know, from what she told me then, it was quite accidental, and could not be avoided, their overhearing Tom's conversation with you, Margaret."

"And it appears strangest of all to me," observed Robert, contemptuously, "that women never can keep to the point on any subject, but must start off on twenty different branches, which have nothing to do with the end in view. What does it signify to you, Margaret, when, how, or why your conversation was overheard—when, on the fact of its being so, depends your chance of getting two or three thousand pounds in your pocket? What does it matter as to Emma's motive for listening, so long as she did listen to such good purpose?"

Her brother then went on to explain to her the circumstance of Miss Osborne's interposition—shewing her, greatly to Emma's annoyance, the letter that morning received from London, and informing her of what he had desired might be written in answer. Margaret's feelings on the occasion, formed a most comic mixture of pleasure and indignation.

She was excessively gratified at being talked about, and made the subject of letters to and from Miss Osborne; and the notion of being plaintiff in an action at law, seemed to have almost as great a charm for her imagination, as being married; but then, she was sorely mortified at the information that Tom Musgrove's infidelity was so open and evident; she was vexed, bitterly vexed, at the idea of a rival; and she could hardly console herself for such an indignity, by the expectation of the damages which were to be awarded her. She looked very foolish and very spiteful when her sister-in-law made some ill-natured observations about overrating the powers of her own charms; and still more so when Robert added:

"That he had no doubt the fellow was drunk when he made the offer, but it did not matter if he was."

Emma was very glad when she had finished her letter, and was able to escape from the subject by quitting the house for a walk with Elizabeth. Jane had some errands for them in the town; but, as soon as they were fulfilled, they were able to turn their steps towards the country, and escaping into green fields and pleasant lanes, refresh their eyes and their tempers by watching for the first appearance of the spring flowers. Such a stroll was a real treat to Emma, and gave her strength to endure the numberless petty annoyances which Mrs. Watson heaped on her. She felt, whilst she could still enjoy a few hours of quiet converse with her sister—still breathe the fresh air of Heaven, and seek the simple, but unalloyed, satisfaction, to be derived from contemplating the works of Providence, that she had still blessings to be thankful for; that her situation, with all its drawbacks, ought still to call forth feelings of gratitude, when compared with the misfortunes of others of her fellow beings; and that it became her to be ready to acknowledge this, lest she should be taught to prize the comforts she still enjoyed by their withdrawal.

With these sentiments in her heart, she strove to act upon them; and when Elizabeth would have turned the conversation, to past times, and reverted to Mr. Howard and his sister, she had the strength of mind to turn away from the dangerous pleasure, and pursue some other topic.

They stayed out rather late—that is to say, they were not in the house till rather more than half past four, and they were to dine at five. They met their sister-in-law on the stairs in a great bustle.

"Oh dear! I have been in such a worry for you, Emma," cried she, "how very tiresome that you should be so late; I want Janetta dressed and her hair curled, and Betsy has not time to attend to it, because she has to dress my head—and here have I been waiting and waiting whilst you have been wandering over the country amusing yourselves without the least regard to me or my comfort."

"I am sorry to have put you to any inconvenience, but I had not the least idea you wanted me," replied Emma, "what can I do for you now?"

The wrath of any one but Mrs. Watson, must have been disarmed and pacified by Emma's good-tempered answer, and the sweetness of her manner, but Jane's was a disposition which yielded only if violently opposed, but became every hour more encroaching when given way to. To Elizabeth, who boldly spoke her mind on all occasions, she was far more submissive—but over Emma she could tyrannise without fear of a rude or thoughtless retort, a rebellious action, or even a discontented look; consequently, Emma was now dispatched to the nursery to perform the office of maid to her little niece, whilst the woman, whose business it was to attend to this matter, was occupied in arranging her mistress's toilette.

At length, Mrs. Watson was ready, and sweeping into the nursery with as much finery as her mourning would allow her to display, she took away her little girl, and allowed Emma time to arrange her own dress for dinner.

On descending to the drawing-room she found her sister-in-law engaged in talking and listening eagerly to the important gentleman from the country, for whose sake the dinner party had been arranged.

He was a broad-faced, portly man, who filled up the arm-chair in which he was seated, with perfect accuracy of adjustment, and whose countenance seemed to Emma to express a sort of hungry tolerance of Mrs. Watson's attentions. Whenever the door opened, and admitted with each fresh arrival a strong scent of dinner from the kitchen, he seemed to imbibe the odour with peculiar satisfaction, and after inhaling sundry times the teeming atmosphere, heaved a sigh indicative of anticipation and comfortable assurance for the future.

The fluttering of Mrs. Watson's trimmings, the waving of her ringlets, and the affected little bursts of merriment in which she indulged for his amusement, hardly discomposed him at all, so intent was he on the forthcoming dinner. Robert Watson was standing over the fire talking to a gloomy, dark-browed young man, a stranger to Emma, who seemed to consider that in conferring the favor of his bodily presence on the Watsons, he was doing them so great an honor, that there was no occasion for him to trouble himself with any further efforts, and that the absence of mind in which he ostentatiously indulged, was due to his own dignity, impaired, or at least endangered by the situation in which he had suffered himself to be placed. There was also a thin, white-faced individual, something between a man and a boy, who was chattering to Margaret with all the ease and volubility of an old acquaintance. Emma remembered that she had heard Jane and Margaret speaking of a Mr. Alfred Freemantle, whose family were "quite genteel country people," as being articled to Mr. Watson, and concluded that the individual thus mentioned was before her. Just as she had settled this point in her own mind, and seated herself near Elizabeth, she perceived the young man make a prodigious theatrical start, and heard him exclaim in a tone which could not be called low:

"It's only Emma—my sister Emma," said Margaret evidently vexed, "do you think her so very pretty? well I don't think I should call her so."

"She blushes divinely," cried he, fixing his eyes on her, "what a glorious complexion—and her name is Emma—sweet Emma."

Emma was half amused, but almost angry at his impertinence; had he been a little older, her anger would have been more decided, but he seemed such a mere boy, that she attributed his offensive behaviour to youthful ignorance; a charitable construction for which he would certainly not have thanked her.

Having stared at her for some minutes with unwavering perseverance, he rose, and crossing the room, let himself drop into a chair close by her, with a weight and impetus quite astonishing to Emma, when she considered the slight figure which produced such a concussion.

"I have just experienced a most delicious sensation, Miss Emma Watson, the sight of you has exactly recalled the image of a cousin of mine, from whom unfortunate circumstances have so imperatively separated me. Poor girl—you have no idea how lovely she was."

"Indeed," was Emma's reply, quite willing to admit the truth of this assertion, and equally ready to let the subject rest; but he had no intention of the sort.

"It is charming to be reminded of an absent friend, delightful—exquisite—are you likely to make a long stay at Croydon, Miss Emma Watson?"

"And you are actually living in the same house in which I spend the greater part of my weary days, and nothing but these envious walls conceals you from my sight. Is not that hard?"

"Really no," replied Emma, unable to control a smile at the absurdity of his manner, "I cannot say I think so at all."

"You don't—what a monstrous bore Mrs. Watson is—I am sure you will agree to that."

"And you consider that an infallible rule, of course, since you suggest it to me."

"I am certain," said the young man, "that our sympathies are strong: there is something in the turn of your head, the sparkle of your eye, the formation of your upper lip, that betokens decided participation in the feelings which corruscate, burn, and almost consume your humble servant."

"What a fine day it has been," observed Emma, purposely chosing the most common-place subject in reply to his rhapsody.

"Pretty well," replied Emma, determined to keep down to the most common-place level in her conversation.

He cast up his eyes, and turned away for a moment, throwing himself back in his chair, and elevating his chin in the air, whilst he carefully combed his hair with his fingers. Presently, however, he returned again to the attack.

At this moment dinner was announced, and whilst the fat gentleman was slowly emerging from his chair to accompany Mrs. Watson to the dining parlour, Emma's new acquaintance was pouring out a voluble strain of nonsense in her ear.

"To think of reasonable and reasoning creatures lowering themselves to an equality with the beasts of the field, by indulging in what is falsely called the pleasures of the table—to think of their voluntarily assembling only to eat; degrading their intellects by sitting down to spend two hours over roast mutton or apple pie—really it is inconceivable—allow me to conduct you, and your fair sister Margaret to the dinner-table. Sweetest Miss Margaret," presenting her his hand as he spoke, "my felicity is beyond expression—I can only equal my situation between you two, to love amongst the roses."

At the dinner-table Mrs. Watson appeared in all her glory. The dinner was really good, and as the favoured guest inhaled the odour of the soup, it was evident from the complacent expression which stole over his features, that he was well satisfied with the prospect now before him. Mrs. Watson's tactics were suited to the occasion; she devoted her attention to helping him to the best things on the table—the most dainty morsel, the epicure's piece, was in every case heaped on his plate. It would have been amusing to an observer to watch the struggle which in some cases occurred between Robert's self-interest and self-love. His appetite was at variance with his policy; it was difficult for him to yield the precedence at his own table to the love of good eating exhibited by another. To see his wife thus liberally disposed to another man was a severe blow, and whilst he acknowledged the justice, prudence and propriety of thus acting, it went to his heart to behold it. Her attentions, her flattery, her winning smiles she was welcome to indulge him with, but the dainty morsel from the cod's head—the largest share from the sweet-bread fricassee, the liver-wing of the spring chicken, these he could not resign without a sigh.

Mr. Alfred Freemantle, however, did not leave Emma much leisure to make remarks; he had seated himself by her side at table, and was paying her an infinite number of what he considered delicate attentions; calling incessantly to the footman to bring her vegetables—urging her to try every dish on the table, helping her to salt, and filling her glass with wine to the very brim, as he asserted all ladies liked bumpers; at the same time pouring into her ears the most common-place nonsense about his devotion to the fair sex, his zeal in performing his devoirs, and sundry other observations of the sort.

Emma gave him no encouragement, but he did not require any; perfectly satisfied with his own charms, and accustomed to consider himself as superior to his ordinary companions, he was well convinced that her shyness, not her dissatisfaction, kept her silent, and never for a moment supposed she could be otherwise than charmed with his conversation and company.

The dinner appeared to her, consequently, very dull, but at last the moment of release came; her sister-in-law gave the signal for departure, and the four ladies returned to the drawing-room. Here they were no sooner assembled than Margaret commenced a violent attack on Emma for her scandalous flirtation with Mr. Freemantle. He used to be a particular admirer of Margaret's, and she could not with patience resign his admiration to another. In fact she had not strength of mind to see with composure any woman engross the attention of a man with whom she was acquainted, all whose words and looks of admiration she wished to appropriate to herself; for having been for a couple of winters the reigning belle of her small neighbourhood, she still fancied her charms supreme, and was quite insensible of the fact, obvious to every one else, that she was now only exhibiting the remains of former beauty. Her bloom had been of short duration; she was too fretful to preserve the plumpness necessary to show her complexion to advantage, and she early lost the glow and the fairness which had formed her greatest charm.

Alfred Freemantle was not now to be won by all her wiles; Emma's newer face, and the sort of wondering indifference with which she heard his compliments, and his ready-prepared jokes formed an irresistible charm to him; he declared her freshness was piquant, her innocence was exquisite, that it was delicious to meet with a pretty girl so perfectly unhacknied in the ways of the world; little suspecting that the simple manner which he took for ignorance of life resulted entirely from her just appreciation of his little talent, and the total want of interest excited by such flattery as he was capable of administering.

But she could make no impression on Margaret by declarations of indifference, or assertions that she had thought him decidedly disagreeable. Her sister considered such words as a mere subterfuge, and would not believe that Mr. Alfred Freemantle was a sort of person to slight one girl for another, a stranger, without some special encouragement to do so.

Jane took up Margaret's cause, as she was always delighted to have an opportunity of finding fault with Emma, of whom she felt a decided jealousy, and a long and serious lecture was the consequence, which was only interrupted by the arrival of some of the evening visitors. The reproaches which were showered on Emma were, it is true, parried in some degree by Elizabeth, who although greatly respecting her sister-in-law, did not feel so much afraid of her as to refrain on that account from expressing her opinion. She vigorously defended Emma to the best of her abilities, and there was no saying how long the dispute might have been carried on but for the arrival of Mr. George Millar and a young lady, his half sister, who accompanied him.

Emma was obliged, as well as she could, to conceal the tears which were swimming in her eyes and anxious to avoid any further animadversions, she seated herself as far as possible from the gentleman, and occupied herself with some work which she had undertaken for Mrs. Watson.

She could not, however, restrain her attention which was speedily engaged by the young lady, whom she now saw for the first time. Annie Millar was not regularly pretty, but there was an expression of liveliness and spirit in her face, which would have won the palm from twenty professed beauties. Her manners suited her face exactly; lively, arch, and yet perfectly unaffected, she did not seem to know what constraint and fear were. She said whatever came into her head; but that head was so overflowing with good-humour and kindness that there was no room for malice or ill-will to abide there.

"Well, Mrs. Watson," cried she, "as I found you had invited my brother for this evening, I have invited myself; I cannot imagine why you left me out; but feeling certain you would be delighted to see me, I slipped on my second best gown, and came. Now I expect you to make me a civil speech in reply."

She was very certain of having a civil speech made. Mr. George Millar was a man of too much consequence amongst his own set, for his sister to be slighted in any degree. His fortune was large, and his disposition liberal; he was a widower, and he was very fond of his sister; Annie, therefore, was certain of compliments and welcomes, and was precisely the person to be received by Mrs. Watson with extreme rapture.

"I did so want to be acquainted with your other sisters," added Miss Millar, "that I think I should have ventured here had I been even certain you would scold instead of caressing me; I always envy every one who is blessed with a sister, and think it must be the most delightful relationship in the world."

"And I dare say your brother agrees with you," said Mrs. Watson, smiling graciously.

"Do you, George?" cried the young lady; "no, no, he considers me, without exception, the most troublesome of all his encumbrances; a charge which he is always trying to get rid of, by inducing some one else to undertake it. There is no telling you the pains he is at to throw the burden on some other unhappy man."

Her brother shook his head at his young sister, who only smiled in reply, and continued—

"Hitherto I have defeated his arts, and preserved myself from the snare; how long such good luck may continue to attend me I cannot tell."

"Well, Miss Millar, there's a good opportunity to-night," said Mrs. Watson, "for we have, amongst our visitors, a young and single man, who, I believe, is quite ready for any one who takes the trouble of catching him; so if you think him worth the trouble—"

"He must be very different from any man I ever saw yet," interrupted Annie. "Do you mean your charming young clerk, Mr. Alfred Frivolous, as I call him."

"Oh, dear, no," cried Mrs. Watson; "a very different person—he is very well off—has large property in Suffolk—quite a grand estate there—with no near connections—no sisters to be in your way—a most beautiful house—respectable family—I believe quite one of the first families in the county—and bears a high character."

"And may I ask the name of this desirable individual?" enquired Miss Millar, assuming an appearance of intense interest.

"Why, I cannot say that he is absolutely handsome, but very dark—dark and genteel—quite genteel, I assure you."

"Charming!" cried Annie; "dine with you, and yet not address you—his must be the very refinement of good manners—the very cream of gentility indeed—tell me some more about this delightful personage. Does he like ladies?"

"I cannot say—but though he seems rather shy of them now, depend upon it, he is all the easier caught."

"Ay, by those who try; I can fancy that certainly—I really must exert myself—your fascinating description quite rouses my energies."

"And I am sure if you do set about it, your success is certain," continued Mrs. Watson.

"Thank you, my dear Madam, for your encouraging opinion. I fear you rate my powers too highly," laughed Annie, bowing with mock ceremony—"a young and inexperienced girl like me, cannot pretend to anything so wonderful as the captivation of a dark Mr. Grant, with a large estate, and a contempt for women—you must not expect such a triumph for me."

"Indeed, I am certain you will succeed to admiration," cried Mrs. Watson, eagerly.

"I should recommend your catching his eye in some striking attitude—as I dare say he is fond of paintings—something very elegant to attract him at once," replied the married lady quite sincerely.

"Indeed—let me practice," cried Miss Millar, placing herself in an affected attitude in an arm-chair. "Will this do—or this—do I look sufficiently captivating now? which becomes me most, languor or liveliness."

"You, I see, are determined to make game of the whole thing," said Mrs. Watson. "Will nothing induce you to think well of a single man? are you so devoted a follower of celibacy yourself? ah, you are quite right—liberty, charming liberty! no one knows its value till, like me, they have sacrificed it. Ah, I say you are quite right—only, as you are so uncommonly fascinating, I cannot wonder if others should seek to win you."

"You are far too complimentary, Mrs. Watson," said the young lady, with affected gravity, and rising from her chair, she walked up to Emma, and commenced an acquaintance with her by admiring her work.

Emma was almost afraid to speak to her, lest the doing so should excite her sister-in-law's wrath again; but Annie Millar had taken a fancy to her face, and was not to be repulsed. Her lively chat soon drew off her companion's thoughts from the disagreeable circumstances which had previously occurred, and half an hour passed pleasantly. Meantime Mrs. Watson, with judicious precaution, had set Elizabeth down to back-gammon with George Millar, and guessing from the lively conversation carried on amidst the quick rattle of the dice, that all was going right there, she left them to improve their acquaintance in peace.

Very soon after this, the gentlemen strolled into the room—Mr. Grant first, as if anxious to make the more impression by his appearance. He looked round the room—and, as if satisfied by this survey that there was no one sufficiently attractive to induce him to engage in the labour of conversation, he walked away and took refuge in a small inner apartment, which opened from the drawing-room, and which was lighted by a single lamp.

Miss Millar shrugged her shoulders slightly and gave Emma an expressive look, but had no time for words, as they were at that moment joined by Margaret and Mr. Freemantle.

"Miss Millar, by all that is fair and felicitous, this is an unexpected pleasure."

She did not seem to find it so; but looked cold and careless, whilst she made him as slight a return for his salutation as possible.

"Would that I possessed an artist's pencil to pourtray the group before me," continued the young man, with affected rapture. "The graces exactly—it does, indeed, deserve to be commemorated on canvas or in marble. At all events, it is for ever impressed on the tablet of my heart."

Margaret giggled—Emma looked immoveably grave, whilst Annie smiled scornfully and said:

"What is that, Mr. Freemantle? Pray repeat that last sentence again, that I may commit it to memory."

It certainly is a thing very repulsive to human nature to repeat a sentence twice over—especially if it is a flourishing speech which only answers when thrown off hand at once.

Annie was perfectly aware that she could not have found a more effectual way of tormenting Mr. Freemantle; he looked very silly, and replied in a qualifying tone,

"Oh!" replied the young lady, "was that all? I am sorry I gave you the trouble of repeating it."

"Miss Millar is too much accustomed to homage," continued he, "for my feeble attempts to create any sensation in her mind. She despises such a humble worshipper as her poor devoted servant."

"I beg your pardon," returned she, "but I never despise any thing humble—quite the contrary; and your overwhelming complimentary speeches really raise such a variety of sensations, by which, I suppose, you mean sentiments in my mind that I positively know not which way to look."

He really thought she meant to flatter him, and smiled in a way that showed all his white teeth: yet, in conversing with Annie Millar, he always had a lurking suspicion that she was laughing at him, and therefore, never felt quite at his ease with her.

"Do sing to us," said he presently, in an insinuating tone; "it is such ecstasy to hear you sing! Pray indulge us with the 'Flowers of the Forest,' or one of your other charming Scotch melodies."

Annie compressed her lips and only bowed her head slightly in reply; then turning to Emma, addressed her on the subject of music. Several other people joined the party, and the tray with tea, pound cake and muffin, made its progress round the room. Mr. Freemantle insisted on helping each lady "to the refreshing beverage," as he called it himself, and passed many small and rather pointless jokes on the subject of the quantity of sugar they each required. "Sweets to the sweet," was a favorite quotation of his, and one which he usually found well received.

"Look at that man," whispered Annie, pointing to Mr. Grant, apparently fast asleep on the sofa; "should you not like to throw a cloak over his head, that his slumbers may be undisturbed. Oh! I'll tell you what I will do—look now!"

And stealing quietly into the inner room, she softly, but effectually, extinguished the lamp; and then returning closed the door, and placing a chair against it, seated herself there, leaving Mr. Grant in complete darkness "to finish his nap," as she said, "without risk of being roused by intrusive visitors." Mrs. Watson did not see this manœuvre, but Margaret and Emma laughed quietly—whilst Alfred, overcome by excessive amusement, dropped on a sofa, and rolled about in ecstasy.

"I!" cried the young lady, with well affected surprise; "who so quiet and well-behaved in this room as myself! Your suspicions are derogatory to me, and disgraceful to yourself, George."

And she drew herself up in an attitude of offended dignity, crossing her hands in her lap, and looking straight before her.

George went on with his game; and Mr. Alfred Freemantle, having recovered his composure, resumed his station by Miss Millar's side. He enquired how long she intended to keep the poor man in the dark? Miss Millar said he was in the black hole, and should continue there till he asked to get out; for, indeed, his voice had never yet been heard, and she was anxious to settle the question whether he was or was not, dumb.

Presently afterwards another of the party came up, and begged in the name of Mrs. Watson that Miss Millar would favor them with a song.

Annie possessed the rare talent of singing without accompaniment; and without affectation, when requested by the mistress of the house, she immediately complied, and warbled some beautiful old ballads to the great delight of the company.

She did not change her position, but sat with her back to the door, when, in the midst of her second song, a loud crash was heard in the little room where Mr. Grant was confined; this was followed by vociferous and angry exclamations—at which every one started forward with various intonations of surprise, wondering what was the matter. Miss Millar did not cease singing or move her seat, but merely waved her hand to keep back those who pressed on her, and finished her song with perfect self-possession.

When, however, a second part was suddenly taken to her performance by a strange voice in the next room, every one was still more astonished, and insisted on opening the door to discover the minstrel. When this was done, they saw Mr. Grant leaning quietly against one chair, whilst another overthrown beside him revealed the origin of the noise which had at first arrested them; he was in the dark, of course, and seemed as he stood there so sleepy and dull, that they could hardly imagine he was likewise the author of the melodious sounds they had overheard. How he came there, why he was in the dark, and why he remained so, were questions rapidly asked by such as knew him well enough to speak to him—but he could give no explanation—he only knew that he had woke up and found himself on the sofa in the dark, and thought he was in bed, until rolling off convinced him that he was not; that he had fallen on the floor and made a noise he supposed, and that he should be particularly glad to know whether Mrs. Watson was in the constant habit of locking up her guests in the dark.

Mrs. Watson came forward full of apologies and regrets; she really could not imagine how it had happened, or who had shut the door—it must have been so purely accidental; she was excessively shocked, and particularly grieved, and she hoped it would never occur again.

Nothing could be more admirable than the air of perfect innocence and ignorance which Annie Millar assumed through the whole scene; to have seen her face no one would have imagined that she was in the smallest degree inculpated in the false imprisonment which so afflicted poor Mr. Grant, and his slumber had been far too real and unfeigned for him to have any idea of the offender. Alfred Freemantle indeed drew all the suspicions on himself by his immoderate laughter and the facetious observations which he made at the discovery. Soon after this card-tables were formed, and the whole party sat down to different games, which occupied the rest of the evening.

Emma felt on parting that she should like to know more of Annie Millar, and she found the next morning that her wish was likely to be gratified, for the young lady called in the course of the forenoon, and expressed the strongest desire to carry on an acquaintance with both the sisters. Margaret, whom she had known previously, and for whom she certainly entertained no very strong predilection, did not seem inclined to join the party which Annie tried to arrange for a walk.

The feelings of jealousy and dislike which any pretty girl awakened in Margaret's mind were peculiarly vivid towards Annie Millar, and she naturally shrank from bringing herself much in contact with her.

Mrs. Watson came into the room just as Miss Millar was pressing the two other sisters to join her. As soon as she understood how the case stood, being at that time peculiarly cross with Emma on account of the admiration she had excited on the previous night, she interposed in this way:

"Indeed, my dear Miss Millar, it is most kind of you to propose such a thing, and I have no doubt but that the girls feel excessively obliged to you, but it is impossible for Emma to accept it. Loth as I am to refuse any request of yours, I cannot really accede to this one. Her duty must confine her within doors this morning, she has calls upon her time which must not be set aside; she must therefore forego the gratification you propose."

Emma could not help feeling rather astonished at hearing such a declaration, as she was quite unaware of any particular duties which would compel her to remain in the house that morning, and she was quite puzzled what to answer, when Annie Millar said coaxingly,

"Why can you not put off your business till the afternoon, and go with us now? What have you so very particular to do?"

"I suppose my sister-in-law wants me," said she colouring and hesitating; "and of course, if so, it is necessary I should stay."

"Oh, I thought it might be some penance you were to perform—something quite wonderful and romantic—but really I think you might contrive to delay it, and accompany us to-day."

"You are uncommonly kind," again interrupted Mrs. Watson, "but there is so much of regularity and system absolutely necessary where very young people are concerned, that whilst Emma continues under my care I cannot allow her to be running out at all hours—though if any one could tempt me to relax in my rules it would be you I assure you."

The idea of a young woman of Emma's age not being at liberty to walk or sit still according to her own fancy, appeared to Annie Millar very extraordinary, and her wonder and annoyance were equally shared by Emma herself, now hearing for the first time of rules that had never to her knowledge existed at all; and feeling unable to contend against the assumption of authority which her sister-in-law exercised over her proceedings, without the risk of causing an actual quarrel with her on the subject, she began to look forward with considerable dread, and to wonder what would come next.

"Well," said Miss Millar, "if it is not convenient for Miss Emma to walk now, will you tell me when and at what hour I may look forward to that pleasure? Exceedingly as I regret that your rules have disappointed me to-day, there is this comfort, that they ensure my gratification at some other time, when I understand your arrangements. At what time does your sister take exercise?"

Mrs. Watson was completely caught, and excessively puzzled what to say. She hesitated for a moment, and then observed,

"Well, as I do not like to thwart any plan of yours, I will try another day and make arrangements to gratify you, my dear Miss Millar; in the meantime I recommend you to take your walk to-day without any reference to Emma."

"A very pretty thing indeed," exclaimed Mrs. Watson the moment the door closed on them, "a very pretty and reasonable thing for a girl like you, Miss Emma, coming into this house as a dependent, without a farthing in your pocket, or an expectation of any kind, a very pretty thing I say for you to go flaunting and jaunting about with all the best company in the town; I can tell you if this is the way you go on, I shall take care and keep you up stairs when I have visitors. I suppose you hope for an opportunity for carrying on your acquaintance with Alfred Freemantle, or perhaps you are looking out for George Millar himself. I see I must keep a firm hand over you, or I shall have some disgraceful proceedings no doubt—a girl of your age to be so given up to flirtation; it is quite shocking."

"I do not know what I have done," replied Emma, struggling with her feelings, "to deserve your reproaches; Miss Millar asked me to walk with her, but how am I to blame for that?"

"Don't answer me, Miss, it is exceedingly impertinent and disrespectful, and I will not put up with it from you. If you imagine because you have been acquainted with the Osbornes and those grand folks, that you are to be mistress here, and do as you like, you will find yourself excessively mistaken. I shall allow nothing of the kind I assure you. Go to the nursery and take care of the little girl, and tell the nurse-maid I want her to go on an errand for me. Try and make yourself useful if you can, and show some gratitude for the extraordinary liberality of your brother, in receiving a beggar like you into his house."

Emma's spirit rose and tempted her strongly to rebel; her first impulse was to go to her own room, and shut herself in there; but she remembered that she was powerless, and totally without effectual support in the house. Elizabeth, it was true, would take her part, but she could only talk, not act, and as any contention must be fruitless, ending inevitably in her own defeat, she wisely determined to submit as quietly as possible, endeavouring to suppress her unavoidable feelings of repugnance and mortification, and trying to remember that since she was actually indebted to her brother for food and shelter, it became her to try by every means in her power to lessen the unwelcome burden. She went accordingly as she was desired to the nursery, and remained the rest of the morning in charge of Janetta, whose encreasing attachment towards her kind, new aunt, really gave her satisfaction, and made the time pass as pleasantly as was possible under such circumstances.

It distressed Elizabeth a good deal that Emma was not allowed to walk with her, and as she could never disguise her feelings, she immediately expressed this to her companion, adding that she was afraid Emma could never be happy at Robert's house, as Jane seemed to have taken a decided dislike to her.

Annie exclaimed at the idea; she could not conceive it possible that any one could dislike Emma; those delightful dark eyes, those elegant ringlets, and the general grace of her appearance were in her opinion, so strongly indicative of an amiable, lively and ingenuous mind, that nobody could take offence at her. She was most enthusiastic in her praises, and Elizabeth felt gratified. This conversation passed on their way to Miss Millar's home, where she wished to call before starting for a country walk. She led her companion up at once to her own apartments, and whilst she left her for a moment in her dressing-room, to make some arrangements in private, Elizabeth, who to pass the time was looking at some books on the table, was suddenly interrupted by the entrance of George Millar. Her back being turned towards the door, the disguise of her bonnet and cloak prevented his recognising her, and concluding it to be his sister, he advanced hastily, and laying his hand on her shoulder he said:

"My dear Annie," when on her turning her face towards him, he of course discovered his mistake.

He looked excessively confused for a moment, but Elizabeth laughed and took it so easily, that he soon recovered himself; she explained to him why she was waiting there, and on hearing that they were preparing to take a country walk, he declared that it was a holiday with him to-day, and if they would not object he would accompany them.

"Indeed," he added, "I think it my duty to go with you, or that wicked sister of mine would infallibly walk too far, and make herself ill. She is not to be trusted in the country I assure you."

Elizabeth did not feel inclined to raise any objection to this arrangement, as she was quite as well satisfied with what she saw, as with what she had heard of Mr. Millar, and did not feel disposed to retract her previous declaration in his favor. Their walk proved as agreeable as she could desire, and only left her the wish that she could have such another, and Emma with her.

They were out a considerable time, as George Millar proposed visiting a small farm in which he took much pride, and which particularly delighted Elizabeth. The arrangement of his dairy, the welfare of his lambs, the progress of his poultry, were all subjects exactly to her taste, and she entered heart and soul into the matter: her interest was far too sincere for him to be otherwise than flattered by it, and he came to the conclusion that she was a very delightful young woman, with more intelligence and a clearer head than any town-bred young lady of his acquaintance. He determined to take her opinion and advice on the subject of making cream cheeses, and resolved to rear a calf which she had admired, instead of sending it to the butcher's the following week. They were left a good deal to entertain each other, as Annie had chosen to unchain a large Newfoundland dog kept at the farm, and gone off in company with it for a gambol in the meadows.

When every part of the establishment had been carefully visited, and some of the hops in the nearest fields inspected, Elizabeth began to think it was time for her to go home; but Annie had not yet rejoined them, and having quite lost sight of her during the last hour, they had nothing to do but to sit down, and wait patiently, if they could, for her appearance. The house, which was only inhabited by a bailiff and his wife, was small but pretty, and Elizabeth was eloquent in her praise of everything she saw, declaring with perfect unreserve how very much she should prefer living in that charming little house, to inhabiting the best mansion in the town.

However, as time passed on, and she remembered the distance she had to walk before reaching home, she began to be rather uneasy, well knowing how extremely displeased Robert would be, if they were late for dinner, as seemed probable. She confided her fears to George Millar, confessing, with perfect candour, that she was very much afraid of her brother's displeasure. He immediately suggested, as a remedy, that if their return to Croydon was deferred later than she liked, she should give them the pleasure of her company at their own family meal; assuring her that there was not the smallest risk of Mrs. Turner's being angry, even if they kept her waiting an hour. At the same time, he said that, for that very reason, he should be sorry to do so, and he, therefore, hoped his sister would soon join them.

At length, after trying their patience till Elizabeth was surprised it did not fail, the truant girl returned; and when her brother attempted to scold her, she laughingly placed her hand over his mouth, and desired him to behave well before her friends, at least; there would be time enough for him to find fault in the course of the evening—he could keep awake on purpose.

He called her, in reply, a saucy girl, and threatened that another time he would not take her out walking with him; whilst she persisted in asserting that it was she to whom he was obliged for his excursion, and that she and Miss Watson could have done perfectly well without him.

They then commenced their return homewards, and George told his sister to invite Miss Watson to dine with them on the plea of being too late for her own dinner. Elizabeth expressed herself exceedingly ready to comply, and it was so settled.

When within half a mile of the town, they met Alfred Freemantle, who was enjoying a stroll on his escape from the office. Uninvited, he joined them, and placed himself by the side of Miss Millar, who was leaning on her brother's arm. She put up her lip in a very contemptuous way, and a moment after, changed to the other side, and found a refuge for herself between Elizabeth and George, where she was safe from him. He saw the manœuvre, and mortified at it, tried in his turn to mortify her, by enthusiastic praises of the absent Emma.

"What a sweet, charming girl she is—I don't know when I have seen anything which pleased me better—those sparkling black eyes, and the clear olive complexion, are perfection in my eyes; and her manners—so sweet—so ladylike, she is quite bewitching."

"You cannot praise her too much for me," replied Annie, quite sincerely; "I have been raving about her ever since last night, and so long as you make use of suitable and judicious terms, you may extol her beauty till you are worn out with fatigue."

"I intend to write an acrostic on her name," said he, in a most self-satisfied tone, "perhaps you did not know it; but I am considered rather to shine in that way; I have made capital verses."

"So you have told me, Mr. Freemantle, before; indeed, I remember, on one occasion, your presenting me with some lines which, from the style and manner, I should have judged impossible to be your own composition, but for your affirmation of that fact; of course, therefore, I am aware of your talents."

"I am only too much flattered by your remembering the circumstance at all, Miss Millar—you don't happen to recollect the lines, do you?"

"No, indeed: I remember the fact, because I know a cousin of mine who was staying with us at the time, amused himself with cutting the paper into the smallest possible morsels, and I only read the lines once in consequence."

The utter carelessness with which this assertion was made, would have been sufficient to overwhelm an ordinarily modest man, but he did not appear distressed, only interposing with a declaration that he thought he could remember the little poem—accordingly he commenced reciting—

"Pray spare me the rest," exclaimed Annie, almost suffocated with laughter, which she vainly tried to repress, "my modesty is too sensitive to stand such praises, so I entreat you to allow us to exercise our imaginations as to the remainder."

"Do you know when I began that I wanted to make every word in the line commence with the same letter, but I could not manage it; it was too much for me."

"I can easily believe that," replied Mr. Millar, gravely. "I think it was too much for my sister too; you should not indulge young girls with such flattery: depend upon it, it's very bad for them."

"Oh, dear no," replied he, "a little flattery delicately administered makes way amazingly amongst those whose hearts are soft and easily touched."

"No, indeed, you are hard-hearted and cruel to a degree to drive twenty such men as me to despair."

"I hope I shall never be reduced to do so desperate a deed; twenty such men would be a formidable phalanx—more than I could stand at all," said Miss Millar, arching her eye-brows and apparently looking on the point of laughing again.

He looked suspiciously at her, and said, after considering her countenance a moment,

"I have not made more than the first couplet of my address to Miss Emma Watson, do you think you can help me?"

"But, then, I don't know what to say next—what do you think is wanting?" said Mr. Alfred in the most earnest tone possible.

"Thank you, indeed," cried he, "what condescending goodness on your part to stoop to such kindness as to assist me with such poetical rhymes. Do you ever compose yourself?"

"How can you ask—have you not read a small volume of poems entitled, 'Way-side Flowers?'—and did you not know they were mine?"

"No, indeed! How delighted I am to be acquainted with a real author! I shall never rest till I have procured and read your poems."

"I wish you success in the search then," replied Annie, "and repose and quiet when you have succeeded."

In those days, Authors and Authoresses were far less plentiful than now; when not to know, or be nearly related to one, is a more remarkable circumstance by far, than the contrary; and Alfred Freemantle really believing Annie's assertion, looked and felt most highly exalted at the supposed discovery.

He continued, during the rest of the walk, to plague her with questions as to what species of stanzas—what measure—what style of writing she preferred, until Annie on getting free from him at length, burst into a strong invective against his stupidity and want of common sense.

Her brother quietly told her she deserved it—she liked to play on his dullness of perception, and it served her right when it recoiled on her own head. Annie denied that there was any malice in what she said, it was only a little fun, and was not really, at all naughty.

They reached their house at last, and the two ladies, being both tired and hungry, were extremely glad of rest and dinner. Elizabeth could not help wondering at herself for what she was doing, and where she was; but the human mind soon gets accustomed to any circumstances, and she enjoyed herself too much to feel any regret at the change of scene. Their little quartette was extremely pleasant and good-humoured; she was introduced to Mr. Millar's children, and was much pleased with them; and the little things, with the intuitive perception peculiar to children, clung to her with great delight and affection.

After spending, by far the most cheerful evening which she could remember, since they were snowed up at Mr. Howard's she was escorted home by George Millar, and parted from him with so friendly a feeling, that she could hardly believe he was only a two days' acquaintance.

Very different was the evening her sisters had been passing. Robert was engaged in his office—Margaret engrossed with a new romance that morning procured—and Jane, being tired, and having nothing to amuse her, was more than usually cross to Emma; finding fault with the manner in which she had performed some needle-work, and going on from that to a general charge of indifference, indolence, and constant inattention.

Emma sighed, and could not help throwing back a mournful thought to passed times, when she had felt herself the pet of her dear uncle, and the idol of a whole household; or later, when she had flattered herself with the notion that she was the first object with Mr. Howard. It seemed now, quite like recalling a dream, when she looked back to those happy days; so suddenly, and entirely, had the scene been changed. Then she began to wonder when she should hear from Miss Osborne—and what she would say—how she would bear the idea of being called into a court of justice; whether her family would not be angry at it—and what the result would be. Would Tom Musgrove yield or not?—or would Robert persist in his determination; and in these silent meditations the evening passed heavily away. She was glad when Elizabeth came home; her entrance brought some little diversion to their scene, as she had something new to tell; and Jane, though rather inclined to resent any one having so much enjoyment without her, was too well satisfied with the union which she anticipated between Elizabeth and Mr. Millar, to feel any very strong indignation on this occasion.

Bed time came, and Emma, feeling wretchedly depressed and miserable, could not refrain from the luxury of finishing the evening with a good fit of crying, which relieved her heart, and soothed her to sleep.

Early the next morning Elizabeth went to Emma's room, and began to express to her how very much she was pleased with George Millar, his sister, his children, his house, his farm, and all that belonged to him. Then she declared that, of all situations she had ever seen, she thought she should like the neighbourhood of Croydon for a home,—and, indeed, she should not object to live in the town altogether.

Emma listened and acquiesced in it all; she had not recovered her spirits—and though trying to enter into her sister's hopes and wishes, she could hardly summon energy sufficient to do so.

The morning passed much as usual until post time, when Emma received an answer to her note to Miss Osborne, and Robert at the same time was favored with a letter from Tom Musgrove. The four ladies were in the drawing-room, and Emma was looking over the dispatch from Miss Osborne, when her brother entered and communicated to them all the contents of Tom's letter. It was short and decisive.

"The receipt of your letter of yesterday surprised me a good deal. I am extremely sorry that there should have been any misunderstanding of the sort; but I am sure your amiable sister will at once admit that my attentions to her have always been limited within the bounds of friendship, such as our long acquaintance justifies, and such as I have paid to twenty other young ladies before her eyes. With kind compliments to the ladies of your family, I have the honor to remain,

Margaret thought it incumbent on her immediately to go off in a fit of hysterics on hearing this read, sobbing out between whiles, that he was a cruel, cruel man, and she never meant to care more about him.

"Do have done with that confounded noise," said Robert impatiently, "for there's no getting a word of sense from a woman when she's in that state, and heaven knows it's little enough one can reasonably expect at any time."

Margaret's sobs did not cease at this gentle request, and Robert grew more angry.

"By Jove, Margaret, if you don't stop, I'll leave you to make the best of your own matters, and neither meddle nor make any more in it."

Afraid that he might really keep his word, she ceased at last, and he then enquired what Emma had heard from Miss Osborne. Emma read the passage in which Miss Osborne replied to her assurance that Margaret still considered Mr. Musgrove engaged to her; it merely thanked her for the information, stated that she would warn her friend, and wished Miss Margaret a happy termination to her engagement. The rest of the letter was about subjects quite unconnected with Tom Musgrove, and uninteresting to any one but Emma. Miss Osborne mentioned one thing which gave her peculiar pleasure; her marriage with Sir William was to take place after Easter, and they were going down to spend the spring and summer months at Osborne Castle, which her brother had lent to them, whilst Sir William Gordon was determining on the plan and elevation of a new mansion, which he intended to build on his property. Miss Osborne earnestly hoped that Emma would once more visit there, and declared she quite looked forward with impatience to a future meeting.

She did not wish to read this aloud, as she shrunk from the appearance of boasting about her grand acquaintance, but neither Jane nor Margaret would allow her to rest in peace until she had made known the principal contents of her letter; and a sentence containing the information that they had seen Mr. Howard, who had spent a few days in town lately, was the only information she eventually kept to herself.

Margaret's curiosity having materially aided in restoring her composure, she was soon able to enquire of her brother what he intended to do. He repeated all he had formerly asserted, and Emma heard it with horror; she escaped from in the room to consider what she had better do, and after much thought, decided on writing at once to Miss Osborne, informing her of what was threatened. She sat down and wrote accordingly:

"I hope you will not consider me in any way to blame, if the information I have to communicate is disagreeable to you. I am sorry to say that Mr. Musgrove has been so unprincipled as entirely to deny the engagement, which we know subsisted between him and my sister; and what grieves me still more is, that my brother, convinced that there actually was an engagement, declares he will bring an action against Mr. Musgrove, unless he immediately fulfils it. The idea that we shall have to appear in a court of justice, frightens me very much, and I thought it right to give you early notice of his intention that you might not be taken by surprise. My brother is so fixed in his resolution, that I cannot see the smallest probability of an escape for us, unless Mr. Musgrove can be persuaded to act up to his promise. I know Lord Osborne has great influence with him, and for the sake of your family, and his own character and respectability, he might perhaps be persuaded by him to do so; but with a man of such a character, my sister's chance of happiness would be small, and I cannot wish for their marriage, even to save myself from what I so greatly dread. I feel I am wrong and selfish in shrinking from an exertion which I suppose is my duty, and perhaps after all, when there are so many troubles in life, one difficulty more or less ought not to disturb me so much. I am truly rejoiced at your bright prospects, and shall indeed have great pleasure at any time you name, in witnessing your domestic happiness; I assure you that your kind invitation has given me more pleasure than anything I have lately experienced.

We must follow this letter to London, and describe the effect which it produced on the parties concerned, and the results which arose from it. Miss Osborne was sitting in the breakfast-room in Portman Square when it was brought to her. Sir William Gordon was beside her on the sofa, assisting at her late breakfast, in the English sense of the word, and playfully telling her that he never meant to wait so long for his, when he was settled at home. As she looked at the address.

"Here is a letter," she observed, "from that charming Emma Watson with whom you were pleased to carry on such a flirtation just before you proposed to me."

"I flirt with Emma Watson," exclaimed he, "I deny it entirely—I never flirted with any girl in my life."

"What have you forgotten it all—did you not take a walk with her in the park—a sketch in a cottage—and a drive in a cart? do you mean to deny all that?"

"By no means, I only deny entirely all flirtation whatever—what time—what spirits—what inclination could I have to flirt with her, when I was doing hard service to win your most intractable and hard-hearted self."

"Stern enough to drive an ordinary man to despair, Rosa," replied he, looking admiringly at her; "and had I not been as obstinate as yourself, we never should have been sitting as we now are."

"Well, you may as well let my hand alone, I think, for I want the use of it to open my letter," and accordingly the young lady broke the seal, as soon as she could get possession of her hand.

She repulsed him, and placed herself in the corner of the sofa, where he was forced to be satisfied with watching her face. He saw her cheek glow, and her eye flash, whilst her brow contracted with repressed indignation, and she seemed on the point of tearing the letter in two. She did not, however, but dropped her hands in her lap, and sat for a minute looking upwards earnestly, as if trying to recall some past event, then frowned again. Her lover extended his hand towards her, and exclaimed—

"My dear Rosa, what is the matter, your looks quite frighten me—do let me see this letter."

"I am quite bewildered—completely mystified—what have you got to do with all this—and what does it mean?"

"Ah, you may well be astonished," she replied; "don't you see what is threatened? imagine me, a peer's daughter, dragged into the Assize Court as a witness in an action between Margaret Watson and Thomas Musgrove, for a breach of promise of marriage. Can you realise the scene? It would be novel and interesting, I think."

"Extremely so, and I do not see why you should mind it: you will, of course, be treated with all proper respect and consideration, and justice must be done. Don't make yourself unhappy about that."

"No, don't pray; I should not like that—but tell me how you happened to become the confidante of this charming Margaret; I did not know your friendship extended to the whole family."

"Neither does it—it is only Emma I care for," replied she; and she then proceeded to explain to Sir William all the circumstances attending their involuntary audience of Musgrove's courtship, and her reason for keeping it quiet.

"Caught listening, eh!" ejaculated Sir William; "I do not wonder that you shrink from being called on to avow it in public. What a pity that you did not start out and cry 'bo!' to them both; from all accounts they deserved it."

"That's all very well, and you may amuse yourself with laughing at me, if you like; but tell me how can I avoid this difficulty—must I appear in court?"

"I assure you, Sir William, if you go on laughing at my distress, I will punish you for it."

"I am excessively sorry for your distress, my dear Rosa, but I must think it quite unfounded."

"Well, there's one thing certain, I warn you: if I have to appear in this business, we must defer our marriage; I could not appear as a bride and a witness during the same month."

Sir William started up from the cushion where he was lounging, and looking fixedly at her, exclaimed—

"Then you shall have no occasion to put your threat in execution," said he, with an air of determination; "let us talk the matter over seriously, Rosa."

"Ah, I am glad I have brought you to your senses, at last; now consider, if we could do as Emma advises, and persuade this Mr. Musgrove to marry, as he ought, there would be an end of all trouble in the affair."

"To you, perhaps, but not to Miss Margaret; I dare say her amiable husband would beat her every day."

"Now don't relax into your indifference again, and be provoking! Oh, here comes Osborne; let's explain the case to him, and see what he says on the subject."

Lord Osborne, at the moment, entered the room, and his sister tried to make him comprehend the facts that had occurred.

"I think," said he, after hearing her story, "that Musgrove has behaved very ill—very ill, indeed."

"No doubt of that, my dear brother," replied she; "but what do you think of this Mr. Watson's proposal?"

"Just what we might expect from a lawyer, that he would go to law; it's his business, Rosa," replied her brother.

"But it's not my business to be obliged to appear in public is a witness in this ridiculous matter. If he likes to make his sister's affaires de cœur the subject for conversation and coarse jokes through the county, it is all very well, but I cannot see why I am to be implicated in a transaction which reflects nothing but discredit on all the parties," said Miss Osborne, with encreasing dissatisfaction.

"Especially to those who are detected in listening, Rosa," suggested Sir William Gordon.

"And poor Emma too," continued she, pretending not to hear him, "she evidently dreads the threatened exposure; I am quite concerned about it for her."

"Naturally enough," said the lover, in the same tormenting tone; "it makes every one sorry to be found out."

"Really, Sir William Gordon," said Miss Osborne, drawing up her slight figure with an air of great indignation, "if you can suggest nothing that is more agreeable than such reflections, we shall be better without you; and I recommend you to leave us to take care of ourselves."

It was haughtily said—for her quick temper was roused; he knew her well, and did not mean that she should obtain a sovereign rule over him. He loved her for her spirit—but he was determined not to crouch to it—and rising, he made her a grave bow, and left the room. She looked after him anxiously, expecting he would return, or at least, give her one more glance, but he did not, and the door closed before she could make up her mind to speak again.

"What do you want me to do, Rosa?" said her brother, "I think it will be easy to prevent all this, if it plagues you and your friend so much; I will speak to Tom myself, and see if I cannot persuade him to keep his promise."

"Ah! do, if you can, Osborne; of course the girl wants to marry him; and if he will do that, we shall be left in peace. Poor Emma seems very unhappy—look at her letter."

"Poor thing," said he, quite compassionately, "how soon, Rosa, may girls marry after their father's death?"

"Oh! that's a matter of taste! and I don't think it signifies in this matter at all. If we could only get Mr. Musgrove to acknowledge his engagement, he may take his own time for marrying."

Her brother was on the point of saying that he was not thinking of him, but he let it pass—and, after a moment's consideration, added:

"Then you think there would be no harm in engaging a girl, even if she could not marry immediately."

"Oh! I don't know, this engagement was formed before old Mr. Watson died, and that makes a difference. Perhaps, if people are very particular, they might not like to commence a courtship under such circumstances."

"Find Mr. Musgrove—tiresome man that he is—and tell him that, as the fact of his engagement is known, and, consequently, he is as certain to have a verdict against him, as this Mr. Watson is determined to try for it, the only thing for him to do, to avoid such a result, is to act like a man of honor. If he refuses, and by that means draws me into any thing so repugnant to my feelings as appearing in a court, he can never expect to be noticed by us again; and if we set the example, every one will throw him off—he will be scouted in the neighbourhood, and can never dare to shew his face again at home. Tell him this, and if I do not greatly mistake the man he will yield."

"I will try what I can do, Rosa, but I wish Gordon had undertaken it—he has so many more words than I have?"

"And if you cannot succeed with him, we must have recourse to Mr. Watson, the attorney, and try what we can do to stop his proceedings," continued Rosa. "Perhaps a little bribery, judiciously applied, might induce him to relinquish his intention, and save any further trouble."

"We shall see about that," replied he, "but, in the meantime, I will look for Musgrove, and try my skill on him."

"Could you find Sir William, Osborne," said Rosa, blushing, "and tell him that I should like to speak to him—or no, perhaps, if you tell him only what you are going to do, it will be better."

"I heard him leave the house, Rosa," said Lord Osborne, quite innocently, "but, if I see him at the club, I will tell him what you say."

Miss Osborne bit her lip and made no reply; she did not like to shew the empire which Sir William had over her feelings—nor would she readily have acknowledged the anxiety she could not avoid entertaining with regard to his quitting her so gravely. She had discovered that he would not be played with and tormented for her amusement, and she dared not attempt to trifle with him as she might have done with a less resolute man. Her brother left her and she spent the rest of the morning alone, and very uneasy. She was in no humour to receive visitors, and was entirely disinclined for any occupation. She kept on telling herself it was not because Sir William was absent that she was dissatisfied, it was only because she herself was threatened with a disagreeable incident; then she fell into a train of wondering thought as to what Sir William intended to do, where he was gone, and whether he would soon return to Portman Square. Her heart beat every time she heard the knocker, though she knew his hand too well to be deceived in that. At length, a note was brought to her with an assurance that the bearer was waiting. It was in his handwriting, and she opened it with trepidation. The style surprised her.

"Sir William Gordon's compliments to Miss Osborne, and he has the happiness of informing her that affairs are placed on a satisfactory footing with regard to Mr. Musgrove; but, as Sir W., has undertaken to communicate the result of the interview to Miss Watson and her sister, he wishes to know whether Miss Osborne would recommend him to go in person to Croydon—and if so, whether she has any commands for him."

Rosa read the note over three times before she could make up her mind to the answer she should return. She felt it deeply; the tone, the meaning, all conveyed a sort of covert reproach to her. She was sorry and angry at the same moment; and she was quite undecided whether to yield to or resent his conduct. After much deliberation she hastily wrote:

"Miss Osborne's compliments to Sir William Gordon, and as she finds it impossible to give an opinion without understanding more of the circumstances, she begs he will favor her with a call this afternoon, to explain what arrangements he has made."

No sooner was this note despatched than she bitterly regretted having sent such a one, and felt she would have given anything in the world to recall it, when too late. She could think of nothing else, of course, and being quite indisposed for any amusement she refused to accompany her mother in the afternoon drive, but remained sitting alone in the drawing-room. Engrossed with her own thoughts, she did not hear him enter, and was not aware of his presence till he spoke, and gravely observed,

"I am here, Miss Osborne, according to your commands; may I request you will let me know your further wishes."

"You are still offended, Sir William," replied she, looking up at him; "I thought you would have recovered yourself by this time."

"I cannot so soon forget the repulse I received; and I presume you intended it to be remembered."

"Nay, now don't look like that, I cannot bear it, I was wrong;" said she extending her hand to him. "Forgive me and sit down."

Miss Osborne had not to say she was wrong twice over, nor to repeat the request for forgiveness. He was not tyrannical, though he could not submit to slavery, and a reconciliation was soon effected. When they were able to talk of anything besides themselves, he described to her his interview with Tom Musgrove. He had found him insolent and angry—disposed to resent Mr. Watson's threats as insulting, and Sir William's interference as uncalled-for. His tone, however, was considerably lowered when he ascertained for the first time that his conversation with Margaret had been overheard by two who were quite able to prove the fact. Sir William told him he was authorized by the family of one young lady—indeed as her affianced husband he considered himself bound to step forward and endeavour to prevent the necessity of her appearing as a witness in a public court: should she, in consequence of Mr. Musgrove's persevering in denying the truth, be compelled to perform so unpleasant a task, it would bring down on him the enmity of the noble family of which the lady was a member, and the universal contempt of the county; whereas, whilst affairs stood as they did at present, the fact of his inconstancy being known to so few, it was evident the whole business might be hushed up, and when he and Miss Watson were married, they might be certain of the countenance and favour of the family at Osborne Castle, and all their connexions.

Tom had hesitated much, and evidently deeply repented the unguarded conduct which had placed him in such an unpleasant predicament; and though he had yielded at last to a conviction of the necessity of the thing, it was with a reluctance which augured ill for the domestic felicity of the future Mrs. Musgrove. Indeed he had told Sir William, with an oath, that if she really compelled him to marry her, Margaret Watson should rue the day; so that upon the whole Sir William was of opinion that the young lady had much better not persist in her claim, if she had any value for a quiet home.

"I dare say he will not be worse than other men," replied Rosa saucily; "I have a notion that they are all tyrants to women at heart, only some wear a mask in courtship and some do not take that trouble. But they are all alike in the end, no doubt."

"Very possibly, Rosa; suppose you were to carry out your theory and change places with Miss Margaret."

"Thank you; your liberality is overpowering; but though they may be all alike in temper, they are so neither in person nor name—and in neither of these particulars does Mr. Musgrove please me."

It was then settled that Rosa should write to her friend and inform her how matters were going on—it being understood that Tom Musgrove was by the same post to assert his claim to Miss Margaret Watson's hand in a letter to her brother.

Had Margaret Watson possessed one particle of proper spirit, the tone and manner in which Tom Musgrove fulfilled his part of the bargain would have been sufficient to cause a total rupture between them; but far from this was the case with her. The fact of being now believed in her declaration, of being known as an engaged young lady, of having a right to talk about wedding-clothes, and sigh sentimentally at the prospect before her; the distinction which all this would give her in a small country town, where every occurrence, from a proposal of marriage down to the purchase of a new pair of shoes, was immediately known to all the neighbours—this delighted Margaret's weak mind, and set her heart in a flutter of gratified vanity.

To be able to inform all the morning visitors at her brother's house that indeed she was contemplating this important change, that she was yielding to a long and well placed affection, that she had known her dear Tom all her life, and that their mutual attachment had been of many years' standing—to sigh over the prospect of soon leaving her sisters, and trying a new situation, seeking a new home, entering on new duties—all this was perfect ecstasy to her, and on the strength of her engagement she became more than ever peevish and disagreeable to her sisters in private, and more affable and smiling to her associates in public.

Her dear Tom—her absent friend—was introduced on all occasions in her speeches, and most happy would she have been had she been able to introduce him personally to the admiring young ladies of Croydon. Miss Jenkins was dying to see him; Miss Lamb was certain he must be a charming beau; Miss Morgan and her sister were never weary of hearing the colour of his hair, and the style of his equipage.

This was highly gratifying to Margaret, but she had her little discomforts too. There were some young ladies who shrugged their shoulders and wished Mr. and Mrs. Tom Musgrove might have a quiet house of it—there were others who whispered strange things about the courtship. Miss Lascomb thought it very odd indeed Mr. Musgrove did not come to see his betrothed—of course they knew their own affairs best, but she hoped if ever she were in such a situation, to see a little more devotion and warmth in her swain. Miss Johnston said she knew how young men were sometimes caught, that she did, and till she heard the gentleman declare his engagement with a smile, she should not be persuaded that it did not cost him a sigh.

These speeches, though not made to Margaret, were all carefully repeated to her, by some of her many kind friends, who delighted in retailing small ware of the kind. She coloured and pouted, tossed her head, and recommended people to leave affairs alone which did not belong to them, and wondered any people could take such pleasure in interfering in other people's concerns. But she knew what it came from, that she did, it was all envy and spite, because she was going to marry a real gentleman, who had nothing to do, and Mr. Johnston was only an apothecary, and all the world knew that Miss Lascomb had been setting her cap at the writing master for the last three years, and all to no purpose. In her heart, she was really troubled with some misgivings on account of not receiving any communication from Tom—she would have delighted to parade his letters before her admiring confidantes, and her envying female friends, but this pleasure was denied her. All she could do, was to write very often herself, and take care to have a letter directed to him beside her, whenever any of her gossipping acquaintance came to pay her a visit of inspection.

The news from Chichester which about this time arrived gave a very flourishing account of Penelope's affairs. Her lover, notwithstanding his advanced age, appeared far more ardent and energetic than the youthful Tom Musgrove.

In accordance, it was said, with his earnest solicitations, their union was to take place very speedily, and Penelope hoped that the next time she had occasion to write to her sisters, it would be to inform them that she no longer bore the same name as themselves. In the prospects of her two sisters, Emma saw little to console her for the blight which had fallen on her own; she would have rejoiced with all her heart had she been able to suppose they would be happy, but she could not reconcile herself to the proceedings of either, nor persuade herself, try as she would, that in either case, the motives which led them to engage in a connection so important as matrimony were such as could ensure a blessing with them. In Penelope's case especially, she could view it as nothing but a sale of herself for a certain amount of settlements; she knew there was neither love nor esteem on her side, for she had heard her, in unguarded moments, express sentiments quite the reverse, speaking of her future husband in a slighting tone, and with a contemptuous accent, as if she held him little better than an idiot for the very act of marrying her. As to Margaret, though she really seemed in love, after a fashion, with Mr. Musgrove, there was too evident a reluctance on his part, and too much want of delicacy on hers, to leave, as Emma imagined, the least chance of anything happier than a total rupture between them; and taking everything into consideration it seemed to her that such an event would be by much the most desirable circumstance that could occur.

Emma herself was, for some time, a close prisoner. Mrs. Watson found so much for her to do, that she had scarcely time to stir from the nursery, except when she took a walk with Janetta, who was now almost entirely confided to her care. The child loved her dearly; and had her exertions as nursery governess given the smallest satisfaction to her sister-in-law, had they even been treated by her as an equivalent for board and maintenance, she would have been less uncomfortable.

But whilst she was spending her whole time in unremunerated, and indeed unacknowledged services, she was perpetually reminded of her entire dependence on Robert, and taunted with her uselessness, her idle habits, and her fine lady manners. The numerous visitors, who dawdled away a morning hour in Mrs. Watson's parlour, were apt to expatiate on her extraordinary liberality and kindness in receiving her three sisters as her guests, little imagining that the two elder paid for their board out of their scanty incomes, and that the younger compensated for the misery she endured, under the show of patronage, in a way yet more advantageous to her grudging but ostentatious relatives.

At length, a grand event occurred. Mr. Millar invited them all to a dinner party, and Annie hinted that it was to be followed by a dance and a supper. They were all asked, and though Jane demurred about Emma, Robert overruled her.

"We must let the girl have a chance," said he; "if she is never seen, there's no chance of any of those young fellows proposing for her."

Jane had no wish that they should. She felt Emma's value far too strongly to be at all inclined to part with her. Her caps had never been so nicely made—her stockings so carefully darned—or Janetta's wardrobe so well attended to, as since she had turned over every trouble of the kind to Emma. But as she did not choose to own these considerations, she was obliged to assent to Robert's proposal, and Emma was to go to the Millars'. In spite of their mutual wishes, she had seen very little of Annie Millar; their meetings had been hindered in every possible way by Mrs. Watson, who was always apprehensive that Emma would complain, aware, as she was, that she had real reason to do so; but Mrs. Watson had skilfully contrived that the drawing back from her acquaintance should appear the voluntary act of Emma, a notion which cooled Annie's friendship towards her, until Elizabeth, with her usual frankness, had on one occasion afforded an explanation of the matter. The result of this was an energetic attempt, on Miss Millar's side, to secure her society for the evening in question, and as she had appealed to Robert as well as Jane, she was successful.

They went accordingly, and Emma's quick eyes were immediately caught by the difference of manner which George Millar displayed towards Elizabeth, compared with the rest of the party. To the others he was open, cordial, and kind, with an address which if not exactly polished, was at least far removed from vulgarity; but to Miss Watson he was hurried and awkward, apparently eager to please to a degree which deprived him of the self-possession necessary for that end. Elizabeth too, looked shy and conscious when their eyes met, though evidently expecting and wishing that he should take his stand beside her chair, which she had fortunately secured in such a position, that after walking forward to receive his visitors, he was able to fall back again, and resume his conversation with her. Emma saw this with satisfaction, and venturing, in spite of her own disappointments, to speculate on the future, she fancied that at least her dear sister Elizabeth would secure a happy home for herself.

Annie Millar seated herself by Emma's side soon after the Watson party entered the room, and began warmly expressing her pleasure in at length seeing her in her brother's house. Emma assured her in reply, that it was not want of inclination that had kept her away, but want of leisure, for she added quite simply:

"I am governess to my little niece, and have not, therefore, much time to spare for any other purpose. I dare say my sister-in-law told you so."

"No indeed," said Annie warmly, and colouring with indignation, "she never said anything of the kind; she always excused you on the plea of studies or occupations for your good which you had to pursue, and boasted of her kind and attentive care for your benefit, without once hinting that she was under obligations to you, which the hospitality of which she boasts so much can ill-repay."

"Oh hush, Miss Millar," replied Emma blushing deeply, "you must not indeed talk so: if my brother receives me into his house, the least I can do is to take care of his child in return, and so lighten the trouble which I cannot help giving."

"But, my dear Miss Emma, excuse my taking the liberty of saying that if you were governess to any other lady's child, you would not only be supposed to earn your board and lodging, but some fifty or sixty pounds in addition, so that in fact Mrs. Watson is the obliged party in this concern."

Miss Millar was called away at the moment to receive some other visitor, and when able again to return to her seat, she observed:

"That was a most fortunate interruption, for it certainly saved me from saying something unpardonably impertinent. I am, I have been told, much too apt to speak my feelings on all subjects, without sufficiently considering, times, places, and persons. How well your sister looks to-night."

"Oh Miss Watson; I never could admire your sister Margaret, though I know many people who do; neither she nor Mrs. Watson, who is rather in the other extreme, are at all to my taste."

"I am sure she deserves to be so," replied Annie with enthusiasm, "she is such a very amiable person, I know few with whom I more enjoy a day's intercourse. It always seems to do me good to hear her talk, she makes so light of difficulties, and is so cheerful. To me, who I believe am rather too apt to grumble, she is quite a lesson I assure you."

"I am delighted to hear you say so," replied Emma, with a look that shewed how perfectly sincere was the expression she used.

Though Annie was frequently called away by the necessity of receiving other visitors, she took every opportunity she could command of returning to Emma's side, and conversing with her in the most friendly way. During the intervals when she was obliged to withdraw, Emma looked round the room, to see how the others were employed or amused. Mrs. Turner was discoursing eloquently with Mrs. Watson, who was evidently bored exceedingly, and hardly listening at all; her thoughts as well as her eyes seemed to turn constantly to an individual of the party unknown to Emma, a tall and pleasant looking man, who stood by a nice looking elderly lady, and seemed to be making himself very agreeable to her. Margaret had no one to talk to, and was busy in arranging her tucker in a satisfactory way, and smoothing her gloves from the tips of the fingers upwards. Robert was hungry, and consequently quite unable to enter into conversation with any one. He was faintly trying to hide the violent yawns which were produced by the suspension of feeling—the uneasy state of expectancy in which he was kept. Emma could read his impatience in the peculiar twitching about his eyes, and the spasmodic way in which his hands closed at intervals, as if grasping some imaginary knife and fork. There were two other gentlemen of the party whose names she ascertained from her young friend; one a tall, stiff, elderly man, with an erect carriage, and rather disappointed expression of countenance, she learnt was a Captain Tomlins, an old soldier, who played a remarkably good rubber at whist; the other was the clergyman of the parish, who had but just returned from Bath, and consequently was unknown to Emma. He was a mild-looking, middle-aged man, with a very bald head, and a small quantity of silver hair; his countenance was singularly pleasing and inviting, and there was an earnest kindness in his manner which charmed her. He stooped and was very round shouldered, whilst a slight appearance of lameness arising from the gout which had driven him to Bath, interested Emma peculiarly in him, because it reminded her of her father. The other individual who occupied so much of Jane's attention, Emma was likewise informed was the doctor of the parish, and one of the principal objects of interest to half the ladies of the town. Annie assured her his reputation as a doctor was wonderful; he made all his patients pleased with themselves, and consequently pleased with him likewise; indeed he had a sort of harmless way of making love to the ladies under his care, which was very captivating to most people.

"And are you one of his patients?" enquired Emma, "or only an amateur admirer of his?"

"Oh, I was never any one's patient," replied Annie; "I am never ill; and as to being an admirer of his, indeed I do not think I ever could admire a doctor—I have a decided aversion to the profession altogether."

"I never liked it," observed Emma, "until I became acquainted with my brother Sam, and for his sake I have been quite reconciled to it."

"Yes I can understand that, I think George could reconcile me to anything," replied Miss Millar with an expression of feeling resting on her open countenance, which Emma thought quite bewitching; "but after all a doctor's is an odious profession: to be eternally dinned with complaints and pains, and always administering drugs and mixtures in which I dare say they have no faith all the time, must require a stock of extraordinary patience. I wonder how that man can go smiling and complimenting through the world as he does."

"But you look only at the disagreeable side of the profession," returned Emma; "you should consider it as the means of alleviating suffering, relieving distress—perhaps prolonging the most valuable life; if you think of the good a doctor can do, you will form a higher estimate of the profession."

"Yes, but then all those wise thoughts do not come of themselves into my poor brain; it is only those as clever and sedate as you who can suggest them, and in spite of it all, I am afraid I shall go on always hating the profession all my life."

Their conversation was cut short by a summons to dinner, when owing to there being a preponderance of ladies in the party, Annie and Emma walked in together. At the table, however, they were separated, and Emma's ill-luck placed her between her sister-in-law and her brother, a mis-arrangement which was not perceived until every one was seated, and which Mrs. Watson then insisted should not be changed.

Jane was particularly cross; she had expected the distinction of leading the way to the dining-room in company with the master of the house, and she saw instead a quiet-looking, plainly-dressed lady precede her. Not knowing who the stranger was, and feeling all the right of being first, which as niece to Sir Thomas she invariably claimed, the indignant blood mounted to her cheeks. The hope, however, that Mr. Morgan the doctor would take care of her instead for a moment tranquillized her mind; but when the place he should have occupied was officiously filled by the whist-playing Captain Tomlins, who cared nothing for the right of precedence and only desired to reach the dining-room quickly, her indignation was with difficulty repressed; and as she looked over her shoulder in leaving the room, and saw Elizabeth following with Mr. Morgan, her anger rose to a climax.

"I am sure I don't know, ma'am—I was thinking she must be a stranger;" replied Captain Tomlins anxiously snuffing up the scent of dinner ascending from the lower regions of the house. "The Millars always give such good dinners."

"It's very odd," continued Mrs. Watson, "how little attention is paid to rank; it seems to be getting quite the fashion now to set aside all the old distinctions. Formerly neither men nor women thought of pushing themselves out of their places, but now all that is forgotten, and one may be obliged to walk in to dinner behind you don't know who, and often conducted by some one who has no right to put himself forward."

"Very true, ma'am, such things may happen—but you know at least who is leading you, and I conceive that as an officer in the service of his Majesty, I have a perfect right to walk before any of our present company, excepting always our host. I am sure you must agree with me."

"Upon my word," said Mrs. Watson, with an angry little laugh. "I was not at all aware of your rank being so very high, or entitling you to such very great distinction. However, I dare say it's all right, and I shall find myself, no doubt, soon walking in behind the old sexton's wife, or taking the hand of the parish clerk to the table."

As they had reached the table, by the time she had made this speech, Captain Tomlins did not trouble himself to answer her, being intently occupied in counting the dishes which stood before him, as resting his hands on the edge of the table, and firmly compressing his lips, he bent forward to take a survey of the shining covers, as if half-expecting to be able to penetrate their substance, and ascertain their contents. Mrs. Watson tossed her head in angry disdain, and was forced to soothe her agitated feelings by scrutinising the way in which the party on the opposite side disposed themselves. The doctor, whom she had vainly coveted as a companion, was seated between Elizabeth and Margaret, the former having a seat at the corner next her host's chair, so that Mr. Morgan was not likely to be much engrossed by her conversation. Mr. Bridge, the rector, and Annie Millar filled up the rest of that side, as Mrs. Turner took the head of the table.

These were well placed, as Mrs. Turner delighted in carving, and Annie being exceedingly attached to the old clergyman, whom she had known from childhood, amply compensated to him by her respectful attention for the total neglect with which he was treated by Margaret, and the rude repulsive stare with which she received his first attempt at conversation.

In consequence of her situation, Emma's dinner was exceedingly dull, and right glad was she when the time came for retiring to the drawing-room. Here there was a change of scene, and also a change of companions; for she was able to take a seat by Elizabeth, and learn from her, that she, at least, had found the party very agreeable. Meanwhile Mrs. Watson was venting her indignation against Captain Tomlins, in no very measured terms, for his love of eating, his indifference to good society, and his presumptuous and pushing manner.

The stranger lady, whose name had not yet been made known, enquired if it was her neighbour of whom she was speaking, and having received from Mrs. Watson an abrupt and haughty affirmation, she turned to Mrs. Turner, and informed her that she formerly knew him, and added, that they had enjoyed some agreeable conversation together about old times and former acquaintances. Mrs. Watson, on hearing this, eyed her with increased disdain and suspicion, and moving away to the other side of the fireplace, she flirted her handkerchief before her face, as if the very air were laden with impurity by her presence. With head thrown back, and lips closely pressed together, she seemed determined to prevent any more of her words being wasted in such a presence.

Their party was soon after joined and enlivened by a number of young ladies, and a fair proportion of young men. The Miss Morgans, sisters to the doctor, the Miss Jones and their brothers, children of a wealthy baker deceased; the owner of a flourishing paper mill in the neighbourhood, together with the whole of his large family, four sons and three daughters, rejoicing in the name of Lamb, the eldest daughter being an enthusiastic friend of Margaret's; and two or three families of great elegance and distinction in the neighbourhood; families who enjoyed the advantage of having houses quite in the country, surrounded with poplars and laurels, and no connection with any trade or business; these formed the élite of the party. There were several unconnected young men, amongst whom Mr. Alfred Freemantle appeared conspicuous; and swaggering up to Emma's side, declared that he meant to make that the ne plus ultra of his hopes for the evening. Annie, who heard him, maliciously desired he would translate the Latin for the benefit of ignorant young ladies; but he pretended not to hear her request, and went on talking to Emma without pity or cessation.

Whilst Annie Millar was busy dispensing the tea and coffee to her guests, Mrs. Watson approached her, and enquired, who was that little old lady who walked into dinner before her. A wicked light danced in Annie's eyes, for she had noticed Jane's scornful manner, and was excessively pleased at the surprise in store for her.

"Do you not know her?" she replied; "she is my godmother, and is now staying with us on her road to London."

"And her name, tell me that—who is she—who was she—to have the precedence over me, Miss Millar?'

"She is the widow of Sir George Barry, a baronet—who died a year or two ago—there is no family, so the title becomes extinct—she is the kindest, quietest, best old lady in the world, I am sure."

"Bless me," cried Mrs. Watson, growing very red in the face, "you don't say so, sure: a baronet's lady! well really—I never thought of that—I am sure I wish I had known it sooner. Why did you not introduce me."

"She did not think it necessary," replied Annie, quietly; "and we always let her have her own way—indeed, I believe I ought not to have told you who she is, only I saw you were annoyed at her having the precedence of you, and I thought it would comfort you to find it was not without reason and right."

"Well, I shall certainly go and talk to her now; but I am sure I don't know why you should suppose I was annoyed about anything of the sort; I declare I do not mind in the least what I do—or where I go—nobody can be more indifferent about their place than I am, though, of course, I do not like to see a mere nobody put over my head; but a baronet's lady is quite a different thing; I wonder whether she knows my uncle Sir Thomas—I dare say she does—people of rank usually know one another in London."

Miss Millar did not try to prevent her going to make the amende honorable to Lady Barry, whose quiet features expressed some surprise at the manner in which she was attacked by the hitherto scornful Mrs. Watson; and the repetition of the word "your ladyship" met Annie's ear as she contemplated them from the other side of the hearth rug.

Mr. Alfred Freemantle continued his battery of small talk in Emma's ear, and, at length, in spite of the cold ungraciousness of her manner, which was as far removed as possible from welcome or encouragement, the young gentleman ended his tirade by presenting her with a paper which he declared was a copy of verses in her honour. Emma coldly declined taking it, and his most urgent entreaties could not prevail on her to look at the verses—just at this juncture, Miss Millar joined them, and on understanding the subject in dispute she seized on the paper, and commenced reading the lines aloud. They consisted of the usual jumble about stars and flowers, streams and bowers, wings and other things, hearts, darts, flames and names, which might be expected in the valentine of a school-boy, and Annie read them in such an absurd, mock-heroic tone as made those within hearing laugh most naturally, really thinking, as they did, that it was intended altogether as a burlesque. Alfred Freemantle writhed under this laughter, which he could not take as a compliment, having intended the whole poem to be extremely sentimental: he tried to smile too, but really felt far more inclined to cry, and he shrank back into a corner, there to hide his confusion as well as he could. Annie did not pursue her triumph farther, but left the poor young man to the mortifying consideration of his own defeat.

When tea and coffee were dismissed, Annie declared it to be her intention to have a dance, which of course all the young people seconded with zeal. There was fortunately amongst the party one lady, who it was known excelled in playing country-dances on the harpsichord, which stood in the drawing-room, an heir loom from Annie's mother. The room was soon prepared, and the young ladies all drew up their heads, and began to look straight before them, as if they did not care the least in the world which of the gentlemen asked them to dance, or whether any did at all. Emma having no intention of standing up herself, drew farther back into a corner, without perceiving that it was the very one where young Freemantle had hidden his diminished head. He quite misinterpreted the action, and dropping down into an empty chair by her side, said with an air intended to be very arch,

"Indeed I was not," replied Emma, "for I did not see you, but I shall be very happy to do so immediately. Pray, Mr. Freemantle, go and dance with any one but myself."

"Unparalleled cruelty," cried he clasping his hands, and throwing up his chin into the air. "To ask me to stand up with any other woman than the fair, the captivating, the charming object of all my vows, of all my wishes."

"If you mean me by those expressions," replied Emma quite calmly, "and that you wish to stand up with me, allow me to save you all further trouble, by the information that I do not intend to dance at all this evening."

"Impossible, you cannot be so hard-hearted—so cruel to your devoted slaves, as all the men in this room must be—you cannot be so unjust to your own charms, so unkind to your own attractions. That elastic figure, graceful as the weeping willow, was formed to float through the dance like the water lily on the surface of the stream. Those fairy feet—those—in short do you really mean not to dance?"

"Your reason—tell me your reason, I entreat you, why should you shrink from bewitching our eyes, and lapping our senses in Elysium."

"Excuse me, I think I have done enough in giving you one positive answer; you have no right to require any reason from a woman: or let this suffice you, I will not because I will not."

"Mr. Freemantle," said Annie, advancing towards them, and effecting an agreeable diversion in Emma's favour, "I must request you to stand up; we can harbour no idle young men in corners here; you are doomed to make yourself agreeable to one lady for the space of two dances, and only on this condition shall you remain in the room."

"Since then the beauteous Miss Emma will not do me the honor, will you permit me to solicit your hand, Miss Millar."

"No indeed, I am engaged for the whole evening, so you must find a partner somewhere else; go and ask Miss Morgan or Miss Lamb."

"I obey with the alacrity which your commands must always inspire," and he went accordingly.

"I will not ask you to stand up," said she, "after the reason you gave me, but both Mrs. Watson and your youngest sister have joined the set you see. How shall you amuse yourself?"

"Oh, never mind me," replied Emma cheerfully, "where is Elizabeth—she does not dance surely?"

"No, she's playing cards with my brother and yours, I believe; they went into that little parlour on purpose. Will you join them and look on?"

Before Emma had time to answer, Annie was called away, and a moment after Mr. Morgan came, and taking a chair near her, entered into conversation with the ease of a man accustomed to see much of the world, and mix in good society. She was interested and amused by his conversation, and more especially so when she accidentally discovered that at college he had been well acquainted with Mr. Howard, had since been visiting occasionally in the neighbourhood of Osborne Castle, and knew the whole family. He was a good deal older than Howard he told her, but he had remained some time in the vicinity of Oxford after he began to practise; indeed he had adopted his profession rather late in life, and having a fellowship he had continued single.

All this he communicated to Emma, but he had tact soon enough to discover that his own history, unconnected with the family and neighbourhood of Osborne Castle, interested her but little. He soon therefore turned the conversation to that channel again, and discovered that her feelings were certainly deeply concerned in it. Yet he could not quite satisfy himself whether it was the young lord or his former tutor, whose name raised a tinge of blood to her cheek, which he saw to be very becoming. Indeed there were so many reminiscences and peculiar circumstances associated with her intimacy with Miss Osborne, and acquaintance with her brother, they were so strangely implicated in Margaret's affairs, and so much that Emma was ashamed of, was suggested by their names, that she was quite as ready to blush at the memory of them, as at the dearer and more tantalising recollections connected with Mrs. Willis and her brother. Well knowing the art of pleasing, Mr. Morgan allowed her to lead in the subject of the conversation, carefully following the turn which she chose to give it, and trying to read her feelings with his scrutinising eye, whilst he seemed to be all attention to her conversation at the moment. Annie's account of him had not prepossessed her in his favour, yet now she could not deny that he was on the whole an agreeable man. The interval of the two dances passed pleasantly away, but when they were concluded Mr. Morgan left her, and she soon afterwards stole away to the little room where the card-table was. For some reason, however, which she could not learn, the whist party had been broken up, and she only found sitting there George Millar and Elizabeth, apparently deeply engrossed in a game at chess. She seated herself near them; her sister looked up and smiled, and then resumed her game; no one spoke. Emma took up a folio of prints lying on the table, and amused herself with looking over them. At length her attention was arrested by the sound of her own name. By the voices she learnt the speakers were her sister-in-law and Mr. Morgan, and the first words she heard were, the gentleman saying:

"I cannot agree with you," replied Mrs. Watson, rather tartly; "her features are too irregular to be called handsome; good eyes, perhaps, but her skin is coarse and her features insignificant. I cannot but wonder at your taste."

"Indeed, I must beg leave to differ from you, my dear Mrs. Watson; her features may, perhaps, be rather smaller than real beauty requires, but the dark glowing complexion—the brilliant eye—the redundant hair, and rich red lips, these reminded me so strongly of yourself, that I cannot give up admiring them, even though you will not agree with me."

"Well, I don't know, I never was told she was like me before," said Mrs. Watson, in a simpering tone, which seemed to speak her propitiated by the incense thus offered to her. "Do you know how she is situated?" added she, "It's a most unfortunate thing; she was brought up so very much above her situation, in the most foolish, ill-judging way, by an old uncle who died without leaving her farthing; and now she is a beggar, without a sixpence to bless herself with, entirely dependent on her brother's and my charity. I am sure I am sorry for the poor thing."

"Yes, indeed," replied Mr. Morgan, with a really feeling tone, "if that is the case, she is, indeed, to be pitied. Poor thing you may well say."

"The worst of it is, that both her education, and I must say, her temper, unfit her for her future situation; she must do something for herself—a situation as governess seems the only thing—but with her fine lady notions, I don't know what to do."

"If you are wanting to get her such a situation," replied Mr. Morgan, "I think I know of one which would probably suit her. Lady Fanny Allston is wanting a governess for her little girl. The child is extremely delicate. I am in almost daily attendance on it, and I know Lady Fanny always says, 'I don't care for accomplishments, Mr. Morgan; my child can have masters, but it's manners I want—mind and manners—the feelings—the look—and the behaviour of a gentlewoman.' Now would not this exactly suit your sister? The salary is most liberal; and, altogether, I think she might be very happy there."

"Perhaps so, I don't know—you are very kind to think of her—but, indeed, I am not sure that she would be at all suited for the place—and how are we to get it for her. I am sure I don't know."

"Oh! I shall see her ladyship to-morrow, and can mention it to her; only give me authority to ask, and you shall see how soon it will be arranged."

"You are very kind—very obliging—but, indeed, I cannot answer at once; I must speak to my husband about it; but don't mention it to any one else, if you please—my intentions—my wishes with regard to her, are quite confidentially entrusted to you, and I wish you not to say any thing on the subject."

She had, at first, felt extremely hurt that Mrs. Watson should make her circumstances and situation the subject of unreserved discussion with a man totally unconnected with her family—and that in so loud a tone as to be perfectly audible to any one within a dozen yards of where she sat. But the accent of real interest in Mr. Morgan's voice—and above all, the prospect which he held up of a release from the galling thraldom of her present situation, served to compensate for the want of delicacy in her sister-in-law. She immediately formed a resolution to profit by the offer, if Mr. Morgan would really make good his word; whilst meditating on this plan, she heard her sister-in-law invited to dance again; and her quitting her seat, was immediately followed by Mr. Morgan's turning into the room where she was sitting.

She looked up at him as he entered, and fancied she perceived a slight shade of embarrassment on his countenance, as if he suspected she must have overheard his recent conversation. He drew a chair by her side immediately, and began complimenting her on her taste for silence and seclusion, as he could not imagine that the two chess players, at the other table, had proved very communicative companions. She readily admitted that they were too much engrossed by their game, to have bestowed a word or thought on her; and then added, that, in consequence of the quiet around her, she had discovered that others were thinking and talking of her in her absence. She colored a little as she added:

"My sister informed you so fully of my circumstances, that it is no use to affect reserve, and you mentioned a plan to her, which, it appears to me, would suit me perfectly well, if you really can make the arrangements you talk of."

"I am sorry you overheard what, I fear, may have appeared impertinent to you," replied he, with a grave and earnest kindness of manner, which would have suited a parent. "But Mrs. Watson is accustomed to speak confidentially to me of family matters; and though I certainly have no right to intermeddle in your concerns, yet permit me to say, no one could have the pleasure of conversing with you for even half an hour, without feeling a degree of interest which would certainly lead them to do every thing in their power to serve you."

"If you really want to serve me, Mr. Morgan, the first step to it must be leaving off complimentary speeches; keep them for those whom you have no other means of serving, and speak to the point with me."

"Well, I will keep them for Mrs. Watson, she will not reject them with so much scorn."

"Hush, I will allow nothing personal," said Emma, "I am Mrs. Watson's inmate, and must not listen to reflections upon her. But tell me, if you know, exactly what are the particular qualities required by Lady Fanny for the little girl's governess?"

"First youth, health, and good spirits—lady-like manners, a cultivated mind—a thorough acquaintance with English literature, a taste for the fine arts, and a love both of poetry and nature. Such, as well as I remember, was the catalogue she gave me, and to that she had no objection to add accomplishments, but on this subject she is not particular. She knows that though a woman may perform as well as an amateur musician, may draw or paint pleasingly, and may be tolerably well acquainted with modern languages, it is not more than one in ten who can be so thoroughly grounded in these accomplishments as to be really able to teach them with any effect—one subject of study is as much as most women can compass, and those who pretend to more are most likely to fail in all."

Emma listened in silence, and wondered mentally whether the entire oblivion of everything relative to principles—morals—and religion were the result of indifference to such subjects on the part of Lady Fanny, or Mr. Morgan.

"You are silent, Miss Watson," continued he, after surveying, for a moment, her downcast look and thoughtful expression. "Am I to suppose that my catalogue does not please you—or are you doubtful of my accuracy?"

"But that must be a very little way, Mr. Morgan, the experience of this evening cannot be considered sufficient by those who will require information on the subject, however entirely it may satisfy yourself."

"You give me credit for less penetration than I would claim, if you suppose my experience is limited to this evening. You possibly have never seen me before, but we have often met, nevertheless—you did not know that I am a particular friend of your little niece, and deep in her confidence."

"Well, I will allow you as much penetration as you choose to claim on this subject—meantime, tell me when will the situation be vacant at Lady Fanny's?"

"In about two months, I believe; I do not know exactly, but if you will authorise me, I will make all necessary enquiries for you."

"You may do so, if you please, without absolutely committing me; and when I know all the particulars I can consult my brother, to whom I hold myself responsible, and whose approbation I must, of course, have."

At this juncture, the chess table was broken up, and Elizabeth joined Emma. Mr. Millar walked away to make the amende honorable to those ladies young and old, whom he had grievously neglected whilst devoting himself to Miss Watson. Elizabeth looked very well pleased with her game; but she did not seem disposed to talk; at this moment the noise in the dancing-room attracted their attention, and they moved to the door to look on. The party were going through Sir Roger de Coverley, in a high state of excitement, especially some of the young gentleman, of whom Mr. Alfred Freemantle was the most conspicuous. He rushed forwards with fury, and rather tore than ran round the figure; at length, when advancing to meet Margaret Watson, who was, like himself, dancing with more vigour than grace, they ran against each other, her foot slipt, and she fell completely into his arms. Not satisfied with this exploit, she made believe to faint, and he was forced to support her out of the circle: one or two people offered to assist, but he rejected their efforts, and half carried, half led her to the little drawing-room, near which her sisters were standing. Elizabeth and Emma tried to be of service, but, in fact, there was nothing to do; she would have been quite well would she only have held up her head, and sat upright; but whilst she chose to recline on Mr. Freemantle's shoulder—and allow him to keep his arms round her waist, they could do nothing but look on and feel very much ashamed of her.

Emma went to procure a glass of water from the side-board, and meeting Mr. Morgan, asked him to come and see if anything was the matter with her sister, as she hoped his presence would be an inducement to Margaret to resume the use of her senses, and leave off the hugging in which she was indulging Alfred.

Mr. Morgan accompanied Emma, and arrived just in time to see Margaret, after making a slight effort to sit up, sink again on her companion's breast in an attitude of the greatest exhaustion. Throwing an arch glance at Emma as he took the glass of water from her hand, Mr. Morgan said, in an extremely plaintive tone, "Poor thing—that is a complete faint—something must be done for her," and without the smallest warning, he dashed the cold water over her face and neck, plentifully bedewing the young gentleman's coat and embroidered waistcoat at the same time. Margaret started up instantly, and so did Alfred, each shaking off the water, and looking excessively annoyed. Margaret was as red as fire, and whilst dabbing up the drops from her neck and cheeks with her pocket-handkerchief, she exclaimed—

"Good gracious, doctor, is that the way you cure young ladies in a fainting fit."

"Precisely so, my dear Miss Margaret," returned he, laughing; "and you are a splendid example of the beneficial effects of my practice. What can be more different, from the languid state in which I found you, than the animation and colour which you now display."

"Upon my honour, Mr. Morgan," murmured Alfred, after he had done his best towards getting himself in good order again, after the share he had enjoyed of the sprinkling, "if that is the way you treat gentlemen, I must really call you to account, sir;" and in a lower tone, he murmured something further about "satisfaction and honour," which was quite indistinct.

"Oh, my dear sir," replied the doctor, quite blandly, "the libation was not intended for you; though your proximity to Miss Margaret made you come in for a portion of it, I assure you I did not mean to throw it away on you at all."

Annie now entered to enquire for Margaret's safety, and expressed herself rejoiced to find that she was apparently well, and without injury. She had feared, she said, from Mr. Morgan being called in, that something very serious had happened.

"Instead of which," whispered he to Miss Millar, "it was only something a little comic. I wish you had seen it, Miss Annie."

It was soon after this time for the party to separate, Alfred Freemantle insisting on seeing the fair Margaret home, after her accident, and tenderly supporting her through the street. They had not very far to go—but Emma, who was behind them, saw, if she was not very much mistaken, that he had his arm round her waist the whole way, and how Margaret, a woman engaged to another, could allow of such familiarity she could not understand.

She went to bed, firmly resolving if Mr. Morgan's report from Lady Fanny Allston was favorable, to speak immediately to her brother, and arrange everything for her removing there. She thought, for full five minutes, on what Miss Osborne would say, when she heard of her plans, whether she would renew her invitation for her to spend some time with her after Easter; and she spent double that time in considering whether, if she did, and she should again meet Mr. Howard, his manners would be warm or cold, how he would receive her, and what he would think of her undertaking such a situation.

The result of her meditations was that she would write to Miss Osborne, and explain to her, her plans and wishes, asking her, in case she failed in procuring this situation as governess to Miss Allston, to use her interest in finding her some other suitable to her abilities. This determination she put in practice the next day, and her mind felt relieved when it was done.

Mrs. Watson was so excessively cross after the excitement of last night, that Emma's post in the nursery was really a subject of great self-congratulation to her, for though she did sometimes intrude, and was sure to worry when she did come, still it was better to be secluded from her for several hours as was now the case. In the afternoon, as Emma was walking in a quiet lane on the outskirts of the town, with her little niece, for it was now considered a regular part of her duty to take the little girl out for exercise, she was met by Mr. Morgan returning home on horseback. He immediately stopped to speak to her, and dismounting, placed himself by her side, and proceeded to tell her the result of his mission that morning to Lady Fanny Allston's. He had been very successful: her ladyship had expressed herself very well satisfied with his representations, and had empowered him to say that she should like an interview with Miss Watson on the first convenient opportunity. He proceeded to relate to her all the particulars as to salary, the comfort and the peculiarities of the situation, described the little girl, and, in short, entered into the most minute particulars relative to it.

Emma, considering him as a man old enough to be her father, and thinking no evil herself, felt no hesitation in listening to him, or allowing him to walk beside her. She certainly would not have chosen to confide in him, but since Jane had imparted her situation, she did not scruple to avail herself of the advantage which that knowledge offered to her. They walked a considerable time, for engrossed by the conversation, she did not reflect where they were going, until Janetta's complaints of fatigue, and entreaties to be carried, reminded her that they were a long way from home. Emma prepared to comply with the request of the child in such a manner as showed him immediately that the exertion was habitual with her, but he interposed.

"Surely Janetta you do not want to make your pretty aunt ill," said he to the child; "indeed I consider myself, Miss Watson, called on to prevent that; it is enough to kill you. Janetta shall ride on my horse, that will do as well, will it not?"

But Mr. Morgan would not allow of it; he took the little girl in his own arms and they turned their steps homeward. The lane in which they were walking opened on the little garden behind Mr. Watson's house, at which Mr. Morgan privately rejoiced, whilst Emma, unconscious that she had done anything in the least imprudent or remarkable in allowing him to walk with her, felt no other emotion than satisfaction at getting Janetta quietly home. She wished much to speak to her brother that evening about Lady Fanny, but he returned to the office after dinner, and she was obliged to postpone it.

Margaret and Mrs. Watson had an invitation out to tea that night, and in consequence, Emma and Elizabeth spent a comfortable evening together. The former told her sister of her plans, her hopes, and her walk with Mr. Morgan. In the first of these she sympathised sincerely, but when she heard of the latter she looked horrified.

"Surely Emma you never could be so excessively imprudent! Walk tête-à-tête with Mr. Morgan—what could you be thinking of! Did any one see you?"

"I do not know, I never thought about it—our meeting was quite accidental, Elizabeth, and as he wanted to speak to me, why should I not take that opportunity? I cannot see anything wrong in it: why he is old enough to be my father."

"Your father! what nonsense! he is a single man, and a man at least six ladies want to catch. I hope you were not seen by any one, for depend upon it if you were, the account of your walk will be all over the town to-morrow, and then you will get into a pretty scrape," said Elizabeth with a look of sincere commiseration.

"You will have put all the single ladies of Croydon in a passion, that's all, and made yourself the subject of very unpleasant scandal."

"Well I am very sorry," replied Emma quite humbly; "but as I did not go on purpose to meet Mr. Morgan, and I had little Janetta with me, I never thought of there being any harm in it at all."

They were interrupted in their conversation by the entrance of Robert, followed by a supper tray with oysters and porter, for he was determined to enjoy himself in a comfortable way when his wife was out. When he had discussed the oysters and was composedly seated with his feet on the fender and a glass of hot brandy and water in his hand, Emma ventured to open the case to him, and inform him of what she had learnt from Mr. Morgan, and her wishes with regard to engaging in the situation he mentioned. Robert agreed to it very readily; he never had intended to keep a nursery-governess for his daughter. The trouble of educating her, would fall on Jane alone, if Emma left them, but the expense of his sister's maintenance came out of his pocket—therefore, though Mrs. Watson wished to retain her for the value of assistance which she well knew she could obtain under no other circumstances, Robert was quite willing to part with her, as it would be a certain saving to himself, and would give additional trouble only to his wife. He, therefore, gave her his entire approbation, commending her warmly for thinking of exerting herself, as it was the duty of every individual to do; and even promised, with great liberality, to make her a present of a new cloak and bonnet, when she left his house, that her dress might shew her to advantage. At the same time, he gave her strict injunctions not to forget his interests when she was there; to recollect that it was always the duty of each one of the family to help the others forward; and therefore, if, on any occasion, Lady Fanny wanted an agent for her landed property, or needed the advice of a respectable lawyer, it became Emma's duty to say all she could for him.

Emma promised she would take every opportunity in her power to attend to his injunctions; and soon after this, the girls went to bed without waiting to see the others on their return home.

The next morning was ushered in with a violent domestic storm—such as she never remembered to have witnessed before. How it began, Emma did not know, but she was startled, when quietly sitting in the nursery with her niece, by the sound of loud screams which greatly alarmed her.

Little Janetta looked up and said, very innocently, "Mama is in a fit—do you hear? I dare say papa is cross to her."

Anxious to know the cause of the uproar, she ran down stairs, and entering the parlour, the door of which was open, she saw Mrs. Watson stretched on the sofa in a violent fit of hysterics, whilst Elizabeth and Margaret were vainly endeavouring to hold her hands and arms, which she threw about with convulsive energy, whilst her feet kept up a perpetual agitation in a way as far removed from elegance as possible. As her head was turned away from the door, Emma's entrance was unobserved, and her light step was quite unheard by Jane, who continued to scream vociferously.

Fortunately, at that moment, one of the maids observed Mr. Morgan on the opposite side of the street, and running after him, he was soon brought back and introduced to the scene. Whilst he was applying sal volatile and cold water, and soothingly holding the lady's hand, her excitement gradually began to subside; and at length, she was sufficiently recovered to open her eyes and look round her. But the moment she saw Emma standing near, her languid gestures were suddenly changed into looks of rage, and starting up, exclaiming:

She aimed a violent blow at her, which, had not Mr. Morgan interposed, and with one arm drawn Emma back, whilst on the other he received the slap himself, would probably have been successful in its object.

"My dear girl," he whispered to Emma, as he withdrew the arm he had thrown round her waist to protect her; "you had better leave the room; I must manage her myself."

She readily obeyed the injunction, whilst the doctor, seating Mrs. Watson on the sofa, placed himself by her side; and, still holding her hand in his, he turned to Elizabeth and enquired, in a subdued and melancholy tone, suitable to the occasion, how this sad affair commenced.

Elizabeth's account was not very clear—and, indeed, she was so puzzled and frightened, that had she really understood the case, she would have been at a loss how to explain herself. The facts were these: After breakfast, whilst Elizabeth had been out of the room, Robert had informed his wife that Emma was trying for the situation of governess to Lady Fanny Allston's daughter, with his entire approbation.

This announcement was a severe blow to Jane, who did not at all like losing her services. She argued hard against it, representing the impossibility in her delicate state of health, of her doing justice to Janetta or attending at all to her education; the certainty that no other terms would they get a governess so cheaply, and the probability that the household expenses would shortly be greatly diminished by the marriage, not only of Margaret, but of Elizabeth likewise: but it was all in vain; the advantage was all to himself—the evil only to his wife—so Robert was firm; and even when Jane burst into a passion of tears, and began to shew symptoms of hysterics, he was still obdurate. Suddenly the thought occurred to her, how did Emma learn that the situation was to be procured?—and, at this point, began Elizabeth's knowledge of the affair, for she entered the room just in time to hear the question and to answer it. She explained that Emma had accidentally overheard their conversation, and, consequently, questioned Mr. Morgan about it. This announcement had put the climax to the lady's rage, and brought on the screams and convulsions which had occasioned so much disturbance. Mr. Morgan, however, knew how to manage her.

"My dear madam," said he, in a softly soothing voice; "you know I have forbidden this violent excitement; to people of your nervous temperament, it is decidedly hurtful, and should be avoided. I must give you something to calm you. Miss Watson will be so kind as to bring me a glass of cold water—quite pure water."

"Ah! my dear doctor," sighed the patient, "how could you use me so—join in a conspiracy against me. I am astonished, I did not expect this from you!"

"I, my dear Mrs. Watson! What have I done to deserve such censure?—surely, you are under a delusion! I do not understand you."

"You betrayed about Lady Fanny, when I charged you not, you have been the means of setting my husband cruelly against me; making him take part with that little mischief-making vixen, Emma—"

"There, there," interrupted he, placing one finger on her pulse, "you are agitating yourself again; I must forbid such excessive excitement. Thank you, Miss Watson," taking the glass from Elizabeth, "now please young ladies, open the window a hair's breadth or so, and then leave the room. I always like to have the patient to myself."

Then taking a little case from his pocket, he said: "I have a fine sedative powder here, which I shall give you to calm your nerves," then proceeding to mix something in the glass—which it required a good deal of faith to believe was anything but powdered sugar, he commanded her to sip a little at intervals, and hold it as long as possible in her mouth without swallowing it. Having thus succeeded in stopping her tongue, he proceeded to explain the circumstances of his making Emma acquainted with what he had proposed, taking particular care to allow no blame to rest on her, and saying every thing he could to flatter and soothe Mrs. Watson. "And you see," added he, "was I not quite right in thinking she ought to be removed from you—this may happen again, and it is really too much for you—do you not feel I am right—I am sure your own good sense must prove it—you cannot speak, I know, but press my hand if you agree with me."

It is presumed the pressure was given, as Mr. Morgan seemed satisfied—he raised her hand and looked at it.

"How each slender finger trembles," said he—certainly, there were few who would have applied such an epithet to her plump and powerful hand. "Indeed, it's a very naughty hand," added he, tapping it playfully with the tips of his fingers. "It hit me very hard upon my arm—the hand should be made to pay a forfeit for that; how shall I punish it?"

"Forgive you? oh yes, dear madam, only you know, when a lady strikes a gentleman she ought to pay the penalty attached," advancing his face very close to her cheek.

"Oh, fie, doctor," cried she, affecting to be quite shocked, "you are really too bad,—I am ashamed of you quite!" a form of denunciation which would be, in nine cases out of ten, considered as positive encouragement. At this moment the door opened and Robert entered the room.

"Doctor, I say, as Mrs. Watson appears a little better just now, I want to speak to you in my room for a moment."

Mr. Morgan followed him directly; with a sort of dubious feeling as to what was to follow; but he felt rather relieved by the interruption, as he was conscious he had carried his tenderness quite as far as was necessary for the good of his patient. Robert wanted to learn from himself about the situation at Lady Fanny's, and questioned him with some interest on the subject; for in a case where his own interest was in no way involved, he was not exactly an unkind brother. He felt on the whole a tolerable share of anxiety that his sister should be as safe and comfortable as circumstances would admit, and was glad to hear from Mr. Morgan a very favorable account of the family in question. At length, having satisfied all the fraternal doubts and scruples of Mr. Watson, he returned to the lady, and was immediately assailed by a shower of questions relative to what her husband had wanted with him.

He only smiled and said it was nothing bad, but he was far too much used to the enquiries and curiosity of ladies not to be expert at baffling such an attack as hers.

"And now, my dear Mrs. Watson," said he, "I must insist on your keeping your mind easy, and not worrying yourself about such things as the occasion of this attack, it is of serious importance, indeed it is."

"But, doctor, how can I keep my mind easy, when I see that little ungrateful thing there, Emma, coming round my husband and persuading him to contradict me. Is it not enough to provoke a saint, to find one's own husband turned against one by his sister, and that after all the kindness I have shown her; but I knew how it would be from the first, that I did; I always said so from the time those girls entered the house."

"It is very probable, your penetration, my dear friend, might lead you to that conclusion, and you may be right; but in that case, is it not satisfactory to you that there is an immediate prospect of their being removed. Will not Miss Margaret soon be married—does not all the town see that George Millar intends soon, if the lady prove willing, to ally himself to your family. And supposing Emma is likewise removed, you will have nothing left to vex you."

"That may be very true, doctor, but I do not think it is the case; if Emma would only be tractable and obedient, she would be rather useful than otherwise; and really she might be quite a comfort if she were better tempered and more accommodating. But to go and say such things, to be bent on having her own way, without caring about my convenience—to leave me with that child in my hands, never considering my fragile health, and the miseries I suffer, this is really more than I can bear, it puts me in a nervous tremor which is very bad for me. See how my hand shakes still."

"I see," said the gentleman, contenting himself this time with simply looking at the hand extended to him. "But now I must wish you good morning—remember my prescriptions and pray keep quiet."

The rest of the day was spent by Mrs. Watson shut up tête-à-tête with Margaret, bewailing her hard fate in having such a husband and such a tiresome sister; she would not go down to dinner, but indulged in a quiet little regale in her own bed-room of some dainties of a very superior order to the plain boiled beef and suet pudding, which was the family meal. Her husband took refuge with some friends, and Elizabeth and Emma spent another quiet evening together, during which Elizabeth, with open-hearted warmth, confided to her sister how very much she liked George Millar, and how sanguine were her hopes that George Millar did not dislike her. She had seen a great deal more of him than Emma, for their walk to the farm had only been the precursor of several others to different places, and they had enjoyed them all exceedingly. He had not actually proposed to her yet, but he had both said and done things which led her to expect that such a termination to their acquaintance was in his contemplation. All this was truly the subject of rejoicing to Emma, especially as she was convinced from what she had both seen and heard of George Millar, that he was not a man to draw back from an implied engagement, and hold himself privileged to carry his actions to any point of particularity, provided he never committed himself by word. It was true, had it been her taste to be consulted, she would have preferred a quieter person, one more inclined to study and literature, and in every respect more refined; but Elizabeth would indeed be well matched, and the happiness of thinking this, led her to reflect with pleasure even on their visit at Croydon, painful as it had been to herself in most respects.

The next morning was ushered in with less of domestic tempest than the last; Mrs. Watson was tired of her own room, and quite ready to come down stairs and mix in the world; she was perfectly amiable to-day, with only the drawback of being a little sulky to her husband, and exceedingly snappish to his sisters, except to Emma, whom she did not condescend to address at all. Emma thought this silence decidedly better than the form of invective which was the usual address to her, so that on the whole, the day passed with tolerable comfort and peace to those concerned.

That afternoon, Mrs. Watson having occasion to send a note to an acquaintance residing nearly a mile from the town, she chose to employ Emma as a messenger, ordering her at the same time, to be sure and not allow Janetta to over fatigue herself, but to carry her if the poor child was tired.

The way led them through pleasant fields, and as the aunt and niece were quietly sauntering along, the little girl filling her hands with daisies, or stopping to watch the birds flitting in the hedgerow, they were again overtaken by Mr. Morgan, who seemed prepared to join their walk. Emma coloured deeply, and was considerably embarrassed by the recollection of what Elizabeth had said about him. They had passed his house on their way, and she could not but suspect that his joining them was the result of design, not accident. With the vanity common to men, he completely misinterpreted the blushes and embarrassment of the pretty girl who interested him so much, and he fancied he was giving her peculiar pleasure, when, after enquiring how far they were going, he assured her that his way led in the same direction, and that he should be most happy to escort her. Had she not been charged with the note from Jane, she would immediately have turned back, but she had no recourse, and as she had not courage to desire him to leave her, she saw nothing to be done but to submit in as quiet and unconcerned a manner as possible.

"I hope," said he presently, "you do not feel any the worse for the excitement and agitation which you went through yesterday."

She thanked him rather coldly, and replied she was very well. But he was not to be so repulsed. He was bent on making himself agreeable to her, and with a quick perception of the readiest means, long practice, and no scruples on the subject, it was no wonder that he succeeded. There was just the proper air of interest, joined to a respectful deference, at the same time that he showed by his intimate knowledge of the family concerns, that he was completely in the confidence of her sister-in-law, and deserving to be treated as a friend of the family. The sympathy which he seemed endeavouring vainly to suppress, and the knowledge of her situation and difficulties, which he allowed her to discover he possessed, all tended to throw her off her guard, and to abate the cold indifference with which she meant to have treated him. He was so kind—so considerately and properly kind—and then both her brother and sister had allowed him to be so much connected with their affairs, that it was impossible to repulse him, and gradually, she hardly knew how, she found herself led on to speak to him with openness, which he in reality little deserved.

Mr. Morgan was a man of no principles, whose ruling passion was vanity—and this passion with him took one particular turn; he liked to be beloved by all the women of his acquaintance. The self-complacency excited by the worship of a woman, was to him the most agreeable feeling in the world. He did not flirt merely for an idle amusement, like Tom Musgrove, with an entire indifference to the feelings he excited; but he made downright serious, but clandestine love to nearly all the good-looking women with whom his practice brought him acquainted. He liked of all things to watch the gradual growth of an ardent love in the unsuspecting heart, and more than one interesting girl had had occasion to rue the day when illness had first brought her acquainted with Mr. Morgan—more than one young wife had been hurried abruptly from the neighbourhood, as was whispered, because her husband thought her too fond of the Doctor. Yet so well had he managed, and so general was the admiration he excited, that he never bore a fraction of the blame which was unsparingly bestowed on the victims of his arts. This was the man, who struck by Emma's beauty, and seeing her helpless situation, had formed a deliberate plan to gain her affections, though what was to follow when she was thus added to his list of triumphs, he had not quite determined. One thing was certain, he did not mean to marry her; but the necessary evils to which he saw she was exposed, laid her he imagined, peculiarly open to temptation, and he certainly indulged in hopes and speculations, for which even the phlegmatic Robert would have kicked him out of the house, had they chanced to come to his knowledge. One great object in his attempt to remove her to Lady Fanny Allston's was, that it would give him so great an advantage over her. Lady Fanny and her daughter were both invalides, and he was in the habit of visiting them every day. This, could he place Emma there, was an important step, as it would bring him in the most advantageous position before her eyes. She would see no one else. Shut up for weeks together with an ailing child, her only recreation being an hour's drive in the pony chaise every morning, she would soon learn to look forward to his visit as the great event of the day. He should see her eyes sparkle at his approach, and feel her hand gently tremble as he pressed it. Such had been the case with her predecessor, and now that the poor girl had lost her health and spirits from disappointed affections and heart-sickening anxiety, he was coldly turning to seek another to supply her place. Little did Emma, as she listened to his sentiments of sympathy, his professions of philosophy, or his insinuations of warm interest, suspect the real motive of his actions and his friendship. His age, so much greater than hers, prevented her supposing he would feel attachment, and her own preference for Mr. Howard was a safeguard to her own affections.

After conversing some time with great apparent interest on the subject of education, as appropriate to her peculiar calling, he gradually turned it in an almost imperceptible way to the scene of yesterday. The necessity of subduing passion, and the dreadful effects of it when unrestrained, naturally brought on a comment on the conduct of her sister-in-law. It was shocking, he protested, to think of such violence; it made his heart bleed to imagine what a mild and gentle-tempered girl must undergo when dependent on such a relative. Hers was a heavy hand as he had experienced; he was delighted that he had warded off one blow from her, he only wished he could more effectually protect her from the other hardships of her lot.

Emma assured him that such a scene had never occurred before, and probably would never do so again; that he greatly magnified the evils of her situation, and that she really did not require such intense sympathy as he seemed inclined to bestow on her. This, so far from stopping him, only brought on a more decided eulogium upon the sweetness of temper which could endure such tyranny, and the self-denial which must be practised daily to live in peace with one who could practise it. How much farther his compliments would have carried him is not known, as they arrived at the lodge-gate, and Emma was obliged to interrupt him to deliver the note which formed her errand. Now she expected to part company, but to her great surprise, she found on turning her steps homewards, that he was still at her elbow, and that he seemed resolved to continue the conversation as well as the walk. What was still more provoking, Janetta claimed his assistance to carry her again, and Emma had no alternative but to continue with him; and as he caught up the child with glee, and an appearance of positive enjoyment.

"This, my dear Miss Emma," said he, "is a trouble which, I trust, you will not long have to endure; at Lady Fanny's you will not be expected to do any thing which would be more properly entrusted to a servant. You will be Miss Alston's companion, not her slave; and I shall, indeed, rejoice to see it so."

Emma thanked him with a sincerity rather greater, perhaps, than his own, but she could not help heartily wishing that he would demonstrate his interest in some other way than in walking home with her; she was in continual dread of meeting some one who would know her; for, though she really saw no harm in it herself, yet after what Elizabeth had said, she was afraid of being misinterpreted or misjudged. He parted from her at the entrance of the town, and Emma returned in some trepidation homewards.

The whole town of Croydon was, shortly after, thrown into a ferment, by the announcement that George Millar, the rich, the popular, the good-looking George Millar, was engaged—actually engaged to be married to Elizabeth Watson.

It was so extraordinary, so incredible, so unheard of, that a young woman like Elizabeth Watson—not so very young—for she was at least thirty, they said, if not more—who had never been handsome, and was now decidedly faded—without money, for every one knew she was dependent on her brother—in short, with none of the requisites for matrimony, except a pleasing person, an amiable and unselfish disposition, good temper, and a most affectionate heart, that such a girl should have presumed to try for George Millar's hand! and should have had the effrontery to accept him when he offered! She was a stranger, an interloper—and for her to come, and thus carry off in triumph, their best beau, it was too bad; as the oldest Miss Morgan observed to one of her intimate friends, she was sure there was more than they understood in the business; and she should like to know where they were to look for husbands if their fellow townsmen deserted them in that way for strange faces. It was the more hard upon Miss Morgan, because she had been so very kind to the children; she had more than once asked them to drink tea, and often kissed her hand to them from the drawing-room window. Their houses were exactly opposite, and it would be too much to be forced to sit in contemplation of another mistress ruling in the house where she had long expected to reign supreme.

It was the elder young ladies of the neighbourhood who felt the affront most keenly; and were most bitter against Miss Watson. They had long regarded Mr. Millar as the lawful property of one of themselves; ever since the second month after his wife's death; and, unfortunately for their peace of mind, Mrs. Turner's habit of flattering every one, had given rise to hopes in their minds, which it now seemed never would be realised. The younger ladies felt it much less acutely; for, as a widower and a man verging on forty, they regarded George Millar as a little past his youthful and interesting days, but they felt for their friends and their sisters, and sympathised in their indignation. Had Miss Watson been a stranger, in reality, the affair would have been more endurable; had she been married from Winston, for instance, they would have welcomed her to Croydon with tolerable cordiality—nay, perhaps, with absolute enthusiasm. She might have been pictured then in their imaginations with no colours less brilliant than those belonging to a gay wedding, and making her first appearance in new finery, she would probably have won popularity immediately.

But now, the case was very different; it had all passed before their own eyes, so they naturally suspected something quite wrong, and Mrs. Watson was involved in the blame—as it was supposed she must have aided to win the point by some skilful manœuvring.

It was so unnatural, so improbable, that, out of four sisters, three should be engaged to be married, that Miss Morgan declared, over and over again, that she could not, and would not believe it happened in the due course of events. There must be something wrong about those Watsons, and she was determined to find it out.

Elizabeth was very unsuspicious of the storm her engagement had raised, but went about as usual with a smiling face, looking forward to the termination of her residence with her brother, with peculiar satisfaction—and rejoicing especially, because she had a plan in her head for the advantage of Emma. This was no less than that Emma should reside with them; and since she was resolved against spending her life in idleness, that she should consent to superintend the education of Mr. Millar's little girls—for which task, Elizabeth felt she was more competent than herself. In the meantime, she did not mention it to her, until their own plans were arranged with a little more certainty, and the time of their wedding fixed; at present, they could only say that it should not take place for a couple of months at least.

A day or two after this grand event becoming known, Mr. Morgan called on Mrs. Watson and found her little girl in the room. After praising and caressing the child, he asked her if she should like to ride a donkey; and turning to the mother with a winning smile, he added, that he had a very beautiful Spanish donkey, for which, at present, he had no occasion—that it was quite at the service of her charming daughter—for whom, he was convinced, the exercise would be peculiarly salutary. He, therefore, begged she would make use of it as her own. Mrs. Watson gratefully assented; to-morrow Janetta should have a ride—but the little girl cried out for to-day—she would go to-day—aunt Emma must take her out to-day—and she always had her own way with her mother—and as Mr. Morgan was merely following out a concerted plan, she of course, carried her point; and, whilst she went up-stairs to make her aunt get ready for the excursion, the gentleman hurried away to give orders to prepare the donkey. In about half an hour, Janetta had the delight of seeing the promised animal at the door, with a beautiful new saddle and white bridle, and she clapped her hands with ecstasy as the doctor's foot-boy placed her on, hardly sitting sufficiently still to allow him to fasten the strap in front of the Spanish saddle. Emma felt extremely reluctant to go; she feared Mr. Morgan might again join them, and tried hard to persuade Margaret to accompany her; but Margaret "hated walking like a nurse-maid after the child," and Elizabeth being out, Emma had no alternative but to set out alone.

The foot-boy said his master had ordered him to go with them to see how the donkey went, and to save Miss Watson any trouble. Emma rejoiced at this announcement—although it seemed to her, so unreasonable an encroachment on Mr. Morgan's obliging temper, that she half dreaded lest her sister-in-law should decline the lad's services. Mrs. Watson, however, accepted it all as if, in allowing the favour to be confirmed, she were in reality the giver, instead of the receiver of the benefit. She seemed rather to expect that he would be grateful that his donkey had the honour of carrying her little girl.

Emma's anticipations proved perfectly correct, for they met Mr. Morgan again, and he again, uninvited, prepared to accompany them. She resolved that this should not occur another time, as she determined at once to speak to her brother, representing how extremely unpleasant it was for her to be daily sent out walking where she was exposed to be joined by any one in this way, and begging that in future the duty of walking out with Janetta might devolve on one of the maids, when neither of her sisters could accompany her. If it had not been that she feared it was wrong, she would have enjoyed the walk extremely, as the day was fresh and invigorating, whilst her companion was particularly pleasant. She found his conversation both instructive and amusing, and as Janetta, on her donkey, kept a little a-head of them, they were free from the incessant calls on her attention with which the child usually interrupted them.

Their tête-à-tête did not, as usual, conclude at the suburbs of the town, for emboldened probably by habit, he walked straight home with her, with only the precaution of placing himself on one side of Janetta; and lifting the child off at the door, he carried her in triumph to her mother. Emma expected and hoped that some notice would be taken of his having accompanied them, as she rather hesitated about introducing the subject; but Mrs. Watson seemed satisfied with believing that it was a refined compliment to herself through her child, as if a man of his age could take such pleasure in the society of a girl not yet out of babyhood. Emma was therefore firmly resolved to speak to Robert on the subject, and that afternoon, finding him alone in the parlour, she, with some hesitation, introduced the point. He heard her with considerable surprise.

"Well," said he, when she seemed to have done, "what do you want or expect me to do? what's all this to me, child?"

"I want you, brother, to persuade Jane not to send me out without a maid or some other companion, that I may not be exposed to long walks with him."

"But what harm does Morgan do you, I should like to know—are you afraid he will eat you up—or what do you fear?" enquired he, in a very discouraging tone.

"I am afraid it may excite observation and unpleasant reports, if I am seen repeatedly walking with a single man," replied poor Emma, not liking to say that she thought wrong what Robert seemed to regard as so innocent.

"Pooh, pooh, child—don't be absurd and prudish—there's no use in setting yourself up for an immaculate young lady. I don't believe but that you like it all the time, and are only wanting a little domestic persecution to make you more interesting. I am not going to indulge you, so you must find out some other way of making a martyr of yourself."

"Indeed, you are quite mistaken; but I do not think it right to throw myself in the way of any man as I am obliged to do with regard to him, and I would rather not go out of the house for a month than continue, as I have done, meeting him."

"Morgan's a very good kind of fellow, and will do you no harm," repeated Robert, as if rather at a loss what else to say; and Emma, thinking she saw symptoms of wavering in his tone, began to hope that she should carry her point, when Jane entered the room, and her husband at once appealed to her.

Emma's astonishment was great at the way in which she took it. She had expected she would be angry at her walking with Mr. Morgan; but that was not the case; her indignation seemed only roused by the fact of her wanting to evade the walking at all: she was in a great passion at this.

"A very pretty thing indeed, Miss Emma Watson—a very pretty thing, that you are to be fancying yourself too grand and too great to walk out with my child—want a servant sent after you, do you—I wonder what your ladyship will want next—upon my word, for such a little saucy minx as you, to be giving yourself such airs, is rather too good, I must say."

"I have no wish to give myself airs—I only want—" but she was not allowed to finish the sentence.

"You don't wish this, and you don't wish that—and you only want something quite different from what I order—I see what it is, Miss, I know you want to be mistress, that's all—and if Mr. Morgan does walk with you, where's the harm of that?—are you such a conceited creature as to fancy it is your beauty which charms him?—depend upon it, you are very safe with him. It's for my child that he comes—out of compliment to me, of course—so don't you go pluming yourself upon his attentions, or expecting anything to come of that—you are greatly mistaken if you think him in love with you, I can answer for it."

"I never, for a moment, supposed such a thing," replied Emma, with a spirit, which was roused by her sister's injustice; "but I am sure that it is not correct or respectable to be walking repeatedly alone with any gentleman, even one of Mr. Morgan's age and character; and I have a right, whilst I live with you, to have my respectability of appearance attended to."

Mrs. Watson stood with a face of scarlet and her mouth open, contemplating Emma as she spoke with unaccustomed energy—she seemed almost to mistrust her senses at hearing such words, but Emma's firmness quite appalled her, and she actually did not know what to say. Seeing she was silent Emma added:

"Therefore, for the present, I must beg that when one of my sisters cannot accompany me, you will send the maid in my place; when in company with any one else, I shall have no objection to walk with Janetta as usual."

"Oh, well," said Jane after some hesitation, "as you wish it so much, I will see what I can do, and perhaps Martha may walk with Janetta to-morrow."

Emma thanked her, and the entrance of her sisters, fortunately prevented farther discussion.

Emma was rather surprised that she heard no more from Lady Fanny Allston, but the fact was, her ladyship was ill, and quite incapable of exerting herself in any way; therefore her engagement with Emma was forced to remain unsettled, until she recovered sufficient strength to think again.

Relieved from the care of Janetta's walk the next day, Emma enjoyed the treat of accompanying Elizabeth and the two Millars, during a stroll in the country. Annie of course was her companion, and she found it a very charming change from the incessant trouble of looking after a young child. They talked much of Elizabeth's future prospects, and of Annie's likewise—she was delighted at the idea of the marriage, and anticipated with pleasure the society of a sister. She told Emma she had hardly known George's first wife, as she had been at school until after her death, and often spent her holidays with her own mother's relations; but since there would now be a chaperone for her on all occasions, her home would be much pleasanter.

At the same time, she confided to Emma her secret wonder that any woman should marry at all. Excepting her own brother, she did not believe there existed a single man in the world good enough to serve as a reasonable excuse for a woman becoming his slave. Emma remonstrated and protested at this idea, but Annie laughed and persisted: she asserted that nearly all men were dreadful and selfish, and that as it was impossible to be thoroughly acquainted with their dispositions until after marriage, and it was then too late to change, it was much better not to take the fatal step, but to continue mistress of oneself and one's fortune. She never meant to marry—that was her firm determination. Emma suggested that she might fall in love—but Annie protested again that the fall, which she considered a serious fall indeed, was only the effect of a pre-disposition to commit matrimony, and that where the mind was firmly made up, as hers was, on the subject, there could not be the slightest danger of such an accident.

Emma smiled and said time would show, whilst Annie drew an animated picture of the miseries of matrimony, dwelling on all the little trifles which she could imagine or recollect, to convince her companion of the wretchedness of the state. In spite of the nonsense she talked, Emma liked her very much, and was quite sorry when their walk came to a termination.

Several days passed quietly, and there was, during that time, no solitary walk for Emma; one of her sisters was her constant companion, and sometimes Janetta accompanied her mother, sometimes went out with the maid. Neither did Mr. Morgan plague her any more, they passed two or three times on the road, but a friendly bow was all the intercourse they had together; and when he called on Mrs. Watson, which Emma rather thought occurred pretty often, she never saw him.

Her first interview was on the occasion of his coming to take a quiet dinner, and the cause of his being asked to do so was so grand an event, as to throw his presence quite into the shade. It was nothing less than the first visit of Tom Musgrove to his betrothed. He had written to say he was coming down to Croydon, and the announcement threw Margaret into such a state of trepidation and nervous excitement, as to make Mr. Morgan and a composing draught absolutely necessary for her. She was very near fainting when she received the letter, and indeed was only prevented by not knowing how to manage it. Her next idea was to go out, and see how many of her acquaintance she could meet with, either in the street or their own houses, to whom she might impart the interesting intelligence. She had intense gratification in assuring them of the nervous tremors, the palpitations, the painful excitement, the strain on the mental energies, the soft sensibility, the affecting circumstances, and all other sentiments and weaknesses, with which she was pleased to charge herself. She viewed with much satisfaction, the envy and mortification with which her joyous prospects were viewed by her sweet young friends; and the more cool and indifferent they appeared, the more she enjoyed expatiating on her own delightful situation. Some she kindly congratulated, because they had now experienced her agitating feelings, some she fondly caressed, because she could see they would feel the same in a similar situation, and some she triumphantly hoped might ever be blessed with prospects as bright as her own.

In all this excitement, Emma and her walks were nearly forgotten, and she was suddenly asked, as a special favour, to take Janetta out for half an hour. She could not refuse, and had the satisfaction of going and returning without seeing any thing of Mr. Morgan, or encountering any acquaintance whomsoever. This gave her courage, and she began to think her fears and scruples were as imaginary as Jane had assumed them to be.

The afternoon passed away, and Margaret, who had been incessantly walking from one window to another, to watch for her lover's curricle, now began to create a new sensation for herself, by a conviction which suddenly seized on her, that some dreadful accident had happened to him. It was towards the end of March, and the lengthened days allowed them plenty of time to dine by daylight, and enjoy a long twilight afterwards; as the evening began to close in, her alarm and tribulation increased; when, at length, her fears were dissipated by seeing the curricle drive up to the door with a most important bustle, followed by a loud and prolonged knock, which instantly brought twenty heads to the neighbouring windows.

"He is there—my heart tells me he is there—support me, my dear sisters—support me in this trying hour."

Before any one had time to answer her, his step was heard on the stairs, and recovering as rapidly as she had appeared to lose her strength, she flew to the door and was ready to have thrown herself into his arms on the smallest encouragement. He did not, however, seem to desire her embraces, but coolly held out his hand, and enquired how she was—then, without waiting for an answer, turned and paid a similar compliment to the other ladies. She looked a little disappointed at the want of tenderness her lover displayed, but consoled herself by smoothing down the nap of his hat, which she took from his hand, and stretching out the fingers of his driving gloves—of which she also assumed the care.

At this moment, Robert Watson and Mr. Morgan, who had been sitting over their wine in the dining-parlour, appeared up-stairs, and Robert immediately suggested to Mr. Musgrove that he must want some dinner, to which the latter readily acceded.

Jane and Margaret who appeared to be almost equally interested in the new-comer, both left the room to see after the necessary preparations, and whilst they were gone George Millar came in and persuaded Elizabeth to go home with him, to take tea with his sister and mother-in-law. Robert and his new guest adjourned to the dining-room where the two ladies joined them, and Emma was left to a tête-à-tête with Mr. Morgan.

He had seated himself in a corner, and was looking over the newspaper during all the bustle attending the arrival of Tom Musgrove, and the successive entrances and exits of the several members of the party. But when they were all gone, and Emma was quietly sitting down to work, he threw away the paper and walking across the room drew a chair close to hers and seemed inclined to enter into conversation.

"How happy your sister must be," was his first speech, whilst he fixed his uncommonly penetrating eyes on her face.

"Both must be happy," replied he; "but at this moment I imagine your sister Margaret's feelings must be the most agreeable; meeting after a prolonged absence must be so delightful. Don't you envy her?"

"I hope not," said Emma, for she was not quite satisfied with his tone and manner; there was something of sarcasm in it which she did not like.

"I did not mean envy in the bad sense," he remarked, as if comprehending her thoughts from her tone; "of that I know you to be incapable; but can you not fancy how pleasant her emotions must be when again enjoying the society of an attached and faithful lover like the gentleman in question?"

"Perhaps I can—but I must be in her situation thoroughly to enter into her feelings," said Emma rather wishing to drop the subject.

There was something in the tone in which Mr. Morgan made this comment, with his eyes fixed on her countenance, that gave it rather the character of a question than a reply. She felt offended at his manner and tone, and proudly raised her head with a look which seemed to ask what right he had to enquire on that subject. He understood her meaning, but did not seem inclined to take any notice of it, proceeding in the same way to observe,

"They whose hearts are untouched cannot of course understand all the pleasing emotions which the sight of a beloved object raises after a prolonged absence—nor indeed does it require a prolonged absence to give occasion to the emotions I speak of. A month, a fortnight, even a week passed without the intercourse which becomes dear and therefore necessary, is sufficient to raise a variety of pleasing but most overpowering feelings in an affectionate heart."

"Very likely," replied Emma coolly, and then she added immediately an enquiry as to whether he thought the next change of the moon would bring them more settled weather.

"Do you not think your future brother, Mr. Musgrove, is a very charming young man?"

"I have often heard him called so," said Emma; "but you know it is not my business to be charmed with him," smiling a little as she spoke.

"You are most discreet," said he, delighted that she appeared inclined to relax a little from her former gravity; "but to tell you the truth I should not have expected, from what I know, that you would be charmed with him."

"Of you both, but especially of you: it is not for nothing that I have been studying your character, and I am convinced that a man who would attract you, Miss Emma, must possess more good qualities than Mr. Musgrove can boast of."

"Perhaps I might be a little difficult to please," replied Emma; "but do you think there is any harm in that?"

"Harm, no!" replied he with enthusiasm; "minds of a common order cannot discriminate between what is good or evil in its tendency; they see only what is evil to their own capacities, and are entirely unaware of the vast difference between the intellects of one man and another. Whilst those who by their own intellectual powers are raised above the common level, take in, at one keen and rapid view, the different mental altitudes of their companions, and appreciating alone the grand and elevated turn from more ordinary minds with indifference, contempt or disgust."

"I hope," said Emma rather doubtingly, "that your description is not intended to apply to me: that is, if I understand you rightly. I should be very sorry to think I am guilty of setting up my understanding as a measure for that of others, or of despising any of my companions as thinking them less clever than myself."

"Indeed I did not mean to accuse you of voluntarily giving way to such feelings—the sensation I meant to depict is as involuntary as your perception of light or colour. A person endowed with a superior understanding could no more help deciding on the different mental capacities of her companions than she could on the beauty or fitness of the patterns of their gowns."

"But the superiority of mental capacities, or our own estimation of them ought not to be the standard by which we should judge of the merits of our fellow-creatures, Mr. Morgan. Surely their moral superiority is a far more important point, and it would be much better to live with a good but ignorant man, than with a wicked one however clever and well-informed."

"I doubt whether you will find your maxim work well in every day life, however well it may sound in theory. The practice of mankind is against it universally, and where that is the case it is because the sense of the world leads them to the conclusion which you reject. Look around, and see who has most success in life, the clever, unscrupulous, and if you will the unprincipled man, or the sober, plodding, moral one, without wit or wisdom to prevent his sinking lower than the condition in which he was born."

Emma had not the vanity to suppose that she could be a match for Mr. Morgan in dispute, she was, therefore, contented to let the subject drop. Finding she did not reply, he moved his chair a little closer than before, and said, in a tone of the softest sympathy,

"Are you quite well this evening? dusk as it is, I am struck with your looks, and was so at dinner."

"Are you sure you have no head-ache? there is a languor in your movements, and a heaviness about your eyes, which plainly shows that all is not quite right with you. Confess the truth—does not your head ache?"

"I thought I knew your countenance too well to be misled," said he, complacently—then taking her hand, without the smallest ceremony, in both of his, he felt her pulse, and told her she was nervous and feverish. She smiled, and said she was only a little tired, and that he must not persuade her she was ill; she had not time for that.

"I am certain," replied he, still detaining her hand, which she had made a slight attempt to withdraw, "I am certain, from the tremulous motion of your little fairy-like fingers that you are suffering from over-excitement of mind. You have so much to worry and distress you, so many small privations and never ceasing annoyances, that your nervous temperament is wrought up to too high a pitch. This little hand is looking too white and delicate for health. You must indeed, for your own sake, and for the sake of those that love you, take care of yourself, and do not tax your constitution too far."

"I do not mind what you say, Mr. Morgan," replied Emma, playfully, again attempting to withdraw her hand from a clasp which she felt rather too tender for a doctor. "I know you only speak professionally, and it is your business to persuade those who listen to you that they are ill, that you may have the satisfaction of making them believe you cure them afterwards."

"Fie, fie," replied he, tapping her on the arm, "I did not expect such malice from you, fair Emma!"

She decidedly drew her hand from his, and moved her chair away towards the window, saying, as she did so, in a graver tone,

"Remember I have not placed myself under your power, Mr. Morgan, and you have no business to attempt to mislead me."

The rapidly decreasing light prevented his reading the expression of her countenance; but he felt from her tone and action that she would not endure the small personal liberties in which some of his patients permitted him.

"No, pray stay another moment," cried he, rising too, as she rose. "Allow me one moment more, one other word."

"Tell me," said he, "why you freeze me with that look and manner—did I offend you with my remarks? is my friendship—the warm interest I feel for you—is it unpleasant—or in what way have I sinned to deserve this sudden check."

She was excessively embarrassed, and mentally determined not to remain in the dusk tête-à-tête with a man again, at least, not with Mr. Morgan: but this resolution, however good for the future, did not help her at the present moment; when she was thus standing before him, and under the unpleasant necessity of either admitting that she was capricious, or allowing that she attached more importance than, perhaps, it deserved to a trifling action on his part. Seeing that she hesitated, he continued—

"I will not press for an answer if it vexes you; and you must own mentally, if not openly, that you judged me harshly. I forgive you, convinced when you know me better, you will not do so again."

He took her hand again, and was just in the act of putting his lips to it, when the door opened suddenly, and several young ladies—whom in the dusk she could hardly distinguish—burst into the room.

"Is that you Margaret?" said one advancing, "that we have caught making love in the dark—no, upon my honour it's Emma Watson and my brother! ha, ha; so you are found out, James?"

"Oh, it's not the first time that Miss Emma Watson has indulged your brother in a tête-à-tête" cried a voice, which Emma recognised as belonging to Miss Jenkins, a particular friend of Margaret's, towards whom she felt a strong repugnance. "They have been found out before now—they are very fond of taking long walks together, aren't you, Mr. Morgan—and carrying Janetta, too."

It was too dark for the expression of any one's countenance to be seen, so that the angry look with which Mr. Morgan received this attack, and the confusion and distress which Emma betrayed, were alike invisible; but could he have annihilated the young ladies who thus intruded, including his sister, he would certainly have done it with pleasure. Any answer, on his part, was prevented by the entrance of the party from the dining-room with lights, when a general scene of confusion and chattering followed, which concluded by a general invitation to the young visitors to stay for tea, and have a little fun, to which they readily assented.

Tom Musgrove having eaten and drank soon made himself very agreeable to the whole party, and after the tea and bread and butter were removed, he proposed a game at blind man's buff, or hunt the slipper, to finish the evening. The former was adopted, and a very noisy party it proved. Tom, of course, was the first to be blinded, and, unless he contrived to see out from under the handkerchief, the dexterity with which he avoided catching Margaret, though she perpetually threw herself in his way, was quite wonderful. His first victim was the younger Miss Morgan, a pretty, giggling girl, who laughed so excessively, and twisted about so much, that he had great difficulty in holding her at all, and it was only by clasping his arm very tightly round her waist, that he succeeded in keeping her prisoner. However, he named her rightly, and the handkerchief was secured on her; her brother was the next—apparently he threw himself in her way, whether because he disliked her going through the process of catching and naming Mr. Musgrove was not quite certain. Perhaps he wished himself to succeed her; he certainly was very successful in catching prisoners, but made extraordinary blunders in recognising them; never once hitting on the proper name, and, consequently, having no right to make over the bandage to another. At length, after several attempts, he succeeded in catching Emma herself. She had not been able to avoid joining in the game, though it was not much to her taste; but she took great pains to move about as quietly and keep as much out of the way as possible. His ear, however, was quick at detecting her light footstep, and, unknown to her, he had traced her into a corner, where she was quietly resting, when he succeeded in laying hold of her. As she neither struggled nor laughed, he knew instantly who it was, and whilst he held her hand in his, and made believe, as usual, to feel her features, and ascertain her identity, he whispered, under cover of the noise which some of the other girls were making,

"Certainly not," replied she in the same tone, and he immediately guessed her to be some one else, and with a gentle pressure of her hand he let her go.

Emma was very well pleased to escape, but she felt a half scruple at the manner in which it was done, from the sort of private understanding which Mr. Morgan assumed to exist between them. On turning away too, she caught the malevolent eyes of Miss Jenkins fixed on her, and she could not encounter their look without a feeling of embarrassment. Mr. Morgan soon afterwards caught and rightly named Mrs. Watson herself, who in her turn chased with great vigour but little success her different visitors. The whole affair ended in a complete romp—the table was upset, chairs thrown over, and Emma's gown narrowly escaped from a lighted candle, which the dexterity of Mr. Morgan alone succeeded in averting. It was now judged that they had enjoyed fun enough for one evening, and Emma, wondering much at the taste which could select such an amusement, retired to recover from the fatigue it occasioned. She had never seen anything of the kind before, for the associates of her uncle and aunt were very quiet people, and she had been quite ignorant of the extent to which liveliness might be carried when unchecked by the restraints of good breeding.

It was a very unexpected pleasure to her, to receive the next morning a letter from Miss Osborne, containing an announcement that the day for her wedding was fixed and that it was to be celebrated in about three weeks. She hoped Emma would be able to keep her promise and spend some time with them whilst at Osborne Castle, but she did not assign any particular time as the date of their visit.

Margaret likewise had her share of excitement and pleasure. It appeared that Tom Musgrove had come down with serious intentions of persuading her to marry on the same day as Sir William Gordon and Miss Osborne had fixed on. To be distinguished, and to appear connected with the great, was so completely the object of his life, that he did not like even to fix a day for his own wedding entirely with regard to his own convenience, and now he was determined to make it as important as the reflected grandeur of Miss Osborne and her noble family could do.

The credit of this idea, however, was not entirely due to him; it was suggested originally by Sir William himself. Miss Osborne, who could not feel quite happy or at her ease with regard to his steadiness of purpose, until the ceremony had actually passed, which would make it certain that her testimony would never be required, induced Sir William Gordon to question him as to when he intended to marry, and though he found Tom's ideas rather vague and unsettled on the subject, he had not much difficulty in persuading him of the advantage of fixing on the same day as their own. The notion delighted Mr. Musgrove, and he immediately determined to run down to Croydon and make the proposal at once.

"Well, Margaret," said he, the morning after his arrival, "since it seems we must be married sooner or later, do you see any good in delay?"

Margaret simpered and blushed, and did not know very well which way to look or what to say.

"I say," continued he, "there is no use in wasting time, when the thing must be done—unless, indeed, you have changed your mind."

"Oh dear no, Tom," cried Margaret, "mine is a mind not lightly to be changed—you know that much, I am sure, of me."

"Miss Osborne is to married this day three weeks," observed Tom, "to my friend Sir William Gordon, and he was proposing to me that we should celebrate ours on the same day. I should rather like it, I own, as they are such particular friends of mine, and we are going to the same county. They come down to Osborne Castle for their honey-moon, and we might; indeed of course we should be asked up there on our wedding."

"Oh delightful, Tom," cried Margaret, perfectly enchanted at the prospect, and in the rapture of the view, quite overlooking the coolness of her lover's manner, and the total absence of even any pretence of affection. "I should like that of all things, only perhaps I might have some difficulty in getting my wedding things ready in time; to be sure, as I must wear mourning I should not want much just at first, but a gown and hat—what should my gown be, dear Tom?"

"Hang your gown! what do I know about your gown? or what has that got to do with it; but women always make such a confounded fuss about their gowns and their petticoats. I say, will you marry me this day three weeks?—because, if you will not, you may just let it alone, for any thing I care."

"You are always so funny, Tom," said Margaret trying to laugh; "I never know what you will say next. But you do hurry and flurry one so, asking in that sort of off-hand way—upon my word I do not know what to answer—what can I say to him, Jane—is he not odd?"

"For heaven's sake, Mrs. Watson, do try and persuade Margaret to act with a little common sense, if she has such a commodity in her brain," cried Tom, impatiently.

"Really," simpered Mrs. Watson, "you are the most unlover-like lover that ever I saw—if I were you, Margaret, I would tease him unceasingly for these speeches. I would say him nay, and nay, and nay again, before I would give him his own way."

"Oh! I am not so very cruel," said Margaret, "he knows my disposition, and how much he may venture on with me."

"Well, when you have made up your mind, let me know," said he, settling himself in an easy chair, and pretending to drop asleep.

"Upon my word, Margaret," said Mrs. Watson, "he gives himself precious airs—would I submit to such a thing from any man in the world—no, indeed—I would see the whole sex annihilated first, that I would."

"Do not be so dreadfully severe, Mrs. Watson," said Tom, without unclosing his eyes, "Allow me to enjoy my last few days of liberty; when I have taken to myself a wife, where will my domestic freedom be?"

"Impudent fellow," said Mrs. Watson, going up and pretending to pat his cheek; he caught her hand and told her in return, she was his prisoner now, and must pay the penalty of the box on the ear, which she had so deliberately bestowed on him. She giggled exceedingly, and he was insisting on his right, when Robert entered the room and said, in a cool off-hand way:

"I suppose, Margaret, Musgrove has told you he wants to marry this day three weeks, and as I presume, you have no objection, I have resolved to get the settlements in hand immediately. I suppose you have not much to do in the way of preparation, have you?"

"Well, I suppose, as you all come upon me so suddenly, there is nothing for me to do but to submit," said Margaret, "and really, I see no harm in it. Of course you will have the marriage put in the newspapers; it must be sent to 'The Morning Post,' Tom."

"Well then, Jane, I suppose I had better be seeing about my gown and wedding clothes—will you come with me and help me choose some dresses, Tom?"

"Not I, by Jove! what do I know about dresses, I tell you!—it's all woman's nonsense, and I will have nothing to do with it. I believe if a woman were dying, her only care would be to secure a handsome shawl—and the idea of a plain funeral would break her heart."

"Don't be so dreadfully severe, Tom," interposed Mrs. Watson again, "you are a naughty, spiteful, ill-tempered satirist, and we must teach you better manners before we have done with you."

"Beyond a question you will soon do that," returned he, "I already feel wonderfully humbled and penitent, from sitting with you for the last hour; and what I shall arrive at, after being your brother for a twelvemonth, can only be guessed at now."

Margaret and Jane soon afterwards set off on the important business of looking for wedding dresses, and purchasing more clothes than she would know what to do with, whilst obliged to wear her deep mourning—a circumstance which was particularly distressing to Margaret—who, whilst anxious to make a very splendid figure in her new establishment, was perpetually checked in her aspirations by the remembrance that she must, for many months, continue to wear black. It was, however, a great delight to her to think that she should be married almost as soon as Penelope, and before Elizabeth; but, since her own good luck was now certain, she felt no particular envy of either of her elder sisters; for, though she could not help seeing that Elizabeth's establishment, house and carriage, would be more expensive and grand than her own, she did not think that she would have given up the independence and idleness of Tom's situation as a gentleman, for the large income and luxuries accompanying the brewer's occupation.

Emma looked on and wondered at Margaret's state of contentment under the indifference and contemptuous treatment which her lover bestowed on her. She would not have borne it for a single hour; but Margaret seemed to feel nothing of it—and her own foolish and caressingly fond ways, were enough to disgust a sensible man altogether.

He did not mean to remain more than a couple of days; and, during that time, Mrs. Watson took care to occupy each evening with a party of young people; a most judicious arrangement, which saved an immense deal of unwilling labour and unnecessary love-making. The Morgans, the Millars, and many others, joined them—and they had country dances and reels enough to tire many indefatigable dancers. Emma continued to refuse to dance; and, as the ladies out-numbered the gentlemen, she was less tempted to break her resolution. In consequence of this, she was, on the second evening, for a good while left quite alone, until Mr. Morgan, declaring himself quite knocked up, took refuge in the corner where she was sitting and engaged her in an agreeable conversation.

They were not discussing any thing very remarkable, but Emma was amused and lively, when she heard Miss Jenkins say, in reply to something:

"Oh! no doubt, Emma Watson finds it quite agreeable to sit out—no great sacrifice there, I fancy! She takes every opportunity of throwing herself in somebody's way!"

It was said so loud that there could be no doubt but that it was intended for them to hear, and from the quick glance round, and the elevation of eyebrows which followed it on his part, it was evident it had not failed of its object. Emma wished she could have stopped the blood which rushed to her face and coloured her cheeks so deeply; but she could neither conceal her feelings nor command her voice sufficiently to finish her sentence, for she felt that Mr. Morgan's eyes were fixed on her with a keen, scrutinizing glance, which seemed to read her thoughts in a moment. When Miss Jenkins was out of hearing, he observed very quietly,

"You seem peculiarly unfitted to continue in one, with any comfort or peace of mind," continued he.

"Indeed—I doubt whether I am to take that as a compliment or the reverse," replied Emma smiling a little.

"I never pay compliments," said he, "but if you want to know why I think so, learn that I can see you mind being talked about, dislike gossip and scandal, and have no taste for romping or noise: therefore you are unfitted for a resident in a country town!"

"You are not complimentary to-night, Mr. Morgan; what has put you out of humour with your fellow towns-women?"

"I assure you I feel most amiably disposed towards them all, especially those who by dancing to-night have left me at liberty to converse with you. They are all charming chatterers, and delightful dancers, and equally exquisite, enlightened, eloquent and endearing."

"Your compliments are rather equivocal, Mr. Morgan, I do not know that I should like such problematic praises."

"You—you need not be afraid, I should never think of applying such terms to you—did I not begin with observing that you were not brought up in a country town."

"There are some people I have observed," said Emma thoughtfully, "who always hold the society in which they happen to move very cheap, because they have an unfortunate power of vision which enables them alone to see the weak, the ridiculous, the faulty side of things."

"Thank you—do not find fault with my compliments after that speech—I never made one more severe."

"I beg your pardon," replied she colouring deeply. "Perhaps it did sound a little harsh."

"Yes, I am deeply indebted to you for your good opinion—you probably suppose me incapable of appreciating the beautiful and excellent when I meet it, because I am alive to the follies, the littleness, and the absurdities of those amongst whom I am forced to mix—some day I trust you will judge me better."

He understood Emma's character completely—the idea that she had been harsh in her speech, and that he felt hurt by her injustice, was decidedly the most likely thing to produce kindness and conciliatory manners to make it up. He assumed an air and tone of injured innocence which quite touched her, for straightforward and artless herself, she never suspected he was only acting. She wanted him to speak again, but he was determined to leave it to her to make that effort, and he partly drew back and turned his chair slightly away, as if he had not courage again to address her. She renewed the conversation by enquiring whether he had long been resident in the town—the soft tone of her voice immediately drew him back to his former position, and he began to tell her that he had come to Croydon about fifteen years before, that like herself he had lived in his youth in the country, and the only towns he had previously been acquainted with were Oxford and London.

"Like yourself too," continued he, "I came here frank and open-hearted—ready to place the best construction on anything I saw or heard, and believing that the neighbourhood would do as much for me. Experience has taught me a very different lesson; but perhaps nothing but experience will do. With the consciousness of the amount it cost me to buy my knowledge with suffering, I sometimes idly think of saving others by my cautions from a similar expense of feeling, but it is vain—and I do not think I shall make the attempt again."

"And so," said Emma, after a short pause, "you think me ungrateful and self-willed, because I do not like to hear whole-sale depreciation of your fellow-townspeople."

"I certainly will be wiser another time, and keep my opinion to myself," replied he still in a proud and injured tone.

"Well, I do not like to seem ungracious, and if you really wanted to give me advice—your superior age and experience certainly entitle you to form an opinion, and to be listened to with deference. So if you speak for my good, I will attend—but do not be too bitter, or I shall rebel again."

"I only wished to caution you against the spirit of prying curiosity and foolish censoriousness, which seems indigenous amongst the inhabitants of a small town."

"And you thought me likely to fall into a similar error, did you?" enquired she simply.

"You, my dear girl, no indeed; but I thought you likely to be the victim to this spirit, unless you took care and were cautioned against it."

"If I do nothing wrong," said Emma, "nothing blameworthy, how can there be any danger that I shall incur censure? I hope I shall not provoke enmity in any way."

"That will be a vain and illusive hope," replied he earnestly; "there is too much about you to provoke ill-will, for your conduct to be regarded with a friendly eye. Youth and beauty have innumerable enemies in a place like this; your superior education, your acquaintance, I may say intimacy, with those very much above your present associates in rank, your frank and confiding disposition, all expose you to enmity and envy of the most malignant kind."

"You will make me quite unhappy, Mr. Morgan, if you talk in that way. I cannot believe that those I see around me are so very wicked; and why should any one try to injure a portionless orphan like myself."

"Because they are not all possessed of the generous feelings and high principles which form such a charm in that helpless and portionless orphan—and which, when joined to her personal beauty, endow her more richly than the wealthiest of all our townsmen's daughters."

"I cannot help hoping that your warnings are not more sincere than your compliments, and then I shall have the less to fear, Mr. Morgan," replied Emma, smiling.

"I wish you would give me credit for sincerity, Miss Watson; it is disheartening to find myself constantly doubted. I shall give you up in despair. Look beautiful and merry—prove yourself lively and amusing—wear becoming bonnets—pretty gowns—and well-made shoes, and you will soon not have a female friend in the town."

"This must be your prejudice—or you are quizzing me. I cannot believe that bonnets and shoes have anything to do with female friends."

"You will persist in judging every one by yourself, and you cannot set up a more erroneous standard. Do you suppose that your wardrobe will be less commented on than your neighbours. Does Miss Tomson make any one a new bonnet without its being known and abused by all the owner's most intimate friends."

"But you must be wrong," said Emma; "it is impossible that all can be watched over in that way; we do not know a great many people who live here; even my sister does not; and why should I suppose that I am so conspicuous a personage?"

"The inhabitants of the town," said Mr. Morgan, "are divided into many different sets, it is true; they move in different circles, and there is no mixture; but the individuals of each class have their eyes constantly fixed on those above as well as those equal with themselves; the former, that they may imitate their actions; the latter, that they may detect the first symptom of mounting to a higher circle. They have likewise to detect and repress the first encroachment from the ranks beneath them, so that you see each individual has her attention fully occupied in this perpetual watching."

"Do you want a proof of the jealousy and exclusive spirit which reigns amongst them? look into the church. There, where men and women ought, if ever, to meet as equals, what do you see?—the aristocratic classes—those who have their carriages and horses to bring them to their Sunday devotions, who have their comfortable and elegant dwellings out of the town, have likewise their comfortable pews for lounging through their prayers—their cushions, their carpets, their footstools, that they may not be too much fatigued by worship—their curtains, too, lest the vulgar gaze should distress their modesty, or intrude on their privacy. Then come the townspeople—the higher classes, those in professions, or, perhaps, in business, on a large scale, like George Millar, or the Greenes. These have their cushions and carpets, but are forced to forego the privacy of curtains, for which they make up by the superior brilliancy of their pew linings, and the elegance of the fringe drapery, which hangs down in front of the galleries. Inferior classes are forced to sit on benches without cushions, whilst the poorest of all may enjoy what comfort they can on the hard open seats in the stone aisle."

"You must admit the truth of my description," continued he; "there is sufficient stuff expended on the galleries of that church to have clothed half the children in the parish school."

"I am sorry that you should have the power of saying such things, Mr. Morgan, or that I cannot contradict them. Have you ever made an effort to procure a reform?"

"Reform, no—do you suppose I should even hint at such plain truths to a native of the town? do you imagine I impart my opinions on the subject indiscriminately? no, indeed—my popularity, such as it is, would be soon blown away were I to venture to contradict all their dearest prejudices. It is a far better plan to tell Miss Jenkins that she looks like an angel in the sky, when sitting in her blue pew, or to hint to old Mrs. Adams, that the crimson moreen gives quite a juvenile glow to her complexion."

"In short," said Emma, gravely, "to encourage people's weaknesses in order to gain their good will."

"Precisely so—it is the only way to live at peace with all the world; at least, the world of Croydon; why should I risk their repose and mine, by voluntarily encountering them on their hobbies. Follow my advice, my dear Miss Watson, and make the best of those you meet with here."

They were interrupted by the conclusion of the dance; and Mr. Morgan thought it best to move away. He left Emma thoughtful and dispirited; and as he watched her from a distance, he was quite satisfied with the general expression of her countenance.

Her next neighbour was Mr. Alfred Freemantle, who threw himself into the chair Mr. Morgan had vacated, and began a series of enquiries as to who Mr. Tom Musgrove might be, and whether it was really true that her sister Margaret was on the point of marriage with him? Emma soon grew tired of his "bald, disjointed chat," and moved away; she was met by Mrs. Turner.

"My dear child," cried she, catching hold of both her arms, "I have been wanting to speak to you this age, but I would not interrupt you whilst you were talking to that pleasant man, Mr Morgan—yes, what a nice man he is, ain't he, dear? Now I did not mean to make you blush; but take care, don't flirt with him too much, because it may mean nothing, you know, there's no saying. But I wanted to tell you how excessively I am delighted with your sister, and how glad I am that she is to marry George. Poor girl, I dare say she is glad of it too; young women like to be married; but then I don't know where you could find a nicer young woman than Elizabeth—or one that would suit my son better. Now, I don't mean that as any reflection upon you, my dear, on the contrary, so never mind what I say."

"I assure you, madam, what you say of my sister gives me sincere pleasure, and I could not, I hope, be so unreasonable as to expect you to regard us in the same light. It is a great happiness when the friends on each side are equally satisfied with any projected marriage."

"Very true, my dear, I agree with what you say; yes, Elizabeth is a charming girl, and much better suited to my son-in-law than you would be perhaps—so we ought to be satisfied on all sides, as you say."

"And who do you mean to marry, my dear? Suppose you were to tell me now, I would promise not to tell any one."

"I have not made up my mind yet," said Emma laughing a little; "but I will let you know as soon as I can."

"Don't try for Mr. Morgan, my dear, he will only disappoint you—do not trust him too far; you had better not."

"Mr. Morgan, my dear madam," repeated Emma almost laughing outright, "why he is quite an old man! old enough to be my father I am sure. No, no, I will lay no snares for Mr. Morgan; I am sure if I did the ladies of Croydon would never forgive me."

"I dare say not—but indeed I do not think he deserves you, my dear; I know things of him which I will not tell you; but don't let him make you in love with him."

Emma only smiled at this warning, and the breaking up of the party at the moment prevented her hearing more on the subject from Mrs. Turner.

Tom Musgrove did not stay longer than he had originally proposed, but the next time he came everything was to be ready for the wedding, and Margaret was in such high spirits at the prospect, as plainly showed that she had quite forgotten the unpleasant difficulties which had previously interfered with this happy consummation.

Emma had often wondered that she had heard no more from Lady Fanny Allston. She knew she had been ill, but did not apprehend that her illness was of so serious a nature as necessarily to cause this long delay. But she was at length surprised one day by receiving from her ladyship's housekeeper an abrupt and rather uncivil note, completely breaking off the negotiation. There was something in the tone of the announcement which hurt her exceedingly, and she was in a very uncomfortable frame of mind when she walked out that afternoon with Janetta, for she had lately resumed this custom. She took her little charge into some meadows to look for primroses and violets on the sunny banks, and whilst the child was busy plucking all she could find, Emma herself sat down on the stump of a tree to try and discover the meaning of this communication. She had nothing, however, to guide her conjectures; there was no clue in the note, and she was forced to remain satisfied with the conclusion that her ladyship was capricious and had changed her mind.

Whilst occupied in considering this subject, she was startled by footsteps, and she looked up with a sort of fearful expectation that she should see Mr. Morgan; it was not however the doctor who presented himself, but Mr. Bridge, the clergyman, whom she had formerly met at the Millars'. He took off his hat with a very respectful bow, and addressed her with an air of politeness and courtesy which pleased her exceedingly. After a slight remark on the bright day and the beauty of the scenery, he passed on a few steps, and Emma supposed he was going to leave her; suddenly however he seemed to change his mind, and surprised her by returning to her side. He enquired if she was intending to sit there long, as he feared it must be damp and unsafe.

"I do not perceive any damp, sir," replied she; "and it is so pleasant I am unwilling to think it can be dangerous."

"That is not a rule," he replied smiling a little, and then gravely shaking his head; "many things extremely agreeable are invisibly surrounded with risks and dangers. It is a common-place remark I acknowledge, but one which is as constantly forgotten, as it is frequently enforced. Young people like yourself are particularly apt to slight it—but if you would bear with an old man—"

He paused and regarded her with a look of interest, which she noticed, and finding he hesitated, she ventured to say with warmth and earnestness,

"Pray go on, sir; if you think me in need of caution, I will listen with the attention and reverence which is every way your due."

"I have been interested for you, my dear young lady, not only by your own sweet and ingenuous countenance, your misfortunes and your unprotected situation, but by the representations of my young friend Annie Millar, and I feel that whilst you reside under my pastoral care, I should not be doing my duty were I not to exert myself to save you from inconveniences which you may perhaps be very innocently entailing on yourself."

Emma coloured and felt quite astonished at this address, the purport of which she could not guess, but after a moment's hesitation, she begged Mr. Bridge to proceed without ceremony; if he had any censure to bestow on her, she would listen and feel obliged.

"It is not censure, it is only a caution I wish to give you—I mean with regard to your intimacy with Mr. Morgan: you probably do not know his character, nor is it necessary that you should learn minute particulars; I am sure it will be enough for you to hear that he is not a safe companion for a young woman of your age and appearance."

"I think you must be under some misapprehension," replied Emma surprised; "there is nothing between us which can warrant the appellation of intimacy. He visits my sister-in-law, and as her visitor only I have known him."

"I had hoped," replied Mr. Bridge gravely, "to have met with more candour from you; I am under a very great mistake, if you have not on several occasions met him when walking only with that little girl, and allowed him to walk with you for a long time. Is it not so?"

"So far as you were concerned, I can believe it; but the world will only know that you were seen walking tête-à-tête with a man of known bad principles and immoral conduct; and more than that, he has been found with you in the drawing-room alone, and you have passed many hours in his company when visiting in other houses."

"I was not aware," said Emma, perfectly astonished at the charge; "that my actions could have thus been the subject of comment and inspection; but what you say, though perfectly true in itself, is capable of a very different interpretation—will you listen to my defence?"

"Certainly, my dear child," replied he, pleased at the frank and respectful manner with which she addressed him.

"I met Mr. Morgan at Mr. Millar's, and there I saw him received into the society of respectable women—he visited at my sister-in-law's house, and was, evidently, in her confidence; he proposed to her to procure me a situation as governess to Lady Fanny Allston's little girl, and my brother perfectly approved of the negotiation. It was the interest he took in this plan, which produced the appearance of intimacy which you reprobate; it was to discuss this subject, that he joined me in my walks; but, as I did not like the appearance of clandestine intercourse, I mentioned the occurrence to my brother and sister-in-law; and to avoid him, I refused, for some time, to walk out without some other companion than my niece. Latterly, I have seen less of him; and it is a fortnight or more since we last met out walking. Had I known him to be a man of bad principles, as you say he is, I would never have allowed him to interfere in my affairs—but how could I suspect that, when I found Mrs. Watson treated him with perfect confidence?—and he was evidently courted and caressed by nearly all the women of my acquaintance in Croydon."

"Those who know him best, have most reason to say it is unsafe for you to associate with him; they know of what he is capable, and are most shocked, of course, at your breach of conventional etiquette. I am sorry to say that you are right in your assertion that he is courted and caressed by women in general. In spite of his character, his manners make him popular, and many weak-minded women encourage him in conduct which flatters their vanity, by demonstrating admiration for their mental and personal charms. But those who act thus, are severe judges of others. But tell me, are you really going to Lady Fanny Allston's on his recommendation?"

"No—her ladyship has suddenly—and not very civilly—broken off the negotiation."

"I am glad of it, my dear; it would have been very undesirable that you should go there, throwing yourself completely in the way of that man; it must have been his object. Poor girl; any thing would be better than that."

"If you have any resolution and strength of mind," continued he, "I advise you by every means, to shun the neighbourhood of this dangerous man. The struggle may be painful, but depend upon it, it will be less so by far, than the consequences of indulging in your predilection for him."

"I do not think that the danger you apprehend for me, really exists," replied Emma, looking up suddenly.

"The young are always confident," said he, "but, if you build your hopes on any degree of affection, which Morgan may have manifested, believe me you are building on a quicksand, and you will as surely find yourself deceived as his other victims!"

"You quite misunderstand me," replied Emma, very earnestly; "I would not dare to boast myself more infallible than other young women, but I do not think I shall be put to the proof. I never had an idea, for a moment, that Mr. Morgan entertained towards me any other than such friendly feelings as you do yourself. It seemed to me very kind in him to interest himself for an orphan—but it was a kindness which his age appeared to warrant. For, though not quite so old as yourself, sir, he is old enough to be my father; and I fancied it was with something of a paternal feeling that he regarded me. As to my own sentiments towards him, I certainly felt grateful at first—but latterly, there has been, I own, once or twice, a something in his manner which made me suspicious of his principles, and induced me to shun private intercourse with him. Do I speak in a way to convince you of candour, or do you mistrust my confession, and doubt my word?"

"I think I will venture to trust you—but I must still repeat my warning—take care of yourself, and do not allow him to hurt your reputation. You have enemies in Croydon, my dear."

"There, for once, he spoke truth, whatever may have been his motive. But you are watched—whether from simple curiosity, malice or envy, your movements have been traced, and are spitefully commented on. It was in that way, that I heard of your walks with him; and meeting you here, I could not resist warning you. I rather wonder we have seen nothing of him, for I saw him following me as I took this path; perhaps he is waiting till I leave you."

"Would it be too much trouble for you to see me safe home?" said Emma anxiously, "I should be so very much obliged if you would."

At one of the stiles they met the individual in question; he had, apparently, been watching them; but though, perhaps, disappointed at the result of their conference, he came forward with a bow and a smile, the most insinuating, to hand Emma over it. Mr. Bridge observed gaily, that he feared he was grown too old for gallantry, and he must not wonder if such agreeable offices were taken out of his hands by men younger and more alert. The hand which Mr. Morgan held, he seemed unwilling to relinquish, but drew it under his arm with an appearance of considering it his right to support and guide her. At another time she might hardly have noticed this, but with Mr. Bridge's warnings ringing in her ears, she could not permit it to continue. Resolutely she drew away her hand and turned towards the stile to enquire whether the elder gentleman required any assistance. Mr. Morgan fixed his piercing eyes on her with an enquiring look, as if to demand why his attentions were thus repulsed; but he could not catch her eye, and he was forced to content himself with walking quietly by her side.

"I want particularly to speak to you, Miss Watson," said he presently in a low tone, as if wishing to avoid her companion's notice.

"It is on your own affairs," said he as if hesitating, and glancing towards Mr. Bridge; "I do not know how far it might be pleasant for you to have a third person made conversant with them."

"If it relates to the business with Lady Fanny," answered Emma aloud, "I have just been talking the matter over with Mr. Bridge, and he can therefore quite enter into the subject now."

"It does relate to that affair, and I am sorry—exceedingly sorry—that I should be the means of occasioning you any disappointment, but I fear your hopes—I might say our hopes in that quarter are all overthrown."

"I am aware of that, Mr. Morgan," said Emma calmly; "I received a note to that effect this morning, and your intelligence therefore is no shock to me; I feel much obliged for the zeal you have shown in my favour, but on the whole I am as well satisfied that things should be as they are."

"Satisfied!" cried he looking at her. "You cannot really mean that! the loss of such a prospect may be nothing to you, but the reason—that is the evil."

"I had no reason assigned me," replied Emma, "and only concluded that her ladyship had changed her mind, which of course she had full right to do."

"I am so sorry," said he presently, "so very sorry that I have been the means of leading you into this very unpleasant situation. But for me you would never have met this repulse: I am vexed indeed!"

"Do not take it so much to heart," replied Emma more gaily than she felt, "for after all it is only what any young woman in my situation might expect—a few repulses will serve to teach me humility."

"If you really do not, you had better not force me to say it; though you cannot for a moment imagine that I believe there is a word of truth in Lady Fanny's assertion—she must have been so completely misinformed."

"I really should be obliged to you to be explicit," replied Emma earnestly; "you admit that you know the reasons—I must insist on knowing them likewise."

"Then you should not have alluded to them at all; you cannot wonder if I now consider myself entitled to learn what these mysterious reasons are."

He drew out his pocket-book and took thence a note, which he placed in her hand, saying,

Emma opened and read a short note from Lady Fanny to Mr. Morgan, stating that having heard various very discreditable reports concerning the young person he had named to her, she must beg to decline all further intercourse with her. Emma's cheeks glowed as she read the lines in question; but she said not a word. Quietly she re-folded the note and returned it to Mr. Morgan. He was eagerly watching her, and as he took it from her hand, he detained her fingers one moment, and stooping whispered,

"It is quite as well that I should know it," she replied very calmly; and then a silence of some minutes ensued. They had reached the garden gate before any one spoke again: she turned to Mr. Bridge before entering, and whilst holding out her hand to him, said in a low voice, "I am very much obliged to you; may I have a little further conversation with you another day?"

He then warmly shook hands, patted Janetta's shoulder and walked off, concluding that Mr. Morgan would do so too. But here he was mistaken, that gentleman having no intention of retiring so quickly. He had opened the gate for Emma and stood leaning against it, till she turned and prepared to pass, but then he laid his hand on her arm, and whilst closing the gate upon them both, attempted to draw her a little on one side where a thick screen of filberts concealed them from the house.

"Come here, my dear girl," said he in a tone of familiarity which affronted Emma; "I thought that old humbug was never going to leave us: it's too bad to be beset in that way."

"Have you anything to say to me, Mr. Morgan?" replied Emma in a freezing tone; "because I must beg, if you have no particular reason, that you will not detain me here."

"I beg your pardon—I quite forgot," returned he in a very different tone; "I am taking a liberty which nothing but my interest in you can excuse." He then withdrew his hand from her arm, but still stood in her path. "The fact is, my indignation at the slanderous tongues of our neighbours made me quite forget everything else; do you know the meaning of that note I showed you—the nature of the reports and their originator?"

"I know simply what I read there," returned Emma, "and unless the subject is one of immediate importance, I must decline to discuss now and here the cause of Lady Fanny's determination."

"Well, perhaps you are right, but I hardly expected that my warnings to you the other night would so soon be realised; they have not scrupled to make mischief of our meeting when out walking, and the report has reached Lady Fanny's ears."

"If that is the case, Mr. Morgan," replied Emma, her face flushing with indignation, and her voice almost uncontrollably trembling from emotion, "if you know that to be the case, I wonder that kindness, courtesy, nay, the common feelings of a gentleman, do not prompt you to avoid giving countenance to such reports, by forcing yourself on my privacy, and intruding even here on my home. I command you to let me pass this instant, and I desire that I may not again be disturbed by a similar encounter."

He did not dare dispute her command for a moment, as she stood with her slight and graceful figure drawn up, and her speaking face turned on him in indignation; he drew aside, and with a very low bow allowed her to pass, and follow Janetta, who had trotted up towards the house. He looked after her in an attitude of despair, but it was lost on Emma, who never turned her head, or cast one relenting glance behind, but walked straight into the house. In fact she felt very angry, and her anger increased the more she thought of what had passed: it seemed to her as if he sought to place her in equivocal situations, and rather wished that she might compromise her reputation. Compared with the kindness of Mr. Bridge, his professed friendship and zeal appeared hollow and unsatisfactory; and now that she found she had another friend, she looked her difficulties more firmly in the face, and determined not to endeavour to escape from one set of evils by risking another. Still, when she thought of the words of Mr. Bridge, so sadly corroborated by Mr. Morgan himself, she could not help a sigh and a shudder.

She wished to ask his advice as to what she had better do, but at the same time she tried to form an opinion for herself, and questioned her own mind as to what was her duty on this occasion. To avoid all intercourse with Mr. Morgan, and let the slanders die a natural death from want of food to sustain them, appeared to her the safest course, and she hoped Mr. Bridge would agree with her. She would gladly have left the place had it been possible, but just at present there seemed no chance of an escape. When the time of her promised visit to Osborne Castle arrived, what a happiness it would be! She lay awake many hours that night thinking over all the difficulties in her path, and planning how she could surmount them. One idea weighed most strongly in her mind; it was, would Mr. Howard be at all likely to hear any report concerning her, and would he believe it if he did. She wished she could imagine he would hear of her at all; only from Miss Osborne had she received any news of his proceedings, and she feared that their intercourse was brought to an end for ever. How she might have viewed Mr. Morgan and his attentions but for her previous acquaintance with Mr. Howard, she could not tell, but she mentally compared the two men now, not a little to the disadvantage of the former; and she felt persuaded that she could never care for another, unless she were to meet with one who possessed all the good qualities of Mr. Howard, and was better acquainted with his own mind. For, totally in the dark as to the reason why Mr. Howard had suddenly withdrawn his attentions, and recollecting well the many little signs which had escaped him of a more than ordinary interest, she only concluded that he had, on further acquaintance, found her different from what he wished, and that he had changed his mind and views accordingly. She little knew that at this time he was suffering from a constant, unceasing regret, and dwelling on their past intercourse as the most precious and delightful period of his life.

It was with a heavy head, and a heavier heart, that she went through her daily routine the next morning, hearing Janetta her alphabet, setting her sewing, and reading to her; she had great difficulty in getting through with it, and could hardly fix her thoughts for five minutes on the business on which she was employed. In the course of the morning, Janetta was sent for to the drawing-room, and returned in about ten minutes radiant with joy. Emma, who had lain down on the bed for a few minutes, and was just closing her weary eyes in a doze, was suddenly roused by the news that Mr. Bridge had come to ask Janetta to go to see his garden, and that he was now waiting for them to accompany him home.

Mindful of his promise, he had called on Mrs. Watson, and after observing that he had met her little girl gathering flowers, he begged she might come and see some of the beautiful violets and anemonies in his garden. Mrs. Watson, delighted at the civility to herself, which she discovered in any attention to her child, assented most readily, and Emma had now to rouse herself as well as she could to accompany her young charge.

She felt so totally unequal to any exertion, that even her sense of the kindness manifested by Mr. Bridge, and the interest he shewed in her, was hardly sufficient to produce the energy requisite for the occasion. Her languid movements, and the heavy eyelids immediately caught the attention of the kind old man; but sensible how little sympathy her sufferings would probably excite in the mind of her selfish sister-in-law, he made no comment until they were not only out of the house, but safely hidden amidst the picturesque shrubberies which enclosed the parsonage. Then kindly taking her hand and looking half-smiling, half-sadly in her face, he said:

"I am afraid, poor girl, you have been fretting about what you learnt yesterday, and that you feel it more deeply than you expected to do."

"I have been thinking a great deal about it, I allow," replied Emma, "and more about what Mr. Morgan said yesterday after you left me. But surely you cannot be surprised at my dejection, when you consider the various difficulties which present themselves in my path."

"I cannot help a small suspicion," replied he, with a sort of cunning little smile, but which he speedily checked, "that you feel some regret about Mr. Morgan himself."

"No, you do me injustice; but on such a subject, professions are perfectly useless, and I shall not attempt to make them. To break off my intercourse with him will cost me nothing; but what does really depress and annoy me, is the terrible idea than any slanderous reports should have been circulated concerning that intercourse. He told me the story had reached Lady Fanny Allston, and that it was for that reason she had so abruptly concluded all negotiation with me."

"Very likely; her ladyship is the greatest gossip in existence, and has a regular supply of the town news and scandal, extracted from the butcher and baker, by her own maid, for her own private amusement."

"But if the story has travelled so far, how much farther may it not spread—I shall lose my character altogether, and with it all chance of earning an independent livelihood, and what will become of me?"

Her lip quivered, tears burst from her eyes, and her whole frame was visibly agitated, to such a degree, that Mr. Bridge feared a fit of hysterics would ensue. Emma, however, made a determined effort to conquer her emotion, and after two or three minutes, succeeded so far as to resume an air of calmness, though it was some time before she could speak again.

"My dear girl," said the clergyman, compassionately, "you must not give way to despondency—remember from whence your trials come, and you will become calmer and stronger in the contemplation. You do not seem to me at all to blame in what has passed, and whilst your conscience is clear, you need never despair that your path will be made clear likewise."

"It is not only the present difficulty which weighs on my mind at this moment," replied Emma, trying to speak calmly; "but there are times when all I have lost comes back to my memory, and seems quite to overpower me. My earliest friends lost to me, and with them the happy home where I had enjoyed every indulgence, and every pleasure that affection could procure. Then just as I began to accustom myself to my new home, and learnt to value the affection and society of my only parent, that likewise is torn from me, and whilst I am deprived of parent and fortune, and become dependent on my own exertions, I find myself robbed, I know not how, even of my good name, and my prospects blighted in the most mysterious manner. It seems in vain to struggle against such a complication of evils; what can I expect but to sink into contempt and disgrace?"

"I admit the greatness of the losses you have sustained," said he; "I cannot deny that it may be hard to bear; but you have still some blessings left for which you may be thankful. You possess a healthy constitution, a sound intellect, and a conscience unoppressed by a sense of guilt. You might have lost your heart, as well as your fortune, and that you tell me is not the case."

Emma looked down, and tried to appear quite careless and unconcerned; but she could not feel quite convinced that she did enjoy the degree of heart's ease, which Mr. Bridge seemed to imagine. An image of Mr. Howard flitted across her mind, and she felt that whilst enumerating her peculiar afflictions, she had omitted one which pressed almost as deeply as any. She blushed deeply, and could not raise her eyes; he watched her countenance, and then added, presently—

"None at all," replied she; "I feel I cannot—my head is all in confusion, and I can hardly think connectedly."

She pressed her hand on her forehead as she spoke; he saw she was looking extremely ill, and feared her mind was over excited.

"My first wish," she continued, "the first object of my life would be to get away from Croydon, to see no more of those who slander me, or him who causes the slander to circulate. But this I cannot do; whilst I have no other refuge, and whilst Margaret's marriage is approaching, I suppose I must not go. But if I could but leave them all, and have a little peace and quiet—it is sometimes more than I can bear; the perpetual worry, and the incessant anxiety to please without success—and those thoughts that will come back in spite of all that I can do—thoughts of regret for past happiness, and hopeless pining for what I may never see again."

"And you are quite sincere in wishing to leave Croydon, and go where you will see no more of Mr. Morgan? is it no momentary pique that influences you, no hope of being followed, no expectation of producing some great effect by your disappearance."

"I wish I could convince you, Mr. Bridge, that whatever the world of Croydon may impute to me, whatever it may choose to say for me, Mr. Morgan was never an object of any peculiar interest in my eyes, and since they have associated our names to my discredit, he is become positively disagreeable. To shun him altogether is, just now, my first wish."

"Then, perhaps, I may help you there; I will, at least, try—your desolate situation interests me deeply—poor girl—you look terribly worn and flushed—go home, and lie down to rest; try and compose your mind, and hope for better things. But above all, my child, endeavour to subdue a repining spirit, and remember that there is One above, who is the Father of the fatherless, and who has promised never to forsake those who call upon Him faithfully!"

Emma took Janetta home, and weary and worn out, she laid herself down upon her own bed, and there dropped into a heavy slumber. In consequence of her non-appearance at the dinner table, Elizabeth went in search of her, and rousing her up, persuaded her to attempt coming down stairs, though Emma, at first, felt so totally unequal to the exertion, that she declared she could not stir.

"Jane is so very cross to-day," remonstrated Elizabeth; "I am sure I do not know what is the matter with her, but she seems so very angry about something or other, that if you can contrive to come down you will save a great deal of after trouble. Is your head really so very bad; you do look rather ill certainly, but you need not eat, only just try to sit at table."

Slowly and languidly Emma rose from her bed; her head ached so intensely that she could scarcely raise her eyes; an iron band appeared to be compressing her forehead, and seemed every moment to increase in pressure. She tried to arrange her hair, and her dress, disordered by lying on the bed, but felt incapable of the exertion; leaning on Elizabeth's arm, she descended to the dining-parlour, and took her seat at the table. Robert offered to help her to some meat, but Emma declined eating. Jane never condescended to lift her eyes until the table was cleared, and then she sarcastically observed—

"I am extremely sorry, Miss Emma Watson, that there is nothing on my table good enough for you to eat to-day; shall I send over to the pastry-cook's, and see if he has any little delicacies to tempt your fastidious appetite? I am not so unreasonable as to expect a young lady like you to dine on roast mutton and plain pudding."

"I am not very well," replied Emma, "and have no appetite to-day; but it is my own misfortune, not the fault of your dinner, I am sure."

"Upon my word you honor my table with a very pretty costume," eyeing Emma fixedly, "may I ask how long it has been your fashion to have your hair awry in that way, and your gown tumbled—do you come out of your bed, or have you been indulging in an interesting game of romps?"

Robert looked at Emma, and even he was struck with the appearance of suffering; and coupling with it the fact that she had eaten no dinner, and moreover, feeling rather cross with his wife, he began to defend her, desiring Jane not to worry his sister, as it was evident she was very far from well. Mrs. Watson fired up at this. She wondered what people could mean speaking to ladies that way—she was sure they must quite forget who they were addressing—as to what she said to Emma, she wondered what she should be forbidden to say next! "Really it was too good, if she might not find fault with a girl like Emma in her own house, and at her own table too! She supposed the next thing she should hear, would be that Emma sat there to find fault with her. Her manners, her dress, her general behaviour would be called into question; if Emma gave her approbation no doubt, she should be right—she only hoped she should not be obliged to adopt the elegant negligence of Miss Emma Watson's present style—it was not to her taste she was afraid she must confess.

"Emma has really a very bad headache," interposed Elizabeth, "and would be much better in bed."

"Then pray, let her to go to bed," cried Jane, tossing her head; "who wants her to sit up? not I, I am sure; she may go to bed if she likes; but, if she thinks I am going to call in a doctor for her, she is very much mistaken; I will indulge no such whims and fancies."

Emma gladly availed herself of the permission to retire thus graciously accorded, and Elizabeth accompanied her up-stairs and assisted her to undress; neither would she leave her until summoned down to tea; even then, the temptation of Mr. Millar coming in, could not detain her from Emma's room; she told him how ill her sister was, and she returned to sit by her bedside, and attempt, by cool applications, to allay the burning, throbbing pain in her head, which Emma complained almost drove her mad. But she showed no symptoms of amendment, and towards morning she was in a decided fever. Elizabeth, who had sat up with her all night, now pressed her to consent to see Mr. Morgan—the name made her shudder, and she resolutely refused to do so. She declared she was not very ill—nothing more than her sister's skill could alleviate; but that to see Mr. Morgan would infallibly make her worse. Elizabeth thought this rather odd, but she let her have her own way, and said no more about the doctor. Mrs. Watson began to be frightened, when she found that Emma was really very ill; she too then proposed her seeing the doctor; but with more moderation, though with equal firmness Emma rejected her proposal, as she had done that of Elizabeth.

She only wished to see Mr. Bridge—but she had not energy or courage to request an interview with him; she lay in a kind of half-dreamy state, during the greater part of that day and the next; then Elizabeth thought her worse, and without asking her any more on the subject she went to Robert—and with tears in her eyes, entreated that some advice might be sent for—as otherwise, she felt sure Emma would die. This startled Robert—it would have been so exceedingly unpleasant—it would have interfered sadly with Margaret's marriage—and in several other ways would have greatly inconvenienced himself. Accordingly, he decided at once, that Mr. Morgan should be called in, and so he was. Emma was in too profound a state of stupor to notice him, or to be aware of what was passing beside her bed. She did wake a little at the sound of voices, but she could not guess whose they were; they seemed to her even a great way off—though, in reality, close to her; he might hold her hand now, she could not withdraw it; nay, when he put back the dark hair from her brow, and laid his hand on her temples to count the throbbing of the pulse there—she made no resistance now—she was unconscious of his touch. He was not alarmed about her, though he saw she was really ill—too ill for him to flatter his vanity with the idea that it was affected for the sake of seeing him; but he felt sure she would recover, and greatly consoled Elizabeth by his lively hopes on this subject. Nevertheless, he came to see her twice that evening, and early again the next morning. On neither visit did he find her sufficiently conscious to recognise him—but she gradually began to amend—and on waking from a prolonged slumber on the afternoon of the third day, she was sufficiently restored to the use of her faculties, to enquire of Elizabeth, whether any one had been attending her during the intervening time. Her sister, without circumlocution, told her how often Mr. Morgan had seen her, and added, that he was to come again that evening. Emma appeared excessively discomposed, and asked her if she could not prevent his coming; persisting that she did not want to see any doctor, and that, if she were only left alone, she should soon be well.

Miss Watson, who considered this merely as a fancy belonging to her state of disease, tried to avoid giving her a direct answer, and when she found this would not satisfy her, she endeavoured to persuade Emma of the unreasonable nature of her request, and ended by saying she would see what could be done for her. Of course Mr. Morgan came at the time appointed, end she was obliged to bear it, though the very sight of him threw her into such a state of agitation that his feeling her pulse was perfectly useless and only served to mislead him. He had, however, too much penetration not to discover quickly that his presence caused the feverish symptoms which at first alarmed him; he would gladly have persuaded himself that they indicated partiality, but not even his vanity could so far mislead him. The averted eye, the constrained voice, the cold composed look which wore the expression of her real feelings, told him a very different tale. He felt that he had lost ground in her good opinion, though he could not exactly tell why or how, and still less did he know how to recover it. His visit was short, and his conversation confined entirely to professional subjects, and he took his leave of her with a bow which was intended to express a profound mixture of admiration and respect towards her, mingled with regret, self-reproach, humility and penitence on his part. If any bow could have conveyed so much meaning, it would certainly have been his, and it did undoubtedly express the utmost that a bow could do. Emma drew a long breath when he was gone, and whispered,

Elizabeth tried seriously to convince her that she was exceedingly unjust, and pressed her to name any fault she could find with Mr. Morgan, of her own knowledge, not speaking merely from hear-say. Emma's nerves were not in a state to bear argument, and instead of answering she began to cry, and went off in a fit of hysterics which Elizabeth had great difficulty in soothing away.

The next morning Emma requested Elizabeth to procure her a visit from Mr. Bridge; she could not rest longer without an interview, and she now felt strong enough to make her wishes known. She would not allow any reference to be made to Jane, but sent a request, in her own name, that he would call on her, and when this request was complied with, as it speedily was, she sent Elizabeth out of the room that she might have an unreserved conversation with her old friend.

Her first question to him was whether he had as yet done anything towards procuring her removal from Croydon. He believed that she must recover her health before anything could be done with that view. But she so earnestly assured him that she should regain strength with twice the rapidity if he would only let her know what he proposed to do, that he told her to set her mind at ease, as he had already arranged a plan for her comfort. He had a sister, a single lady, residing about fourteen miles from Croydon, and if she liked to go and pass a few weeks with her, she would be sure of retirement and tranquillity with every comfort that could be desired.

Emma was delighted with the idea; she was certain she should like Miss Bridge, and that nothing could be more agreeable than residing in the country quite retired and with only one pleasant companion. There she should continue, she trusted, until Miss Osborne renewed her solicitations for her society, and even after that visit was paid she might return there. She pictured to herself how she would engage in a thousand useful and agreeable occupations, and how she would love the charming old lady on whom she would attend with unremitting zeal. She declared that she felt herself increasing every moment in strength by the contemplation of such a residence, and she trusted that she should soon be out of sight and sound of Mr. Morgan and all the inquisitorial residents of Croydon—how soon should she be able to go?

This Mr. Bridge told her depended entirely on the state of her health; as soon as she could be moved with safety he would take her in his own carriage half of the way, where his sister would meet her and convey her the other half.

"Oh, let it be to-morrow!" cried she; "I am sure I shall be well enough—my strength is greater than you think."

"Do not ask Mr. Morgan anything about it," said Emma flushing again deeply. "I do not want to have anything to do with him that I can help. I believe it was one thing that made me ill, because they would have him to visit me."

"Come, be reasonable," said he smiling; "if you talk in that way I shall think you light-headed. Now I must leave you; I will see you again to-morrow morning, and if I find you well enough, will send word to my sister at once and settle your plans."

He took leave, and was quitting the room when he met Elizabeth returning, and Emma anxious that her sister should immediately participate in her pleasant prospects, begged him if he could spare a few minutes more to stop and explain their plans. Miss Watson of course was very much pleased at hearing what he had to tell, and immediately saw all the advantages to Emma which such a removal would procure, except the one principal one, which was the secret source of her sister's eagerness to put it in execution. But she had never heard a syllable of the reports which had been so industriously circulated relative to Emma and Mr. Morgan, and was very far from imagining he could in any way, either as an object of love or of hatred, influence her feelings or proceedings. She admitted that it was in every way desirable that Emma should have a peaceful and comfortable home, and the only thing she stipulated for was, that she should return to Croydon as soon as she herself could offer her an equally comfortable abode in her own house. This point Emma did not feel disposed to dispute, though she secretly entered a protest against returning to Croydon for a residence if she could in any way avoid it.

She proved herself right in her anticipations that the relief to her mind would be of essential service to her body; she was so very much better the next morning as to be able to leave her bed-room, and sit up some time in Janetta's nursery, and here she was, with her little niece standing beside her, and no one else in the room, when Mr. Morgan was suddenly ushered in.

She received him with a calm self-possession which astonished herself, and, at the same time, a degree of frigid composure which seemed to imply that the past, both of good and evil, was swept from her mind, that she had to begin again in her acquaintance with him, and meant only to recognise him in future as the doctor, and not the friend. It was in vain that he sat beside her, and in his most winning tones tried to establish confidence between them; she was perfectly calm and composed, but impenetrably grave, yielding to neither tenderness nor gaiety, and he was just rising to go when she made her first suggestive observation, by telling him that she was so much better she should be able to take a drive to-morrow. He assented, of course, if the weather was favorable, and added, that as her sister had no carriage he hoped he might be allowed to take her out in his. With sincere pleasure at being able to decline it, Emma thanked him, assuring him it was quite unnecessary, as Mr. Bridge had promised her his. He looked disappointed; he could not bear that she should have any friends but himself: what would he have felt, had he known the real object of the drive in question.

His departure, which Emma had thought most unnecessarily delayed, left her at liberty to think about Mr. Bridge's promised visit; she had long to wait, he came delighted to see her better, and quite willing to acknowledge that she might be removed the next day. The necessary arrangements he undertook to make; he could send his sister word that she might expect them, and he determined to drive over the whole way himself, and spend one night at her house. He likewise agreed to go and inform her own brother and his wife of what was about to take place, and thereby save Emma all excitement, if the information should happen to be ill received.

Accordingly, in persuance of this plan, he paid Mrs. Watson a visit before leaving the house, and in answer to his gentle tap at the door, received an invitation to enter, which brought him into an extremely untidy and heated parlour. Jane was sitting over the fire with her feet on the fender, her gown turned up over her knees, and her petticoat emitting a strong smell of scorching, which almost overpowered him. She was reading a work of some kind, which she hid behind her when she saw her visitor, whilst she tried to arrange her hair and cap in a rather less slatternly way. Margaret was busy trimming a hat with white satin ribbons, and judging from the shreds of white materials of divers kinds lying beside her, had been deeply engrossed in the dress-making or millinery line. After sitting a few minutes, Mr. Bridge enquired if he could see Mr. Watson, and though his wife was quite certain it was impossible, it so happened that Robert entered at that very time.

"I am so glad to see you," said Mr. Bridge on shaking hands with him, "I wanted to get your leave to carry off your youngest sister."

"She is better to-day," replied he, "but she wants change of air and scene, and I want to get it for her."

"Why, what new fancy of hers is this?" exclaimed Mrs. Watson, "that girl's head is always full of some strange vagary or another; it's only the other day she would not walk out, and now she's wanting to go away, and she keeping her bed and pretending to be ill."

"Where do you want to take her to?" enquired Robert, unheeding his wife's speech.

"Why, my sister wishes for a companion, and I think they would suit each other very well; and it really appears to me that she feels the confinement and application necessary in her present mode of life too much for her."

"My dear Mr. Bridge," cried Mrs. Watson in a fawning tone, "don't you, please, believe that she is a prisoner, or acting under compulsion; I am sure you would have too much regard for me to go and set such a story about—only think what my feelings would be were such a story circulated about my dear husband's sister."

"I did not mean to say anything to hurt your feelings, Mrs. Watson," replied the clergyman coolly, "but you cannot deny that your sister-in-law has been ill, and that at present she is incapable of continuing her labors as governess to your little girl: I do not exaggerate in that statement."

"Oh dear no—but then she never had any great labors to go through; nothing I am sure but what any one might accomplish."

"I am of opinion she has exerted herself too much in every way; and as my sister's house will be very quiet, and they are persuaded they shall suit each other, I really think the best thing she can do will be to go there."

"I don't see that at all," replied Jane rather snappishly, "I cannot spare her; I want her to take charge of Janetta; what am I to do without her?"

"I understood her services in that way were very trifling," interposed Mr. Bridge.

"Just her teaching may be," said she retracting a little, "but then she is accustomed to take care of her all day long, and I cannot spare her from that."

"But I cannot do that, I do not like to leave her entirely to servants, and unless I mind the child myself what can I do; and I suppose no one would expect me to become a slave to my little girl, and shut myself up in a nursery."

"Because whilst she is living at my husband's expense, I think it only fair that I should profit from her cares in that way; and I consider it always a charity to give young people something to do."

"That may be very true whilst she is here perhaps; but it seems to me a little unreasonable, begging your pardon for saying so, to keep her against her will, and then make her work to cover the expense of staying."

"I am sure I don't know why you should find fault: I have not time to teach my child myself, if I had the health for such an exertion."

"You never seem to have either time or inclination to do anything, Jane:" said the husband, "look at this room—was there ever such an untidy pigsty for a lady to live in; why cannot you take a little trouble and make it look decent."

"You had better arrange it after your own fashion," said she scornfully, "if you do not like mine."

"As to this plan of yours, Mr. Bridge," continued Robert, "I think it a capital one; and the sooner you can take her away the better—when do you mean to go?"

Mrs. Watson was silenced altogether, and Mr. Bridge proceeded to explain the plan of their proceedings as proposed by himself. Robert highly approved of it all, and gave his full consent and approbation to Mr. Bridge with the more zest, because it appeared to annoy his wife. After this it was of course vain for her to make objections; he was completely master of his own house, and Jane knew, from sad experience, that she might produce as much effect by talking to the tables and chairs as to him, when in one of his stubborn fits.

All she could do, therefore, was to be as cross as possible for the rest of the day to those around her, in consequence of which she was left to a tête-à-tête with Margaret, as Elizabeth was upstairs making preparations for Emma's departure, and Robert went out to spend the evening with some bachelor friends.

Punctually the next day, Mr. Bridge drove to the door, and at the same moment Mr. Morgan entered the house. Emma was in the parlour quite ready for her journey, and her eye sparkled with pleasure as she told him that she should not trouble him to call on her again, for she was leaving Croydon for a long time. He looked aghast.—

"Going away," was his exclamation, as he cast an enquiring eye at the trunk which Mr. Bridge's man was preparing to place on the carriage. "This is quite unexpected—may I ask where you are going?"

"It is Mr. Bridge who is taking me away," replied Emma, "and really I can hardly answer as to where we are going. I am wishing to try a change of air, as I do not find Croydon agree with me."

"This is Mr. Bridge's doing then," said he, his face turning pale with an emotion which she did not understand. He felt convinced that his plans had been seen through and counteracted, and entertained, in consequence, anything but a feeling of gratitude towards the agent of his disappointment. At this moment the clergyman entered, and claimed Emma's company, and after an affectionate farewell from Miss Watson, and a formal bow from the doctor, she was hurried away. The other two ladies were out walking, as Jane was determined not to countenance Emma's departure by her presence on the occasion. Emma felt so very much relieved as she lost sight of Croydon, and entered on a country quite new to her, that she fancied she was deriving fresh health and strength from every breath she inhaled. She was, however too weak to bear much conversation, and was content to lie back in peace and silence in a corner of the carriage, quietly reposing on the cushions with which she had been carefully propped, and enjoying the luxury of seeing the varying landscape pass before her eyes, without making any exertion. Mr. Bridge was reading; and in this way the fourteen miles were pleasantly and quickly passed, and in about two hours from leaving Croydon, they stopped at the door of Miss Bridge's residence.

It was a small, old-fashioned house, with a thick screen of shrubs surrounding it, and a few picturesque old Scotch firs standing on the little grass plat which divided the front from the road. The walls were covered with creeping shrubs, and it was evident that the owner loved flowers, for early as it was in the year, the little porch was crowded with showy plants, and odoriferous with the scent of the hyacinth, narcissus and other sweet bulbs. The old lady came out to receive them, and the warmth of her welcome, with the kindness of her manner, quite won Emma's heart at once. She saw that her guest was fatigued, and would not allow her to exert herself in any way; but leading her upstairs, made her rest on the bed, and left her promising to return in a short time. The air of comfort which now surrounded Emma, was truly grateful to her feelings; the airy and well-furnished bed-room, the snowy curtains and drapery round the bed, the comfortable furniture, all seemed to bespeak an attention to her wants, to which she had long been a stranger; and as she lay there thinking over all that was past, and wondering what was to come next, a deep feeling of gratitude stole over her heart for finding herself at last in so peaceful and apparently comfortable a home.

Faithful to her promise, Miss Bridge returned speedily, bringing with her some refreshment, of which she insisted on Emma's partaking; and then desiring her to remain quiet for a couple of hours at least, she returned to her brother, and spent the interval in learning every particular that he could detail relative to her interesting young visitor.

When Emma woke from a refreshing slumber of several hours duration, the first object which met her eyes was the countenance of Miss Bridge bending over her. There was such a look of benevolent interest in that good-tempered face, as would have sufficed to redeem a very plain set of features from the charge of insipidity. But Miss Bridge was very far from plain, and it was evident she must have been eminently handsome. She was extremely thin, and her high features, and dark complexion made her look, perhaps, rather older than she really was, but her eyes which were dark hazel were still bright and lively. Her dress was that of an old woman, the colours grave, and the materials rich, and though not exactly in the reigning fashion of the day, yet sufficiently like it to prevent any appearance of singularity, whilst it was perfectly becoming her age and station. Emma felt sure that she should like her exceedingly, and quite longed to be strong enough to converse with her. She was found so much better as to be permitted to leave her room, and lie for a time on the sofa in the drawing-room, though Miss Bridge still proscribed conversation, and recommended quiet and rest.

Everything that she saw gave her an idea of the comfort of her new home; the well-filled book-shelves especially delighted her; she had enjoyed so little time for reading lately that the sight of such a collection of books was a most welcome prospect, and she anticipated with satisfaction the time when she should be able to exert herself again, and commence the acquisition of the Italian language; as she was extremely anxious to increase her information and accomplishments to the utmost.

The next day the old clergyman took his leave, and telling Emma not to fret about her friends at Croydon, and hoping when he came over next month, he should find her with rosy cheeks and smiles to welcome him, he went off quite satisfied that he had secured a comfortable home for his young friend, and a desirable companion for his old sister.

Nothing could be more peaceful and pleasant to a contented mind than the course of life in which Emma now engaged. She speedily recovered her strength, and was able by early rising to enjoy several hours alone in the morning, which she devoted to study; by this means she was always at liberty to give her whole attention to Miss Bridge so soon as they met in the drawing-room. Their fore-noons were employed in reading and needlework, unless when Miss Bridge was writing letters or settling her household matters. Walking out, or working in the garden occupied the afternoon, and in both these occupations, as soon as Emma was strong enough, she took great delight. The garden was cultivated with uncommon care; Miss Bridge having quite a passion for floriculture, and Emma thought nothing could exceed the beauty of her tulips, anemones and hyacinths, as they gradually unfolded their blossoms. She became extremely interested in the pursuit, and Miss Bridge more than once had to interfere to prevent her over tiring herself by her zealous labours.

The country round their residence was extremely pretty; tracts of old forest land with the huge old trees, survivors of many centuries, formed an agreeable contrast to the agricultural districts interspersed in places; and the steep sides of some of the chalky hills were clothed with hanging beech woods equally picturesque with the green forest glades beneath. To wander over this scenery, botanising amongst the lanes and hedgerows, or visiting the various cottages in the neighbourhood, formed a delightful variety to their labours in the garden. Emma found that next to the clergyman, Miss Bridge was looked up to as the guardian and friend of the poor.

Every wounded limb, or distressing domestic affliction was detailed to her. Her advice was sought equally when the pig died, the baby was born, or the husband was sick. Her medicine-chest was in frequent requisition, but her kitchen and dairy still more so. For one dose of rhubarb which she dispensed, she gave away at least two dinners, and those well acquainted with the poor may judge whether by so doing she was not likely to prevent as much illness as she cured; for by far the greater part of the diseases amongst the labouring classes arise from scanty food and too thin clothing. Of course she was the idol, the oracle of all the villagers, and the more so because there was no squire nor squire's family in the parish to diminish her importance or dim the lustre of her position. In fact she was the sister of the last squire, and since his death, as his eldest son resided on another property, the manor-house had stood empty and deserted. It quite grieved Emma to see it, for the house with its gable-ends and old-fashioned porch was very picturesque; but they derived one advantage from the desolate condition in which it was left, as they had the uncontrolled range of the gardens and pleasure-grounds, which were very extensive. The little church stood within these grounds, and by its situation somewhat reminded her of Osborne Castle. But how different was the Rector. He was an old, formal bachelor, living with an unmarried sister, extremely nervous and shy, and more remarkable for his total disregard to punctuality than any other point. This was peculiarly evident on the Sunday, when the whole congregation were always assembled at least a quarter of an hour before his appearance amongst them. If the day was fine, they did not enter the church but remained strolling up and down the pasture in which it stood, until the minister appeared and led the way into the sacred building. The congregation, which was almost entirely composed of the rural population, presented a very different aspect from that at Croydon; there were few smart bonnets, and the gayest articles of apparel in the church were the scarlet cloaks of the women. The dark and old-fashioned building itself had no ornaments but the hatchments belonging to the Bridge family, and one or two ugly and cumbrous monuments upon the walls, which seemed intended to record that certain individuals had been born and died, though what they did when living was now totally forgotten.

When the service was concluded, the clergyman quitted the pulpit and walked out before all his congregation, who stood up respectfully to let him pass, and then Miss Bridge and Emma, who had their seat in the squire's pew, followed before any one else presumed to stir from their places: there was then a friendly greeting between the Rector and his principal parishioners, after which they took their quiet way homewards, to partake of their early dinner, and return to the afternoon service.

Such was the tenor of Emma's life, whilst she remained with Miss Bridge—the only incident that varied the scene, was a drive over to Croydon one day, in order to attend Margaret's wedding. Emma had recovered her strength so rapidly, that she was perfectly equal to the exertion, and Margaret had sent a pressing invitation not only to her, but to Miss Bridge likewise. It was, therefore, settled that they should go and spend the night at the vicarage, as Robert Watson's house was quite full—with the addition of some cousins of his wife, who were paying a visit. In consequence of this arrangement, she did not see her future brother-in-law that day; but Elizabeth spent the afternoon with them. She saw, with sincere pleasure, how much Emma was improved in looks—she was plumper and fresher—more blooming and bewitching than ever; and so thought Mr. Morgan too—for he likewise, called to see her—and was quite startled with the alteration in her appearance.

"I need not ask you how you are," said he, fixing on her eyes which spoke his admiration as plainly as if he had put it into words; "you are looking so well."

Emma was forced to turn away, for the expression of his face was too openly admiring to be pleasant.

Elizabeth had a long chat with her in private: there was so much to learn about her new way of life, and so much to tell in return, that it seemed as if four and twenty hours instead of two, might have been talked away with ease. There was much to discuss about Margaret's prospects; Elizabeth was very little satisfied with Tom Musgrove, and only wondered that her sister appeared so well pleased as she did. He was careless and cold—almost to insolence—and had, evidently, tried to annoy her in every way he could; flirting with every girl who came in his way, and only shewing that he was not careless to her feelings, by his repeated attempts to wound them. To all this she seemed perfectly indifferent—whether from vanity, she really did not see, or from wilful blindness she would not perceive his meaning, Elizabeth could not tell; but she always continued to preserve a most satisfied air; and when slighted by Tom, sought peace and contentment in the contemplation of her wedding presents and bridal finery; constantly talking as if she enjoyed the unlimited affection of the most amiable and agreeable man in the world.

"And who do you think appeared amongst us last week?" continued Elizabeth, "actually Lord Osborne! Ah! you color and look pleased—and well you may—for I have no doubt Croydon would never have seen his countenance, if he had not thought you still living here!"

"Lord Osborne!" said Emma astonished, "what brought his lordship here—do you know?"

"The ostensible reason, was to bring a present to Margaret from his sister—a very pretty necklace as a wedding present; but the real reason, I have not the smallest doubt was, to see you—and had he not supposed you were still here, the parcel might have come by the coach, for any trouble he would have given himself about it."

"It was very good-natured of Miss Osborne, to remember Margaret in that way," said Emma, "how pleased she must have been."

"Yes, I think she was—it seemed even to put Tom in a better humour with her and every thing—it gave her a sort of consequence."

"What did Lord Osborne say?" enquired Emma, hoping to hear something relative to Mr. Howard.

"Oh! we had a long talk together, and he enquired particularly about you, and where and how you were; and he said he hoped very soon to see you. He talked about expecting you to visit his sister; in short, he seemed to have a great deal to say for himself—and really for him, was quite agreeable. To be sure, I do not think him quite so pleasant as George Millar, but every body need not have my taste of course."

"Well, I should like to have seen him—did he say nothing about our friends, Mrs. Willis and her brother—how are they?"

"He said, what I was sorry to hear, that Mr. Howard appeared ill and out of spirits. I wonder what can be the matter with him—do you think he can be in love?"

"You will see him, of course," said Elizabeth, "if you go to Osborne Castle—be sure and let me know what you think of him, then; do ascertain if he is in love."

"You had better make observations for yourself, Elizabeth," replied her sister, "how can I judge of a sentiment with which I am unacquainted; wait till you visit Margaret, and you will be able to form your own opinions."

"I do not think I shall ever visit Margaret," replied Elizabeth; "so if I do not see Mr. Howard under any other circumstances, our chance of meeting is but small."

The wedding-day was as bright and sunshiny as any bride could desire. Emma's thoughts wandered from Margaret and her companions to the bridal party in London, who she imagined would be engaged in the same ceremony about the same hour. She knew Mr. Howard was to officiate for her friend, and she tried to picture the scene to herself; then she imagined another group, where Mr. Howard himself should perform the part of bridegroom; and wondered what her own feelings would be if she were the witness of such a spectacle.

She was ashamed of herself when she recalled her mind from this vision, and she tried to think of something more appropriate to the occasion. She joined in the prayers for her sister's happiness, but her heart trembled as she thought of her prospects; however, it was no use foreboding evil—she tried to hope for the best.

Margaret was not satisfied with her two sisters as bridesmaids, but both she and Tom had insisted on having four more from amongst her intimate friends. One of these was the younger Miss Morgan, and as a compliment to her, her brother was invited to be of the party to church. He stood by Emma; but she was unconscious of it, until, when the ceremony was concluded, and there was a general congratulation, and kissing going on, she felt her hand clasped by some one, and on her turning round, he whispered in her ear,—"When shall you stand in your sister's place?"

Before she had time to answer, or even to understand exactly what he had said, her new-made brother came up and claimed the right of kissing her—the double right in fact, both as bridegroom and brother—and when she had submitted to the infliction, she again heard it whispered into her ear:

Emma moved away without looking round again, and took her station by the side of her friend, Miss Bridge, where she felt convinced that Mr. Morgan would not dare to intrude on her. There was something in the change of manner which he had lately assumed to her, most particularly offensive and grating to her feelings.

Another thing she could not avoid remarking was, that some of the young ladies affected to shun her, shrinking away when she approached, and abruptly changing the conversation, as if some mystery were going on between them. This was more particularly evident during the party which succeeded the wedding; when she found herself rather a conspicuous person two or three times, being left alone by those she approached—and on more than one occasion, seeing a group suddenly disperse on her drawing near; she did not comprehend the reason of this, but she felt it particularly disagreeable; and it induced her as soon as she noticed it, to keep close to Miss Bridge, in order to avoid the feeling of solitude in a crowd which was so distressing to her.

The meeting after the wedding was as dull as such affairs usually are, and right glad was Emma when the time for retiring came, and she was able to return to the peaceful vicarage. The next day she again left Croydon, and once more found repose and tranquillity beneath Miss Bridge's hospitable roof.

Much as Emma's thoughts had been dwelling on her acquaintance in London, she little guessed the scene that had really been passing, or the prominent figure which Mr. Howard had made on the occasion.

When the ceremony was performed, the breakfast over, and the new married couple had left the house, Lady Osborne retired to her dressing-room, and thither she sent for Mr. Howard. Without the slightest suspicion as to the real object of her wishes, he obeyed the summons, and found her ladyship alone.

She requested him to be seated, and then looked exceedingly embarrassed, and not a little silly; but after some attempts at conversation, which ended in total failures, she suddenly observed:

"I fear I shall find myself very uncomfortable if I continue in the same style of life I have done before; without Miss Osborne I shall be quite lost."

Mr. Howard could not help thinking that he should have supposed few mothers would have felt the change so little. They had never been companions or appeared of any consequence to each other. However he felt it his duty to make some cheering observation, and therefore ventured to suggest that her ladyship should not give way to such desponding thoughts: she might, perhaps, find it less painful than she anticipated.

"You are very kind to try to cheer me in my melancholy situation, but, Mr. Howard, I have always found you so, and I am deeply indebted to you for the many hours of comfort you have at different times procured for me. You have always been my friend."

"Do you consider," continued she, "that gratitude is a good foundation for happiness in the married state?"

"It is, no doubt, a good foundation for affection," replied he, "but unless the superstructure is raised, I do not think the foundation will be of much use. It is not sufficient of itself."

"You distress me by your opinion, I had hoped that to secure gratitude was the certain way to produce love."

"I apprehend that your ladyship will find it much more easy to deserve gratitude than to secure it; it is an intractable virtue, and favors which are supposed to have this return as their object, are apt to fail entirely in their purpose."

"I am very sorry you say so, Mr. Howard; I wish I could secure love from the objects of my affection. I fear the case is exactly the reverse."

The gentleman was silent, and a pause ensued between them, which the lady broke.

"I think," replied he, "it has every promise of securing them mutual happiness—I hope this as sincerely as I wish it. Sir William is an excellent young man."

"The marriage is not so high a one as what my daughter might have aspired to—she has given up all dreams of ambition—do you not see that?"

"Of course Miss Osborne might have married the equal or the superior to her brother in rank," said Mr. Howard, "but she has acted far more wisely, in my opinion, in preferring worth and affection, though not accompanying so splendid an alliance as possibly her friends have expected for her. Sir William has wealth to satisfy a less reasonable woman than Lady Gordon, and if his rank is sufficiently elevated to content her, she can have no more to desire."

"Do not imagine, Mr. Howard, from what I said that I was regretting the difference in rank; on the contrary, I believe most fully that as she was attached to Sir William, Miss Osborne could do nothing better than marry him. Far be it from me to wish any one to sacrifice affection to ambition. Had there been even more difference in their rank, had the descent been decidedly greater—had he been of really plebeian origin, I should not have objected when her affections were fixed."

"I cannot imagine that there was any possibility of such an event; Miss Osborne would never have fixed her affections on an unsuitable object, as any one decidedly beneath her would have been."

"Do you then consider it unsuitable, where love directs, to step out of one's own sphere to follow its dictates?"

"I am decidedly averse to unequal marriages—even when the husband is the superior, if the inequality is very great I am inclined to think it does not tend to promote happiness: but when their positions are reversed, and the man, instead of elevating his wife, drags her down to a level beneath that where she had previously moved, it can hardly fail to produce some degree of domestic discomfort."

"Alas, I am grieved that your opinion should be so contrary to my favorite theories; I can imagine nothing more delightful than for a woman to sacrifice station and rank, to forego an elevated position, and to lay down her wealth at the feet of some man distinguished only by his wit and worth; to have the proud happiness of securing thus his eternal gratitude."

"I think a man must be very selfish and self-confident, who could venture to ask such a sacrifice from any woman. I could not."

"But I am supposing that the sacrifice is voluntary, proposed, planned, and arranged entirely by herself—women have been capable of this—what should you say to it?"

"I cannot tell what I should say, for I cannot imagine myself in such a situation. Your ladyship takes pleasure in arranging little romances, but such circumstances are unlikely to occur in real life."

"And why? what do you suppose is the reason why, in this prosaic world, we are governed only by titles—empty sounds, not to be compared to the sterling merits of virtue and learning? Mr. Howard, I prefer a man of sense, learning, and modesty to all the coxcombs who ever wore a coronet or paraded a title."

"Your ladyship is quite right," replied he, beginning to get a little uncomfortable at the looks of his companion, and rather anxious to put a stop to the conference.

"And if that man were too modest to be sensible of the preference, if he could not venture, on his own account, to break through the barriers which difference of station had placed between us, should he be shocked if, despising etiquette, and throwing aside the restraints of pride and reserve, I were to venture to express those feelings in all their native warmth and openness?"

He was silent, and Lady Osborne continued for some moments in profound thought likewise, looking down at the carpet and playing with her rings: at length she raised her head, and said,

"I think you understand my meaning, Mr. Howard. Of the nature of my feelings I am sure you must have been long aware. Do you not see to what this conversation tends?"

He appeared excessively embarrassed, and could not, for some minutes, arrange his ideas sufficiently to know what to say. At length he stammered out—

"Your ladyship does me too much honour, if I rightly understand your meaning—but perhaps—I should be sorry to misinterpret it—and really you must excuse me—perhaps I had better withdraw."

"No, Mr. Howard, do not go with a half explanation which can only lead to mistakes. Tell me what you really suppose I meant; why should you hesitate to express—"

"I for a moment imagined that your ladyship meant to apply to me what you had just been saying, and I feared you were going to tell me of some friend who would make the sacrifices you so eloquently described. Sacrifices which I felt would be far beyond my deserts."

"And supposing I did say so—supposing there were a woman of rank and wealth, and influence, who would devote them all to you—what would you say?"

"I would say, that though excessively obliged to her, my love was not to be the purchase of either wealth or influence."

"I know you are entitled to hold worldly advantages as cheap as any one; but remember, my dear friend, all the worth of such a sacrifice—think of the warmth of an affection which could trample on ceremony and brave opinion. And think on the consequences which might accrue to you from this. Even you may well pause, before preferring mediocrity to opulence, and obscurity to rank and eminence.

"These advantages would not greatly weigh with me were they attainable—but you forget my profession forbids ambition, and removes the means of advancement."

—"No, you forget the gradations which exist in that career—do you treat as nothing the certainty of promotion—of rising to be a dignitary of the church—a dean—a bishop, perhaps—becoming at once a member of the Upper House? Has ambition no charms—no hold upon your mind?"

"My ambition would never prompt me to wish to rise through my wife—I could not submit to that."

"Hard-hearted, cruel man!—and has love, ardent love, no charms for you?—it is true I cannot offer you the first bloom of youth, but have I no traces of former beauty—no charm which can influence you or soften your heart—has not the uncontrollable though melancholy love which actuates me—has that no power over your affections?"

She paused, and Mr. Howard hesitated a moment how to answer, then firmly but respectfully replied,

"If I understand your ladyship aright, and I think I cannot now misunderstand, you pay me the highest compliment, but one which is quite undeserved by me. Highly as I feel honoured, however, I cannot change my feelings, or alter the sentiments which I have already expressed. My mind was made known to you, before yours was to me, and to vary now from what I then said might well cause you to doubt my sincerity, and could give no satisfaction to your ladyship."

He stopped abruptly; he wanted to say something indicative of gratitude and respect; but the disgust which he felt at her proceedings, prevented the words coming naturally. She, the mother of a married daughter and a grown up son, to be making proposals to a man so much her junior in age, and in every way unsuited for her—really, he could not command the expressions which, perhaps, politeness and a sense of the compliment paid him required. He rose and appeared about to leave her, but she rose likewise, and said with a look which betrayed indignation struggling with other feelings:

"No, do not leave me thus—reflect before you thus madly throw away the advantages I offer you—consider the enmity you provoke—calculate the depth of my wrath and the extent of my power. Refuse me, and there is no effort to injure you which I will not practise to revenge myself—you shall bitterly rue this day, if you affront me thus!"

"I cannot vary from my answer; your ladyship may excite my gratitude by your kindness but neither my love nor my fears are to be raised by promises or menaces. On this subject I must be, apparently, ungrateful; but when the temporary delusion which now influences you has passed away, you will, doubtless, rejoice that I am firm to-day. I must leave you."

"Leave me, then; and let me never see that insidious face again, ungrateful monster; to throw my benefits from you—to reject my advances. Is my condescension to be thus rewarded? But I debase myself by talking to you—leave me—begone!—and take only my enmity with you as your portion."

The lady seemed struggling with vehement emotions, which almost choked her; and knowing she was occasionally attacked with dangerous fits, Mr. Howard hesitated about leaving her alone. By a gesture of her hand, however, she repulsed his offer to approach her; he therefore, slowly withdrew, and his mind was relieved of anxiety for her by seeing her maid enter the room before he had descended the stairs. He then hurried away, and tried, by walking very quickly through the most retired paths in Kensington Gardens, to soothe his feelings and tranquillize his mind.

Had there been no Emma Watson in the world, or had she been, as he feared she would soon be, married to Lord Osborne, he must still have refused the proposal which had just been made to him. It never could have presented itself as a temptation to his mind. But under present circumstances, with a heart full of her memory, all the more precious, the more dwelt on, because he feared she would never be more to him, it was more than impossible, it was entirely repulsive. If he must love her in vain, as he told himself he should, that was no reason he should marry another; and if she were to become Lady Osborne as he feared, her mother-in-law would be the last person he would be tempted to accept. Step-father to her husband—oh, impossible! rather would he remove a thousand miles than voluntarily bring himself into contact with that charming girl in that relationship. If he could not have her, he would remain single for her and for his sister's sake, and his nephew should hold the place of son to him. These were his resolutions, and a further determination to avoid all intercourse at present with the dowager was the only other idea which could find any resting place in his troubled brain. He returned the next day to his Vicarage, and there, with his sister, his garden and his parochial duties, he sought alike to forget the pleasures and the pains of the past.

A month of tranquillity and peace of mind, passed in the society of Miss Bridge, was sufficient to restore Emma Watson to all her former health and more than her former beauty. When Lady Gordon wrote to remind her of the promised visit, she was almost sorry to go. Yet her heart would flutter a little at the notion of again visiting Osborne Castle—of being again in the vicinity of Mr. Howard, of seeing, hearing, meeting him again. It was very foolish to care so much about it—extremely so when he had so completely shown his own indifference, and yet she could not help feeling a good deal at the idea of meeting.

She called it curiosity to see how he was looking, when she admitted that thoughts of him had anything to do with it; but more often she persisted that it was affection for Lady Gordon, or a wish to see her old neighbourhood, or to visit Osborne Castle in the summer. In short, she found a hundred surprisingly good reasons why she should wish to go to Osborne Castle, any one of which would have been sufficient had it only been true, but as they were mostly imaginary, she never felt quite deceived about them in her own mind. This was provoking, as she would have liked, had she been able, to convince herself that she no longer took any interest in Mr. Howard. She had, however, a right to remember his sister with regard, and she readily owned to herself that she should be extremely glad to renew her acquaintance with Mrs. Willis. She hoped to see Margaret again, and judge of the comparative happiness of her married life. Yet she looked back with regret to the four past weeks and reckoned them as some of the happiest she had ever known. Elizabeth had spent part of the time with her, and she had enjoyed herself so very much.

The more she had known of Miss Bridge, the better she had liked her, and the parting was accompanied with mutual regrets and hopes of meeting again.

It was June when she returned to Osborne Castle—June with its deep blue skies—its sunny days—its delicious twilight; June with its garlands of roses scenting the air, and its odoriferous hay-fields. The weather was such as any lover of nature must revel in—delicious summer weather—fit for strolling in the shade or sitting under trees, making believe to read, whilst you were really watching the birds flitting among the bushes, or the bees humming in the flowers—weather for enjoying life in perfect listlessness and idleness—when scarcely any occupation could be followed up beyond arranging a bouquet or reading a novel. So thought and so declared the young bride when her husband pressed her to engage in any serious pursuit; she enjoyed the pleasure of teasing him by her refusals perhaps rather more than she ought to have done, but she never teased him very far now; she knew what he would bear, and ventured not to go beyond it.

"I am glad Emma Watson is coming today," said she, as she threw herself on a seat in the flower-garden; "you will have something else to look at then besides me, and I shall quite enjoy the change."

"Why you have not the impertinence to suppose that I value your incessant attentions," said she; "can you not imagine how tired I am of being the sole object of your love. Emma Watson shall listen to the grave books you so much love, shall talk of history or painting with you, shall sit as your model, and leave me in my beloved indolence."

"May I enquire if you suppose you are teasing or pleasing me by this arrangement, Rosa—is it to satisfy me or yourself?"

"Oh, don't ask troublesome questions; I hate investigations as to meanings and motives—all I want is to be left alone, and not asked to ride or walk when I had rather lie on a sofa in quiet."

"Shall I leave you now then, my dear little wife?" enquired he smilingly, and offering to go as he spoke. "I have a letter to write now, and you can stay here in solitude."

He returned to the Castle, she remained musing where he left her, and thus it happened that when Emma was announced, she found the young baronet alone in their morning sitting-room. He laid down his pen and advanced to meet her with great cordiality, desiring a message to be sent to summon his lady.

"Who would have thought, Miss Watson, when we last met, that I should be receiving you in this castle; did you prognosticate such an event?"

"Not precisely," replied Emma, "so far as concerned myself; but as relating to Miss Osborne—I mean Lady Gordon—any one must have foreseen it."

"I assure you, when such things are foreseen, Miss Watson, it most frequently happens that they never come to pass. I have repeatedly seen instances of this kind." He spoke with an arch smile, and a faint idea passed through her mind that she was in his thoughts at the moment; an idea which might, perhaps, have embarrassed her more had it not been swallowed up—annihilated entirely by a more powerful sensation, as the door opened and Lady Gordon entered with Mr. Howard.

It was fortunate that the enquiries of the former—her expressions of pleasure, and her caresses, were an excuse for Emma's not immediately turning to the gentleman—had they been obliged to speak at once, it is probable their dialogue would have been peculiar—interesting but unconnected—as the man said of Johnson's dictionary. As it was, they both had time to collect their thoughts—and when they did turn, were able to go through their interview with tolerable calmness; but Emma had the advantage—as ladies frequently have where circumstances require a ready tact and presence of mind. Indeed, they did not start on fair ground—since she had only one set of sensations to contend with and conceal—he had more—for, besides the emotion which the sight of her occasioned him, he had the double evil of being convinced it was contrary to the requisitions of honour, to feel any extraordinary pleasure in her company. Had not Lord Osborne made him his confidant relative to his attachment, or had Howard boldly owned to his lordship at the time, that he entertained similar views, all would have been right, and he might openly have expressed the interest which he now was compelled carefully to smother. His address was cold and formal—the very contrast to his feelings—and extremely ill done likewise; Emma, chilled by the reception so different to what she had ventured to expect, began to fear her own manners had been too openly indicative of pleasure at the sight of him; and determined to correct this error she almost immediately followed Lady Gordon, who had sauntered towards the conservatory.

"Come here," said the young hostess, linking her arm in Emma's, "let us leave the gentlemen to discuss the parish politics together. Mr. Howard came on business, and Sir William dearly loves meddling with it. Now, you must tell me all the news of Croydon. Have you no scandal to enliven me?—with whom has the lawyer quarrelled? or to whom has the apothecary been making love."

"To you, I suppose, by your blushes, Miss Watson; well, that gives me a higher idea of his taste, than I have been accustomed to form of country-town doctors. How many lovers have you to boast of? Beginning with Lord Osborne, and ending with this nameless son of Esculapius?—tell me all.

"Indeed, I have no such honors to boast," replied Emma, "no one has sought me, and probably no one ever will:" this was followed by a little sigh.

"Nay, do not be so desponding—a little chill is nothing," cried Lady Gordon, "but I am not going to pry into your secrets. This conservatory has given us enough of trouble in that way already. By the way, you will, of course, like to go over and call on your sister, Mrs. Musgrove—when will it suit you?"

"To-morrow, if you please," replied Emma, gratefully; Lady Gordon promised that the means of conveyance should be at her service, and they proceeded to discuss other topics.

She insisted on detaining Mr. Howard to spend the afternoon and to dine with them—pleading, as a reason, the absence of his sister, who was away on a visit; and when this point was carried and settled, she led them out into the flower garden again, and loitered away the rest of the intervening time, amidst the perfume of summer flowers, and the flickering lights and shadows of the alcoves, and their gay creeping plants. It was the day and place for love making; who could resist the fascinating influence of sweet scents, sunshine, murmuring fountains and soft summer airs? Not Mr. Howard, certainly! Gradually his frozen manner melted away—his purposes of reserve were forgotten, and he became once more the Mr. Howard of Emma's first acquaintance, pleasant and gay—sensible and agreeable.

Lady Gordon left them several times together, whilst she occupied herself with her flowers or her tame pheasants; and each successive time of her absence, there was less check and constraint in his manner; and when, at last, she totally disappeared, and they were left without other witnesses in that delightful spot, than the silent trees, or the trickling waters, his reserve had disappeared altogether, and she could converse with him as in former times.

"Enjoyed it," she repeated—then, after a momentary hesitation added, "I wonder you can apply such a term to circumstances connected with so much that is—that must be most painful."

He was exceedingly vexed with himself for the question, and attempted to make some excuse for the inadvertence.

"It is unnecessary." she replied, with a something almost of bitterness in her tone, "I had no right to expect that the memory of our misfortune would remain, when we ourselves were removed from sight. I ought rather to apologise for answering your question so uncivilly."

"No, no, indeed," cried he eagerly, "I cannot admit that—but indeed, Miss Watson, you do me injustice, and the same to all your former friends in that last speech. We cannot cease to regret the misfortune—the Providential dispensation, which in removing your excellent father from among us, robbed us likewise of you and your sisters."

"My dear father," said Emma involuntarily, her eyes filling with tears—she turned away her head.

"It was of course a terrible wound to you," said he softly, and stepping up quite close to her, "but not one which you need despair of time's healing; your good sense, your principles must assist you to view the occurrence in its true light. It must not sadden your whole life, or rob you of all pleasure."

"True—but there are other sorrows connected with it—" she stopped abruptly, then went on again, "however I have no right to complain. I have still some friends left—my loss of fortune has not entailed the loss of all those whom I reckoned amongst my friends; though an event of that kind is a good touch-stone for new and untried friendships."

"Can you imagine," cried he eagerly, "that such a circumstance can make the shadow of a difference to any one worth knowing. It is, I own, too, too common—but surely you have not met with such instances."

She shook her head and looked half reproachfully at him: in her own heart, she had felt inclined to charge him with this feeling.

"I should have thought," continued he warmly, "you would have said—at least you would have found it like the words of the old song, that—

"I believe it is not usual," replied she trying to speak playfully, "to attach much value to an old song—we may consider that as a poetical fiction."

"You fancy friends have deserted you, owing to a change in your prospects—do not—allow me to advise you—do not give way to such feelings—they will not make you happy."

"They do not make me unhappy, I assure you," said she with spirit; "the value I place on such fluctuating friendships is low indeed."

"In one single instance, perhaps, it may be so—but you had better not dwell on such ideas; they will create eventually a habit of mind which must tend to produce secret irritation and uneasiness. The allowing yourself to think it—much more expressing that thought can do you no good, and each repetition deepens the impression!"

He spoke so gently, with such a low, earnest tone, she could not resist or for a moment longer indulge her half-formed suspicions relative to him and his sister. Whether he had guessed her feelings she could not tell; his eyes were fixed on her with too much of interest to allow her to attempt reading the whole of their meaning. She never liked him so well as when thus, and with justice, reproving her.

"I dare say you are right," said she meekly, "I will try to repress such feelings—indeed I am ashamed I ever gave them utterance—and here too, where I have been so very kindly welcomed!"

"And I am to imagine then," continued he, "that Croydon offers few attractions to you—a country town is not usually agreeable except to those who love gossip, of which I do not suspect you; but you must have found some compensations."

"It was a great pleasure to look forward to Elizabeth being so comfortably settled," replied Emma, "I like my future brother very much, and am pleased with his family. I have no doubt of her happiness—and the style of life will not be irksome to her—but I love the country, and country pursuits, and was right glad to exchange the noisy streets of Croydon for the delightful groves of Burton—its meadows and green-lanes."

She explained—he had certainly been in a state of complete darkness as to her movements lately; and she really felt a momentary mortification that he should have been contented to remain in such profound ignorance. Yet she also rejoiced that he had never heard anything relative to the course of events which had occasioned her so much pain at Croydon, and driven her from the place. He knew nothing of Mr. Morgan.

How much longer they would have been content to loiter in that pleasant flower-garden cannot now be known, but they were only induced to leave it by the sound of the gong, which summoned them to the Castle to prepare for dinner. The hour which they had thus enjoyed had been one of the pleasantest to Emma which she could recollect, and the witchery of it to Howard himself would have been quite unrivalled, had his conscience been easy on reflection, with regard to Lord Osborne's plans and hopes. He tormented himself with the idea that it was unjust to his friend to take advantage of his absence; yet a flattering hope dwelt in his heart, that she had shown no reluctance to the interview; nay, if his wishes did not deceive and mislead him, there was a glance in her averted eye, and a rich mantling of colour over her cheek once or twice, which spoke anything but aversion.

And if so—if he really had been so fortunate as to inspire her with a partiality so delightful, was he not privileged—more than privileged—bound in honour to her to prove himself deserving of such feelings, and capable of appreciating them. This conviction gave him a degree of confidence and animation quite different from the manners he had exhibited when they had previously met at Osborne Castle, and Emma found him as pleasant as in the earlier stage of their acquaintance.

"Are you still partial to early walks, Miss Watson," enquired Sir William in the course of the evening, "or is it only in frosty winter mornings that you indulge in such a recreation."

"Ah, I had a very pleasant ramble that morning," said Emma, "at least till the rain came and spoilt it all."

"A very mortifying way of concluding," said Sir William, laughing, "for I came with the rain. I wish you had not put in that reservation."

"I am not so ungrateful as to include you and the rain in the same condemnation," replied she, "you were of great assistance in my distresses."

"But if you wish to indulge in the same amusement now, you will have abundance of time, as Lady Gordon is by no means so precipitate in her habits of rising and performing her morning toilette, as to compel her guests to abridge their walks before breakfast. Perhaps as a compliment to you, and by making very great speed she may contrive to complete her labours in that way by ten or eleven o'clock."

"Well, I do not pretend to deny it," said Lady Gordon, "I am excessively indolent, and dearly love the pleasure of doing nothing. But Sir William is always anxious to make me out much worse than I am."

"But you have not answered my question as to your intentions for to-morrow, Miss Watson, and I have a great wish to know whether you are proposing an excursion; because I think it would be much more agreeable if we can contrive to walk together, and if I know at what time you intend to start, I will take care to be in the way."

"It is a most uncommon event if he is so, I assure you," replied the young wife, "and, indeed, I would not take upon myself to assert such a thing of him at any time—"

"Do not believe all the scandal my lady there will say of me," returned Sir William, "but just say at once that you will walk to-morrow morning, and that you will be particularly happy if I and Mr. Howard will join you."

Emma blushed deeply, and hardly knew what to answer, but Lady Gordon saved her the trouble of replying, by exclaiming at the presumption and self-conceit of her husband, declaring that he had completely reversed the proper order of things, and that he deserved a decided negative from Emma, for having expected her to profess such extraordinary satisfaction at his company.

Emma made believe to consider the proposal entirely as a joke, but somehow, without knowing exactly how, it was settled that the proposed excursion should take place, and that Mr. Howard was to meet them at a particular spot, from whence they were to ascend the hill behind the Castle to enjoy the prospect bathed in a morning's sunshine. Lady Gordon privately gave her husband many injunctions not to interfere with the lovers, and whilst keeping near enough to take away all appearance of impropriety, to be sure and give them plenty of time for quiet intercourse. In return for her consideration, he only laughed at her, and accused her of a great inclination to intrigue, assuring her she had much better leave such affairs to take their chance.

The walk, however, took place as was planned, and was exceedingly enjoyed by all three, though Mr. Howard did not take that occasion of declaring his passion: indeed he would have had some difficulty in finding an opportunity, as Sir William did not follow Lady Gordon's suggestions of leaving them together.

Mindful of her promise, Lady Gordon sent her guest over the next morning to pay her first visit to Mrs. Tom Musgrove. It was with rather a feeling of doubt and hesitation that Emma ventured to her sister's house; anxious as she was to see her and judge for herself, and curious to observe the manners which Tom Musgrove adopted as a married man, she could not help some internal misgivings as to the result of her investigations.

She had never seen the house before, and though she had been previously warned of the fact that it had no beauty to recommend it, she was not exactly prepared for the bare, unsheltered situation, and the extreme unsightliness of the building itself. Tom had always spent too much money on his horses and their habitation, to have any to spare for beautifying his house during the days of his bachelorship and he was far too angry at the constraint put upon him in his marriage, to feel any inclination to exert himself for the reception of his bride. She had therefore no additions for her accommodation, no gay flower-garden, not even any new furniture to boast of, and her glory must consist alone in the fact of her new name, and her security from living and dying an old maid.

Most people would have thought that security dearly purchased, but if such were Margaret's thoughts, she had not as yet given utterance to them.

Emma found her lying on a sofa, and in spite of her very gay dress, and an extremely becoming cap, evidently out of spirits and cross, yet wanting to excite her sister's envy of her situation.

"Well, Emma," said she, sharply, "I am glad you have come over to see me, though I must say I think your friend, Lady Gordon, since she is such a great friend of yours, might have paid me the compliment of calling with you."

"She thought it would be pleasanter if we met first without her," said Emma, cheerfully, "but she desired me to express the pleasure it would give her to see you and Mr. Musgrove at Osborne Castle any day you would name!"

Somewhat mollified by this unexpected attention, Margaret smiled slightly, then again relapsing into her usual pettish air, she observed,

"I think you might say something about the house and drawing-room—what do you think of it?"

Emma was exceedingly puzzled what to answer, as it was difficult for her to combine sincerity with anything agreeable; but after looking round for a minute she was able to observe that the room was of a pretty shape, and had a pleasant aspect.

"It wants new furnishing sadly," continued Margaret, pleased with her sister's praise; "but Tom is so stingy of money, I am sure I do not know when I am to do it. Would not pale blue damask satin curtains look lovely here—with a gold fringe or something of the sort?"

"Rather expensive, I should suppose," replied Emma; "and perhaps something plainer would be more in character with the rest of the house and furniture."

"I don't see that at all," retorted Margaret; "do you suppose I do not know how to furnish a house—of course I should have everything to correspond. I have a little common sense, I believe, whatever some people may choose to think of it. At home indeed I was always considered as nothing, but as a married woman I am of some importance, I believe!"

"It was not your taste that I doubted," replied Emma, and then stopped, afraid lest she should only make bad worse by anything she might venture to say.

"I should like to know what you did doubt then," said Margaret scornfully. "Perhaps you thought we could not afford it; but there I assure you you are quite mistaken—Tom's is a very ample income, and he can as well afford me luxuries as Sir William Gordon himself."

Emma's account was very satisfactory, or at least would have been so to any one really concerned in Miss Watson's welfare; but Margaret would probably have felt better pleased had there been some drawback or disadvantage to relate concerning her; being not altogether so well satisfied with her own lot, as to make her quite equal to bearing the prosperity of her sister.

"And so she is really going to marry that man, in spite of his brewery; well, I wish she had more pride—proper pride; I must say I think a clergyman's daughter might have looked higher—and she should consider my feelings a little. I should have been ashamed to marry any one not a gentleman by birth and situation!"

"We have not all the same feelings," replied Emma willing to propitiate; "and I do not wonder at her liking Mr. Millar, he is so excellent a man."

"You think so, I dare say," said Margaret scornfully; "but a girl like you has seen far too little of the world to be any judge of what men are or ought to be. There is nothing so deceptive as their manners in company—I, who must be allowed to have more power of judging, and indeed in every respect to be your superior, never saw anything remarkable in Mr. Millar: a certain coarseness and grossness—a something which irresistibly reminded one of a cask of double X, was much his most distinguishing characteristic."

"I never observed it, and indeed Margaret I think you do him injustice," said Emma with spirit; "I am sure he has nothing coarse about him, either in mind or person."

"I think it is very unbecoming in you to set up your opinion in opposition to me. I have had far more experience, and my position as a matron places me in a much more competent situation for judging of men and manners."

Emma did not again attempt to contradict her, and Margaret, pleased with her supposed victory, enquired with some good nature and more vanity, if her sister would like to see her jewel-box. Emma, aware that she wished to exhibit it, good-naturedly expressed pleasure at the proposal, and was in consequence immediately desired to ring the bell to summon her maid to fetch it.

With much self-complacency, and a considerable wish to make her sister envious, all the new trinkets were exhibited by the happy possessor, and amongst many which owed all their value to being perfectly modern and just in fashion, were some few ornaments which would have been valued anywhere for their intrinsic worth, although antique in their setting, and differing decidedly from the style of ornament then in vogue.

"Those belonged to Tom's mother," observed Margaret, rather contemptuously pushing aside the trinkets in question; "I believe the stones are rather good, and if they were only new set, I should like them very well, but they are monstrous old things now, set as they have been."

Before Emma had time to reply or to express any opinion at all on the subject of the trinkets, the door was violently thrown open, and with a sound which indicated that he was luxuriating in very easy slippers, Tom Musgrove entered the room.

"I say Margery, girl," he began in a loud voice, but stopped on seeing his sister-in-law. "Hey, Emma Watson! why I did not know you were here! By Jove! I am glad to see you."

He advanced towards her, and not satisfied with taking the hand which she extended to him, he saluted her on the cheek with considerable warmth, and detaining her hand, he stared her in the face with a look of admiration which was quite offensive to her.

"Upon my word, Emma, you are looking more lovely than ever, blooming and fresh. I need not ask how you are—those bright eyes and roses speak volumes. I am glad to see you, indeed I am."

"Thank you," said Emma, turning away her head and struggling to release the hand which he retained with a most decided grasp; "I am glad to see you and Margaret looking so well."

"Oh! Margery there—yes, I dare say, she is well enough—but, as for me, I am sure it must be something miraculous, if I am any thing remarkable in that way"—he glanced at his wife and shrugged his shoulders with an air that excited disgust, not pity, in Emma.

"And so you are come to enliven us, Emma,—that's monstrous good of you, 'pon my honor. I hope you are going to stay here some time."

"You are very kind," replied she, "but I am staying with Lady Gordon, and only came over here for a short visit to Margaret."

"So there, you see," cried Mrs. Musgrove, "my relations are as much noticed at the castle as you are; so you need not plume yourself so much on that head, Tom!"

"I do not wonder that Sir William likes to have a pretty girl to stay with him," replied Tom, again staring at Emma, who coloured highly with indignation at his impertinence. "Ah! ha! how you blush," added he, coming close to her and attempting to pinch her cheek, which she, however, avoided. "Why, how monstrous coy you are," exclaimed he, "what! are you afraid of me?—fie, fie—you are my sister, and should have no naughty ideas in your head."

"I will trouble you, Tom, to leave my sister alone; I do not approve of your taking personal liberties with her; be so good as to treat her with the respect which is due to a relative of mine," exclaimed Margaret, half rising from her sofa to speak with greater energy.

"Ha! ha! so you are jealous Margery," said Tom, throwing himself on a seat beside Emma, and rolling about with laughter, "that's a good joke 'pon my soul—a capital joke, indeed—to be sure, considering all things—it's natural enough; but really, I cannot help laughing at it—indeed, I cannot, though I beg your pardon, Emma, for doing so."

Emma looked most immoveably grave, and would not give him the smallest encouragement in his hilarity, whilst Margaret muttered quite audibly:

"So you are exhibiting your necklace box again," observed he, sarcastically, as he caught a glimpse of the case beside her. "Upon my honor, I do not believe there is another woman so vain of her trinkets between this and Berwick—you are always shewing them to every body."

"Well, and what if I am? I suppose I may if I like—it does nobody any harm that ever I heard of," retorted Margaret, quite angry. "I see no more wonder in a woman's shewing her jewels, than in a man exhibiting his horses, dogs, and guns. I have known instances of that peculiarity in some of my acquaintances, quite as well deserving of ridicule, as my sister's wishing to see my ornaments could be."

"I dare say, the horses and the dogs were much better worth looking at than your trumpery;" replied he, "why, the only things in your assortment worth any thing, are the topaz set which belonged to my mother; all the rest is mere rubbish."

"What those frightful old things! upon my honor, Tom, I am ashamed of wearing such monstrous, heavy, old-fashioned articles—but having once belonged to your mother, of course they must be wonderfully precious."

Emma here interposed to deliver Lady Gordon's message, and to request them to name a day for accepting it. A debate ensued as to the most convenient day on which to fix, which presently branched off into a violent dispute as to whether the invitation in question was intended as a compliment to Tom or his wife; each maintaining the opinion, that the honour of the invitation was all due to themselves.

At length, however, Emma contrived to persuade them to settle the point in question; and two days from that time, was fixed on for the dinner visit, and soon after this point was arranged, Emma took her leave.

Much as she was grieved by what she had witnessed, she could not be surprised at it, when she considered the circumstances under which the union had been formed. Tom was reckless and unkind; Margaret peevish and fretful, without energy of character to make the best of her situation, or strength of mind to bear with patience the evils in which she had involved herself. No doubt, if Tom had loved her, she would have been fond of him, and any sensation beyond her own selfish feelings, would have done her good; but forced into the marriage against his will, love, or any thing resembling it, was not to be expected from him; in consequence, her own partiality could not survive his indifference; and there was a mutual spirit of ill-will cultivated between them, which boded ill for their future peace.

Emma reflected on all this as she drove home, from her very unsatisfactory visit, and was only roused from these unpleasant considerations, by finding the carriage stopped suddenly soon after entering the park. On looking up, she perceived Sir William and Lady Gordon, who enquired if she would like a stroll before dinner, instead of returning at once to the castle. She assented with pleasure, and quitting the carriage, they took a pleasant path through a plantation, the thick shade of which made walking agreeable even in the afternoon of a June day.

"Suppose we go and invade Mr. Howard," said Lady Gordon, "this path leads down to the vicarage—let us see what sort of a housekeeper he makes, without his sister to manage for him!"

"Always running after Mr. Howard, Rosa," said Sir William. "Upon my word, I shall be jealous soon: yesterday flirting in the flower-garden—to-day visiting at the vicarage; if things go on in this way, I will take you away from Osborne Castle very soon."

"Yes, you have reason to be jealous, have you not? when men leave off pleasing their wives themselves, they always dislike that any one else should do it for them"—replied Lady Gordon smiling saucily. "You know you are always thwarting me yourself, and naturally wish to keep me from more agreeable society, lest I should draw disadvantageous comparisons."

"But the comparisons are not fairly drawn under such circumstances," suggested Emma, "for Mr. Howard's way of treating Lady Gordon can be no rule for his probable way of tyrannising over some future Mrs. Howard."

"Of course not," replied Sir William, "but I observe, Miss Watson, you take it for granted that he will tyrannise over a wife when he has one; is that your opinion of men in general, or only of Mr. Howard in particular?"

"Of men in general, no doubt," interposed Lady Gordon: "Miss Watson has lived too long in the world not already to have discovered the obvious truth, that all men are tyrants when they have the opportunity, the only difference being, that some are hypocrites likewise, and conceal their disposition until their victim is in their power, whilst others, like yourself William, make no secret of it at all."

"I am glad you acquit me of hypocrisy at least, Rosa; it has always been my wish to be distinguished for sincerity and openness, I never indulged in intrigues or meddled in manœuvres, or sought for stratagems to carry out my wishes."

He accompanied this speech with a peculiar smile which made his lady colour slightly, as she well knew to what he alluded; she did not reply, and they walked on some time in silence.

At length Emma observed that it was a remarkably pretty walk which they were pursuing. Lady Gordon told her that they were indebted for the idea and plan of it to Mr. Howard; he had superintended the execution of some other improvements which Lady Osborne had effected, but this one had originated entirely with him. It was the pleasantest road from the vicarage to the village, and was so well made and drained as to be almost always dry although so much sheltered. The idea that he had planned it, did not at all diminish the interest with which Emma regarded the road they were discussing; and her eyes sought the glimpses of distant landscape seen between the trees, with pleasure materially heightened by the recollection that it was to his taste she was indebted for the gratification.

This sort of secret satisfaction was brought suddenly to a close, by finding herself quite unexpectedly at a little wicket gate opening upon his garden. She had not been aware the house was so near; but the nature, not the source of her pleasure, was changed; it still was connected with him, and the beauty of his garden quite enchanted her. When she had previously seen it in the winter, she had felt certain it must be charming, but now it proved to surpass every expectation she had formed; and she was internally convinced that a love of gardening, and a taste for the beauties of nature, were sure signs of an amiable and domestic disposition in a man, which promised fair for the happiness of those connected with him.

They found him hard at work constructing some new trellis work for the luxuriant creepers which adorned his entrance; his coat off, and his arms partly bare for the greater convenience of his labours.

"We have taken you by storm, to-day," said Lady Gordon, smilingly holding out her hand to him, "I like to see your zeal for your house."

"Really," said he, holding up his hand, "these fingers of mine are not at all fit to touch a lady's glove; when we assume the occupation of carpenters, we ought to expect to be treated accordingly."

"And when we intrude on you at such irregular hours, we ought to be thankful for any welcome we can get," replied Lady Gordon.

"Indeed, I take it most kind and friendly of you to come," answered he, his eyes directed with unequivocal satisfaction towards Emma. "My garden is better worth seeing now, than when you were last here," added he, approaching her.

"It is lovely," replied Emma, honestly speaking her mind, "what beautiful roses. I do not think I ever saw such a display of blossoms."

"I am glad you admire it," said he, in a low voice, "though, after the conservatories and flower gardens of the castle, I am afraid it must look rather poor."

"I would not make unjust comparisons," replied Emma, "but I think you need not dread it if I were inclined to do so. It is not grandeur or extent which always carries the greatest charm."

"And would you apply that sentiment to more than a garden?" asked he, very earnestly, fixing on her eyes which unmistakeably declared his anxiety to hear her answer.

He was not, however, destined to be so speedily gratified as he had hoped; for, quite unconscious that he was interrupting any peculiarly interesting conversation, Sir William turned round to enquire the name of some new shrub that struck his eye at the moment.

Recollecting himself after replying to the baronet's question, he invited them to enter the house to rest; but this Lady Gordon declined, declaring that she preferred a swelling bank of turf, under a tree, to any sofa that ever was constructed. The ladies therefore sat down here, and begging to be excused for one minute, Mr. Howard disappeared, going, as Sir William guessed, to wash his hands and put on a coat, that he might look smart and fit for company. Lady Gordon laughed at the idea of a clergyman making himself smart, or of Mr. Howard treating her as company; but Sir William was proved to be partly right, since it was evident on his return that he had been employing part of his absence in the way that had been suggested; but to dress himself had not been his sole object, for he re-appeared with a basket of magnificent strawberries in his hand, which on a warm afternoon in summer had a peculiarly inviting appearance.

Lady Gordon accepted them eagerly, declaring that she knew his strawberries were always far better than any the Castle gardens ever produced. As to Emma, she was certain she never tasted any so excellent in her life, nor was she ever before pressed to eat with so winning a smile or so persuasive a tone of voice.

"I wonder you take so much pains to beautify this place, when you are almost certain of being soon removed from it," said Lady Gordon.

"The occupation is in itself a pleasure," replied he, "which more than repays me for the exertion, and after your brother's liberality in making the house and garden as comfortable as possible, it would be very bad if I could not do my share in keeping it so, even if I am not to remain as possessor; but I by no means anticipate a change with the certainty which you seem to do."

"I have no doubt in the least that the moment Carsdeane is vacant, my brother will offer you the living, and as the rector is very old and infirm it seems hardly possible that it can be long first."

Mr. Howard was silent for a few minutes, and when he spoke, it was on another subject; but not with the gaiety with which he had before conversed; in fact, he was secretly meditating on the extreme desirableness of quitting his present vicarage, if ever Lady Osborne came to reside again in the neighbourhood. Nothing could be much more unpleasant than a meeting between them, and he longed to learn from her daughter whether there was any chance of such a catastrophe; but as yet he had not found courage to enquire, fearing her penetration might have led her to guess the past events, or her mother's indiscretion might have made her acquainted with them.

"Mr. Howard," said Lady Gordon soon afterwards, "you are under an engagement to Miss Watson, to give her another lecture on the paintings in the Castle gallery."

"I remember hoping for that pleasure," said he; "but I could hardly have flattered myself that Miss Watson would remember it for such a length of time."

"Indeed I do though," replied Emma; "I have a very good memory for promises which are likely to afford me pleasure, and if I did not fear encroaching too much on your time and patience, should certainly claim that one."

"And I assure you I have no wish to shrink from my promise; but any time you will name I will be at your service," said he with a look of lively pleasure, "excepting to-morrow, when I am particularly engaged."

"There is no desperate hurry, I dare say," interposed Sir William; "you can postpone your engagement without material inconvenience, I should think, for a day or two, after waiting nearly six months."

"Oh yes, Miss Watson is come to pay us a long visit," added Lady Gordon; "so you may easily settle on the day and hour at some future meeting."

"And are you really going out for the whole day to-morrow?" enquired Lady Gordon.

"Then we will come down and rifle his strawberry-beds—shall we not Miss Watson?" continued she.

"I protest that will be most unfair," exclaimed he; "since I give you willingly all I have, and only request, in return, the pleasure of your society."

"That is so pretty a speech I can do no less than say in reply, that we shall be most happy whenever Mr. Howard will indulge us with the honour of his company: come whenever you can—the day after to-morrow Mr. and Mrs. Musgrove dine with us, will you meet them?"

He accepted with pleasure, though perhaps he would have preferred their absence to their company.

After loitering away a couple of hours on his lawn, Lady Gordon rose to take her leave, and even then she pressed him so earnestly to accompany them up the hill, to assist Miss Watson, who she was certain was fatigued by her long walk, that he could not have refused had it been an unpleasant task she was imposing on him, instead of the thing which he liked best in the world, and was really wishing to do.

The encouragement which he received from Lady Osborne herself was so obvious, that had his suit depended only on her, he would have felt neither fear nor hesitation as to the result; but as the wishes and tastes of another person were to be consulted, and there seemed far more doubt as to the direction which those took, he still debated whether or not he should venture to put his influence to the proof, and rest all his hopes on a single effort.

He accompanied them home, but Emma denied that she was tired, and would not accept the assistance of his arm, because she misinterpreted the hesitation with which it was offered, fancying it was done unwillingly, and solely in compliance with her friend's directions. This discouraged him; he did not recover from the disappointment, and in consequence would not enter the Castle, but persisted in returning to spend a solitary evening at the vicarage. There Emma's smile and Emma's voice perpetually recurred to his fancy, and he occupied himself, whilst finishing the work which they had interrupted, in recalling every word which she had said, and the exact look which had accompanied each speech.

The next morning at breakfast, one letter amongst many which Lady Gordon received, appeared to excite considerable surprise, and some other sensation nearly allied to discontent. She read it over, and then threw it down before her husband, with an exclamation:

"Why, what is it that clouds your brow so, Rosa?" replied he, looking at the letter without touching it, or interrupting himself in the process of dissecting a cold fowl.

"Just look at that letter;" said she, "have you no curiosity?" she added, seeing he did not take it up.

"Oh yes, a great deal of curiosity—but no time to spare, and I know that if I wait a little, you will tell me all without the trouble of looking at it."

"Provoking man," said Lady Gordon, "I declare I will not tell you a word, as a punishment for such incorrigible laziness and impertinence."

"I see by the address it is from your brother, my love," replied the husband, glancing again at the letter, "what does he say to provoke you, and put you so out of temper?"

"Miss Watson, suppose you were to take it, and oblige me by reading it out; you have done your breakfast, and I am still busy with mine."

"No, indeed, I quite agree with Lady Gordon in thinking it very indolent not to read it for yourself, and shall certainly not countenance it at all."

"I see you are in a conspiracy against me, and that is very unfair when there are two ladies to one man," replied he laughing.

"I am just going to make you even as to numbers at least," returned Emma, "for I am about to leave the room."

She did so, and Sir William immediately taking up the letter, read it through quietly and returned it to his wife.

"First, that it is rather extraordinary your brother's proposal of a visit should cause you such annoyance; and secondly, that you should think it necessary to make this visit a secret."

"You are always more struck with my feelings than anything else: I believe if the Castle were to tumble on us, you would be only occupied in observing how I bore it."

"That is only because you are the most interesting object in the world to me: surely you would not quarrel with me for that, Rosa?"

She looked evidently gratified, yet still pretended to pout a little, then enquired:

"Because I always feel myself de trop when I form the third, where the other two have letters for mutual inspection: if you wish me to read your letters, and do not choose to make Miss Watson acquainted with their contents, pray wait another time till she is out of the room. You see you have driven her away now."

"I certainly wished to talk to you about this, I am so annoyed at Osborne's coming now!"

"Because I believe it to be only for the sake of Emma Watson, that he has so suddenly resolved to come down here."

"Then what am I to understand is the cause of your discontent, Rosa?" enquired her husband, looking rather surprised.

"I do not wish him to care for Emma in that sort of way at all. She is a very nice girl, and I should like to have her for a friend always, but I do not desire her for a sister; she is not Osborne's equal, and I should regret the connection."

"So should I, I confess, not for your brother's sake, but hers. He could hardly do a better thing for himself; she is his superior in everything but worldly position, and were there the least chance of his persuading her to accept him, I should think him a very lucky fellow. But I do not think there is; and therefore you need not be alarmed for him, nor I for her."

"And why should you be concerned for her at such a prospect—it would be a very good marriage for her," said Lady Gordon.

"I do not think unequal connexions desirable at all—and were she your brother's wife, she would be too far removed from the man who is to be her eldest sister's husband. If I understand rightly, the other is to marry a wealthy brewer at Croydon—a very good match for her, but not a desirable connection for Osborne; Emma would either grow ashamed of her own family and their station, or she would be pained by being obliged to neglect them in some degree. But she will never accept Osborne!"

"I cannot wish the temptation thrown in her way—I should be by no means sure of the result," said Lady Gordon.

"You cannot prevent it however," replied Sir William, "if Osborne has any such thoughts in his head—he is his own master, and cannot be kept away from her. The mischief is of your own doing too—for you had her here in the winter—and, if I recollect rightly, encouraged the acquaintance."

"That was entirely for Mr. Howard's sake," said she, "It never occurred to me that Osborne would notice her."

"I cannot see why you should have intermeddled between them at all," was his reply. "Mr. Howard would have gone on very well alone."

Lady Gordon did not choose to mention her principal motive, so she only replied—

"Well, it is too late for such reflections now to be of any use, so tell me what I had better do, and I will try and obey you."

"Do nothing at all then, love; depend upon it, any opposition will only make your brother more decidedly bent on his own way, which you have no means of preventing him from following. Let him come, and trust to the evident partiality of your friend, Howard, as the safeguard of your brother."

Lady Gordon had speedily the opportunity of exercising the forbearance which her husband advised; as, punctual to his promise, her brother arrived that afternoon. The two young ladies were sitting together when he walked into the room; and she bore, with as much composure as she could, the evident warmth and eagerness with which he paid his compliments to Emma. He seated himself by her side, and after looking intently at her for a minute in the way for which he had been formerly remarkable, exclaimed with great energy:

"Upon my honour, Miss Watson, for all it's so very long since we met, you are looking uncommonly well and blooming!"

Emma felt excessively tempted to ask him whether he had expected she would have pined at his absence, or grown old in the last six months. She did not, however, because she thought he would not understand her, as he had never appeared at all ready to comprehend a jest.

"Croydon must have agreed famously with you," he continued, "I was there once, and had a great inclination to ride over and pay you a visit at Burton; but not knowing the people you were with I felt awkward, and did not like to do it; it is such a horrid thing going entirely amongst strangers."

"I am much honoured by your lordship thinking of me at all; but I should say you were quite right in not coming there; we should have been overpowered by the sudden apparition of a man of your rank."

"Not that I am aware of, my lord; I never wished to be conspicuous, and I trust, I did not do any thing whilst there, to excite observation amongst my acquaintance."

"You must have done one thing, which you could not help, at any time," replied he, in a very low voice, as if ashamed of himself. "You must have looked pretty; they must all have noticed that."

Emma met Lady Gordon's eyes fixed on her at this moment with an expression which it was impossible to misunderstand; it spoke so plainly of anxiety and mistrust. It did no good, however, for it only made her uncomfortable, and was totally unnoticed by him. He never was an adept at understanding looks—and, at this moment, all his senses were engrossed by his attention to Emma.

Not knowing precisely what to say next, he began to admire her work, a constant resource with young men who are anxious to talk, and rather barren of subjects; but this did not endure very long, and when he could find nothing more to say on this topic, he suddenly started a brilliant idea by enquiring if the ladies did not intend to go out. Emma appealed to Lady Gordon, who declared at first, she was too lazy to stir; but her brother pressed his proposition so very warmly, alternately suggesting riding, driving, or walking, that at last she yielded the point, and consented to allow him to drive them out.

Then followed a long discussion as to the vehicle to be chosen, which terminated in favour of an Irish car—a very favorite mode of conveyance of Lady Gordon's, and one which was by no means disagreeable to him, as he would be quite able to talk to Emma as much as he felt inclined.

The drive which they proposed to take was a very pretty one—through a country partaking of the nature of a forest—and Emma was at first, highly delighted with it. But an accident, which occurred when near the conclusion of their expedition, materially diminished the pleasure of the whole party. In stepping from the seat, in order to ascend a small eminence which commanded a beautiful view, Emma placed her foot on a rolling pebble, which giving way under her, twisted her ankle so severely as to incapacitate her entirely from walking, and occasion her very considerable pain. The concern of her friends on the occasion, was proportionate to their regard for her, and quite in character with their different dispositions. Lady Gordon expressed her sorrow in words—her brother confined his chiefly to looks. They returned home immediately; and Emma was, with the assistance of Sir William, who joined them at the castle porch, conveyed into the mansion and carried up-stairs. It was very painful at first, and she told her friend she could not join their party in the evening; but Lady Gordon expressed so much regret at this, that Emma consented to make an effort, as there was no necessity for ascending or descending stairs, their usual sitting room being on the same floor with her apartments.

Accordingly she spent the evening on a couch near to which Lord Osborne stationed himself, in order to enjoy a good view of her face. It was evident that his love for her had not made him more lively, or more talkative, and to judge from his manners that evening, he had not made much progress in politeness. He allowed all the little offices of civility to be performed by Sir William, never offering to hand her a cup of coffee, nor seeing when it was empty, and requiring removal; never noticing when her reel of silk dropped on the ground, or discovering if her embroidery frame was raised at the proper angle. His total neglect of all this, together with the little conversation he ever attempted to carry on, and the general reserve of his manner, entirely prevented Emma from entertaining the idea, that he was her serious admirer. Had she really supposed it, her manners might have been different, but as it was, she felt as much at ease with him, as with his brother-in-law, and treated him with equal frankness.

She never had thought him particularly agreeable, and it did not enter her head that he would wish to make himself so, for otherwise, he would probably have behaved very differently; at least so she concluded, when she contrasted his manner with that of some others of her acquaintance.

The sprain of her ankle occasioned her great pain all the evening, as Sir William guessed from the paleness of her cheeks, and the shade round her mouth at times; but she did all she could to conceal it, and chatted with him and Lady Gordon as long as they remained together.

But she never felt more relieved than when at his suggestion, the proposal for retiring was made early, in order to relieve her, for she had borne as much as she could in silence, and really felt once or twice on the point of fainting.

Lady Gordon took the most judicious step she could, for she summoned to her assistance the old house-keeper, who being peculiarly great in doctoring sprains, and all such accidental maladies, soon produced some remedy for the pain Emma was suffering. But it was evident it would be some days before she would be able to walk at all, and she very much regretted this deprivation, during the beautiful weather they were then enjoying.

In the forenoon of the following day, as she was reclining on a couch near the open window, engaged in drawing a group of flowers for Lady Gordon's portfolio, Mr. Howard entered the room. As her hostess happened to have left the room a few minutes before, he found Emma, to his great astonishment, tête-à-tête with Lord Osborne. He had no idea that the young nobleman was then in the country, and not the least expectation of meeting at that moment with one whom he could not avoid considering as a dangerous rival. His quick eye did not fail to perceive too, that some of the flowers in the vase before Emma were of precisely the same kind as the sprig in Lord Osborne's coat, and he came to the not unnatural conclusion, that they had been given to him by herself. He felt quite disconcerted at the circumstance, and he always had an uncomfortable sense of self-reproach, when he remembered that he had left his lordship in ignorance of his own wishes, at the time that he received his confidence. He now hesitated whether to enter the room or not, but Lord Osborne advanced to meet him with considerable pleasure, and effectually prevented his withdrawal. He was compelled to shake hands, when at the moment he felt so very unamiably disposed towards his former pupil, that he was far more inclined to turn his back upon him.

"Very glad indeed to see you, Mr. Howard," said the other, "I dare say you are a little surprised to see me here; but I could not help coming. You see we have got her back again, aren't you glad?" glancing at the sofa where Emma was lying.

She too held out her hand to him, and her cheeks crimsoned at seeing him again; but as she never suspected his jealousy, not supposing there was any occasion for it, she felt rather hurt at the coldness of his address, and the hurried way in which he greeted her.

Lord Osborne eyed them both, and though not in general gifted with much penetration, his love seemed, at least on this occasion, to have made him sharp-sighted, as the idea suddenly entered his mind that there was danger to his suit in the visits of his former tutor. He sat down in silence, determined to observe them closely, and not to disturb his powers of judging, he resolved to keep a profound silence.

The consequence of these various feelings was a peculiarly awkward silence, and Emma, angry with the lover she cared for, on account of his variable manners which perpetually perplexed and disappointed her, was almost determined not to open her lips to him.

"I called intending to enquire if you were disposed to fulfil the engagement we talked of the other day Miss Watson, about the picture-gallery; but perhaps I need not ask now—you probably are not disposed for the exertion."

"It is indeed quite out of my power this morning," replied Emma; "and I wish I could name a time when it would be possible to have the pleasure."

"It is only dependent on yourself—but if you have more agreeable engagements, of course it is natural you should defer this one. Whenever you wish it, will you let we know?"

"Do you suppose it to be a more agreeable engagement lying prisoner here?" replied Emma smiling; "our tastes must differ more than I had fancied they would if you do so."

"You did not use to be indolent, I know," replied he; "but no doubt it is far more like modern fashionable manners to pass the day on a sofa than in active pursuits."

"Now do not be satirical, Mr. Howard," said she in a lively tone; "I never was, and I hope I never shall be converted into a fashionable fine lady, and my lying on the sofa has nothing to do with indolence or inclination."

"Yes, indeed and indeed—I assure you it is a downright punishment to me, only alleviated by the kindness of my friends in trying to amuse me."

Mr. Howard glanced at Lord Osborne, as if he attributed the friendship and the amusement alike to him.

"No, you are wrong there—I dare say his lordship is afraid I should be spoilt if I had too much indulgence, so he contents himself with disarranging my flowers and contradicting my opinions: I really must trouble you, my lord, for the bud you stole," she added turning to him; "I cannot do without it."

"And I cannot possibly let you have it," replied he abruptly; "it's gone, I shall not tell you where."

"Now is not that too provoking!" cried Emma; "with all his conservatories and gardens at command, to envy me my single sprig which Sir William took so much trouble in procuring me. I had a particular value for it on his account, and having sketched it into this group: I must have it, or the whole will be spoilt."

"No indeed—it is for your sister. Mr. Howard, will you not take my part? I am exposed, without the power of resisting, to his depredations; he knows I cannot move from this sofa."

"But do tell me what is the matter?" enquired Mr. Howard seriously; "have you really met with an accident?"

"I am exceedingly grieved to hear it," he said with looks of real concern. "I had been thinking only of want of inclination, not want of power, when you declined moving."

"You see in that instance then you misunderstood me, perhaps you do so in others likewise," she replied; an equivocal speech which threw Howard into a fit of abstraction for several minutes whilst pondering on her meaning. Recovering himself he began to enquire the particulars of the accident, which she detailed to him, ending her account with desiring him to deduce some moral from the history.

"Perhaps you would not like the moral I should draw," he replied with a smile; "it might not be flattering or agreeable."

"I dare say, it would not be flattering, Mr. Howard; I should not expect it from you—suppose we all make a moral to the tale, and see if we can think alike. Come, my lord, let us have yours."

"Give me time to think then," said he—for, in spite of his resolution in favor of silence, he could not help yielding to her smiles.

"Five minutes by the watch on the chimney-piece, and in good time—here come Sir William and Lady Gordon to give their opinion of our sentiments."

"I am quite ready to give mine at once," returned Sir William, who heard only the last speech, as he entered through the window from the terrace:

"I have no doubt that yours, Miss Watson, are very severe—Osborne's romantic—and Howard's common place. Will that do?"

"Not at all—you shall be no judge in the matter, since you make up your mind before you hear the cause," cried Emma, "Lady Gordon shall be umpire, and if you like to produce a moral, do so."

"What is it all about?" enquired Lady Gordon, "I must understand before I decide."

"Not the least necessary, my dear Rosa," said her husband, "and quite out of character; women always decide first—and understanding, if it comes at all, is quite a secondary consideration with them."

"A pretty speech to make," exclaimed Emma, "when he himself just now answered without understanding at all."

"I knew you would be severe," replied Sir William to Emma, "but I was, I assure you, only trying to bring down my conduct to the level of my companions."

"Shall we not turn him out of the room?" cried his wife, "he is intolerable to-day!"

"Oh no! take no notice of him," said Emma, with spirit, "I do not mind a word he says!"

"You—all of you talk so much," exclaimed Lord Osborne, "that it is impossible for me to settle my thoughts—but I think I have made my moral now—shall I say it?"

"Well, I think ladies should take great care not to make false steps—because, if they do, they will not be able to stand by themselves afterwards."

"Mine is, that Miss Watson should, in future, avoid any great haste in climbing to eminent situations, lest she be the loser in the attempt."

Emma colored slightly at the earnest glance which accompanied the low, emphatic tone of his speech, but laughed it off by observing:

"Well, the moral I draw is, when I am in a comfortable position again, to take care and not lose it in searching for some imaginary advantage—the moral of 'The substance and the shadow.'"

"And mine," exclaimed Sir William, "you must hear mine—it is, that a young lady's strength of limb is probably less than her strength of will; and I have always observed it to be easier for her to twist her ankle, than to give up her own way."

"And mine," exclaimed Lady Gordon, "My dear Miss Watson, my moral is, that you should never invite men to comment on your conduct, for they are sure to draw false conclusions and make ill-natured remarks."

"It is the more hard, as your brother was the origin of my misfortune," observed Emma, "but for his persuasion, I should have sat still."

"Just like the precious sex, my dear friend," replied Lady Gordon, "lead you into a scrape, and then be the first to blame you for being there."

"All married women talk in that way," observed Sir William, "they make a point of abusing men on all occasions; I never could quite make out the reason."

"I sometimes think it is to prevent other women marrying," continued he, "lest their offices, as chaperones, should be uncalled for; and sometimes, I think it is merely to contradict themselves—which all women are so fond of doing—for having paid a man the compliment of marrying him, it becomes necessary to thwart him afterwards, lest he be too proud."

"Miss Watson, have you air enough here," said Lord Osborne, coming up to her sofa; "do let me push you out on the terrace—it would be so pleasant now the sun is off."

Lady Gordon seconded the proposal, and called on Mr. Howard to assist her brother. He did so; and then, distressed to find that the young lord of the castle took his station closer than ever to her side, he tore himself away from the whole party and went to shut himself up at home till the evening.

Emma felt quite provoked at the pertinacity with which Lord Osborne kept at her elbow; she had hoped that he would have found it tedious to remain all day tranquil—but his patience was more enduring than she had given him credit for. He even seemed to improve in spirits and began talking more than before.

"Nice fellow, that Howard—is not he?" was his first observation, when the gentleman in question quitted them.

"Yes, very," replied Emma, not knowing precisely what else to say, and wondering what would come next.

"He has a prodigious deal to say for himself, which makes him a favorite," continued the animated peer, "I wish I could talk so, don't you?"

"I do not think he talked much to-day," replied Emma, "if he did, I did not hear it at least."

"Perhaps you do not care to have men such very great talkers—do you? I never heard your opinion about that."

"I really believe I have none, my lord," answered Emma, "I never made up mind as to how much a man or woman should talk to make themselves agreeable—some men I know, talk too much."

"The too much, must depend on the quality likewise—if they happen to be very silly or very dull, a few sentences are enough to tire one," added Emma, "whereas a lively, clever man, may talk for an hour without being wearisome."

"That is a comforting speech," exclaimed Sir William, "Osborne, we will take out our watches next time we begin a conversation with Miss Watson. Lively, clever men—the description just suits us—we may talk precisely sixty minutes."

Lord Osborne looked grave, as he suspected his brother-in-law was laughing at him, and Emma was silent, being unwilling to annoy him.—It had been settled that the Musgroves were to come over early in the afternoon, that they might spend some time with their sister; and in spite of his usual predilection for late hours and unpunctuality, Tom was rendered too proud and happy by the invitation to feel at all disposed to delay the honor. Soon after luncheon they arrived; Margaret adorned in all her wedding finery, delighted at such an opportunity of showing it off. Her new bonnet and pelisse were decidedly more fashionable, according to the Lady's Magazine, than anything Lady Gordon herself could produce; and she was not a little surprised, as well as half-affronted, at the simplicity of dress which her hostess had adopted.

On discovering the circumstance that Emma was confined to the sofa, she would not rest till she had heard the whole history of the accident, and then she uttered this sisterly observation:

"Good gracious! how excessively awkward and careless of you, Emma; how could you be so stupid? well I am glad it is not me, as of all things I hate a sprain—to go waddling about like an old goose—it's too absurd really."

"I don't see anything absurd in it," said Lord Osborne sturdily, "it's very unfortunate and very vexatious to us, and I dare say very painful to her, but there's nothing absurd in it."

"I did not mean absurd precisely," retracted Margaret, who would never dream of contradicting a peer of the realm, "I only meant it was very ridiculous."

Lord Osborne did not condescend to answer any more, but rose and walked whistling away.

Meantime, Tom was trying to be excessively gallant and agreeable to Lady Gordon, who, never particularly prepossessed in his favor, seemed now unusually cold and ungracious. In fact she could not quite forgive the danger she had been in of being called into court, and naturally looking on him as the cause, she felt a considerable degree of repugnance towards him.

His obsequiousness and flatteries did him no service; she would not be accessible to any compliments of his, and to the most elaborate praises, returned him the coldest answers.

"Where is your charming friend Miss Carr now?" enquired he at length, "I should rejoice to meet her again, though my position is altered since I last had that felicity. I hope she has not forgotten me!"

"I cannot possibly answer for that, but I have no idea that your change of position will at all affect her; but she will soon remember you if she does not at first."

"She was a delightful girl," observed he again, "so truly lady-like and lively; a combination one does not often meet with."

"High spirits united to good sense and abilities, form a very charming character," observed Sir William, "but unbalanced by these, they are apt to be overpowering. However, I should acquit Miss Carr of them altogether; she tried to be lively with all her might, but it was rather heavy work."

"Who is that you are talking of, Tom?" cried his wife in a sharp voice, "who is this charming woman?"

"My friend Miss Carr," said Lady Gordon, shocked at the rudeness of the gentleman's reply, "perhaps you remember seeing her with me formerly."

"Oh dear yes, I remember her very well. Tom used to admire her very much, he often talked about her beautiful complexion," was Margaret's answer, "Fanny Carr he used to speak of a great deal, he thought she admired him!"

Tom bit his lips, and looked anything but gratified at his wife's observation, who exceedingly enjoyed his vexation, and triumphed in having so amply revenged herself for his rude reply.

"It is very provoking of you to be laid up lame there," she continued presently to Emma, "I should like to see the grounds of the Castle; I am always so unfortunate on such occasions: nobody meets with so many disappointments as me."

"I shall be very happy to show you over the grounds myself," interrupted Lady Gordon, convinced that anything would be better than the altercation going on between the husband and wife, which must be equally disagreeable to Emma as herself.

Margaret accepted the proposition very joyfully, and the two ladies left the room together, as Sir William saw no necessity for accompanying them.

"I suppose you enjoy yourself famously here, Emma," observed Tom, coming close up to her sofa.

"And even when you have, your spirits are so good, you seem to enjoy yourself still," observed Lord Osborne, who had returned from the terrace when Margaret left the room.

"But it makes her of consequence, and all young ladies like that," answered her brother-in-law. "I am sure Margaret is always affecting to be ill for no other purpose, and reproaching me because I do not believe it."

"I do not think your wife at all like her sister," observed Lord Osborne, coolly.

"I wish to heaven she were in any respect," cried Tom, "but I had no such good luck. However, I suppose I must bear my yoke."

"One comfort of being married is, that I can flirt now without danger with any girl I choose, there is no risk now of being compelled to marry any more."

"Certainly, for on my honour, they need some compensation; I recommend you to marry, my lord, as indeed the privilege is a great comfort!"

"When I marry I shall leave off flirting," said Lord Osborne, decidedly, "out of compliment to my wife."

"Tantamount to an assertion you will never marry, Osborne," said Sir William, "for I never knew you flirt yet."

"You are welcome to go and see it if you please, so long as you don't drag me there; I am not inclined for an excursion to the stables at present."

"I think he does," retorted Lord Osborne, "but one is not obliged to like one's brother-in-law, I suppose."

"I hope you mean nothing personal or disrespectful by that observation," exclaimed Sir William.

"No, on my honour, I forgot about you, Gordon," said he, "but I should think it quite enough if the husband likes his wife without its being at all necessary that the mother and sisters, and brother-in-law, should all like her too."

"Not necessary, certainly, but altogether desirable, and certainly conducive to domestic felicity."

"If my sister does not like my wife she must keep at a distance from her," said Lord Osborne, positively, "and then her feelings will be of no consequence—Don't you agree with me, Miss Watson?"

"Not exactly, my lord; I should not in practice, certainly—I do not think I would marry into a family where I was altogether unwelcome!"

"I am sorry for it," said Lord Osborne, very softly, and then looking remarkably conscious and awkward, he walked away.

"His theories sound more unprincipled than his practice would be, I suspect," observed Sir William, looking after him, and glancing at Emma, "I doubt whether he would really bear a quarrel with his sister with such indifference."

"I dare say not," said Emma, without at all suspecting she had any share in his feelings, or interest in his proceedings. "Young men often assert far more than they would like to realise, and I do not think worse of him than of many of his neighbours. I dare say he likes his own way—"

"He is very determined in following out his own opinions, I assure you," he replied, "but what I meant was, that though from impulse he might act in opposition to the wishes of his family, he would certainly repent it, as every body does sooner or later."

"Very likely, so for his sake I hope he will not try!" replied Emma, very unconcernedly.

"Shall I go on reading to you, Miss Watson," enquired Sir William, "or is there anything you want."

Emma replied that she should prefer reading to herself, and Sir William, having supplied her with the volumes she desired, left her in solitude.

Thus she remained until she was interrupted by the entrance of Mr. Howard, who looked something between pleased and frightened at finding her alone. She told him where the others were gone, so far as she knew herself, but he seemed perfectly satisfied to take her assertions on trust, evincing no desire at all to follow them. He said it was very warm out of doors, that her room was exceedingly comfortable, and that he hoped she would make no objection to his remaining in her company.

She, as may easily be supposed, had no wish to oppose him, and a long and amicable conversation followed relative to the books she had been reading. They agreed in admiring the authors in question, and then in praising Sir William Gordon, who had recommended them. Mr. Howard declared him to be, in his opinion, a very superior young man, calculated to raise the character and improve the mind of his wife; he had the power, and the will, to guide her right, and it was probable that their domestic happiness would continue and increase.

Emma earnestly hoped it would; there was a great deal to love and value in Lady Gordon, and hers was a character which would certainly, with judicious management, be greatly improved.

"I like her," said Mr. Howard, "for her freedom from pride of birth; and considering what lessons she received from her mother that shows very great independence of character."

"Her friendship for me is one proof of that," observed Emma, "she has been invariably kind to me, and I have no claim to equality with her."

"Not in rank or fortune," replied he, "but allow me to say, in habits, tastes, and education, you are completely her equal, and she feels it so; her admiration and regard for you are so perfectly natural, that I can allow her no credit for that part of her conduct."

"I think I shall give you no credit, Mr. Howard, if you indulge in such a very complimentary strain," replied Emma smiling; "though I suppose you think something due to me to make up for your severe reflections on my ambitious projects."

"Yes; no later than this morning you warned me not to climb too high, lest I should fall irretrievably; you see I remember your lessons, though you may affect a short memory on the occasion."

"I wish I could consider it as a proof that you are not offended at my boldness," said he drawing his chair closer to her; "I really wished afterwards to apologise for my words, I feared you would think me so impertinent. You were not angry?"

"Not the least in the world—why should I be?" was her answer, gaily smiling. "Indeed I did not believe you were serious; you may laugh at my vanity, but I did not feel guilty of ambition."

"And if you were, I had no right, no title, no claim to correct you," said he looking very earnestly at her.

"The right of a friend and well-wisher, Mr. Howard," replied she looking down with a heightened colour—she never could meet his eyes when they had that peculiar expression in them. "I trust I may consider you in that light at least."

"You have not a sincerer well-wisher in the world," he replied with emphasis, and then stopped abruptly.

"You did not tell me where your sister is, Mr. Howard—or else I have forgotten: where is it?"

"I think you are always going somewhere; ever since I knew you, you have been perpetually offering to go away. Do you ever put it in practice."

"Sometimes—you will find I shall in this instance. I must go to fetch Clara, the only question is when?"

"A little on both, if you mean by caprice the power of absenting myself from the duties of my station," replied he.

"I wish I had met Mrs. Willis," said Emma; "pray make haste and fetch her, for if I leave the country without our meeting now, it is impossible to say when, if ever, I shall see her again."

"Are you going quite away then?" enquired he with concern. "I thought your home was at Croydon."

"It is impossible to say where my home may be—not Croydon certainly—perhaps I may never have another. I must in future be content to dwell amongst strangers, and dare not talk of home. I am wishing for a situation as governess."

A slight shade of melancholy replaced the usually gay expression of her countenance as she said this, but she did not raise her eyes to read the many conflicting feelings which were depicted in his countenance as he listened to her low and feeble voice. He could not command words to express his sentiments, or indeed feel at all sure us to what he ought to express at the moment; and she added, after a short pause,

"I have one prospect of a home, though an uncertain one at present; my brother—I mean my youngest brother—urges me to go and live with him the moment he can obtain a living for us both in his profession. But it must be quite uncertain when that will be."

He was still silent, hesitating whether or not he should at that moment offer her one other home more settled and more permanent. He hesitated, and the opportunity was lost. Footsteps were heard approaching; the high, shrill voice of Margaret sounded in the conservatory. In a low and hurried tone he spoke, clasping her hand in his;

There was no time for more, but with a gentle pressure which made the blood thrill from her hands up to her heart, he rose and quitted her abruptly, escaping just quickly enough through one window to avoid being seen, as Lady Gordon and Mrs. Musgrove entered at another.

Emma remained in a state of feeling which she would have found it exceedingly difficult to describe, such was the confusion in her mind at the moment. Her most prominent idea was, however, disappointment that he had said so little. She really believed he loved her—at least that he intended her to suppose it; but why not speak more plainly, or why speak at all? It would be so very hard to meet him after what had passed, in the same way as formerly; and yet, how could she avoid it? There seemed no possibility, however, of his doing anything but explaining himself the very first opportunity—surely he could not hesitate longer, and all would then be right.

But with these contradictory notions in her mind, and the agitation to which they gave rise evident in her face, it was impossible for her manners to be sufficiently composed, not to attract her friend's notice. Lady Gordon thought she was in pain, and accused her of having been attempting to move; which she attributed to the fact of Sir William having gone out and left her alone; Emma defended both Sir William and herself as well as she could, forcing herself to speak cheerfully, and denying all accession of pain or efforts at improper exertion.

Margaret, throwing herself on an easy chair, declared that she was perfectly exhausted by the heat and the fatigue of their walk, and she quite wondered how Lady Gordon could bear so much exertion.

"But I really believe that I am more delicate and sooner tired than any woman in the world. I have never been accustomed to hard work."

Lady Gordon did not trouble herself to assert that neither had she, but quietly observed that she was sorry Mrs. Musgrove had tired herself.

"I hope he is pleasanter than mine, then," observed Margaret, "or else it must be a prodigious bore."

"I dare say, they are not alike," said Lady Gordon, who was existing in a state of incessant surprise at the conversation of Margaret.

"I do so wish my brothers had no profession—it would be so nice if they had nothing to do—like gentlemen—Tom's being a complete gentleman is very lucky, I should not have liked to have been a doctor's wife or an attorney's. Should you, Lady Gordon?"

"Really, it was an event which I never took into contemplation," replied she, "I know so few doctors, or attorneys either, that I cannot pretend to judge."

"I wish somebody would marry Emma," continued her amiable sister. "I am quite afraid she is doomed to be an old maid—one of a family must be they say; and as Pen is married, and Elizabeth will soon be, it must be Emma's fate. I am quite sorry for her."

"I am exceedingly obliged to you for your concern, Margaret," replied Emma, laughing; "but I trust, even if such a catastrophe is to occur, I shall bear it with philosophy. So pray, do not make yourself unhappy about my future. I shall not."

"All young ladies talk in that way," observed Tom Musgrove, who entered the room unperceived, whilst his wife was speaking. "No girl ever owns wishing to be married, though we know very well that they are all longing for husbands—and most are ready to take any means to secure one!"

"I am gratified that you include us all in the same condemnation, Mr. Musgrove," said Lady Gordon, haughtily, "your very flattering opinion of us, is equally creditable to your fancy and your feeling of propriety."

"Of course, I did not mean to include you," answered Tom, gallantly, "I could not, for I never thought of you as a woman, but as an angel."

Lady Gordon did not condescend to answer—she was not to be propitiated by his flattery, and was more likely to be affronted at his presuming to offer it at all.

Mr. Howard having, by this time, recovered sufficient composure to return to the company, re-appeared from the conservatory, where he had been calming his feelings amidst roses and heliotropes, and soon afterwards the other two gentlemen joined the party. Mr. Howard, himself, did not venture near Emma; but, after paying his compliments to Mrs. Musgrove, retreated to a window and seemed to be occupied with a newspaper. Though the two ladies subsequently retired to their toilet preparatory to dinner, there was no further tête-à-tête between him and Emma, as the other gentlemen continued in the room till dinner time.

Emma, of course, could not join in that meal; and did not, therefore, hear the comments which Mr. Howard's absence of mind drew on him. Mrs. Musgrove laughed outright—even Lady Gordon smiled, and Tom Musgrove openly accused him of being decidedly in love. Sir William came to his rescue, and parried the attacks of Tom for a time; but after the ladies withdrew, Tom commenced again, and tormented him unmercifully on the subject—declaring that he had long seen his attachment to Emma Watson—and without scruple, held out himself as an example of the risk of indulging in little harmless flirtations, by which one was unknowingly drawn into the meshes of hopeless matrimony.

Mr. Howard was quite affronted; and answered indignantly, that whatever his feelings towards Miss Emma Watson might be, he thought of her with far too much respect, to allow her name to be used slightingly by any one, and that he should, least of all, expect from her brother-in-law insinuations so derogatory to her character.

Sir William again interfered, and requested the subject to be dropped; he could not allow unfriendly feelings between his guests—and he had no doubt but that Mr. Musgrove had been misunderstood, if he could be supposed to speak unhandsomely of so amiable a young woman as Miss Watson, and one, who was, at the very time, Lady Gordon's visitor.

"I defy any one to prove a word derogatory to Emma Watson," cried Lord Osborne, his eyes flashing with most unusual animation; "In my house, and as my sister's guest, her name must and shall be treated with respect."

"Upon my honor I did not mean any reflection upon her," exclaimed Tom, quite taken by surprise by the spirit he had raised, "it is the last thing I dreamt of to offend you, my lord."

And so it did for the present, but what passed had made a deep impression on Lord Osborne, whose fears of Mr. Howard as a rival were all confirmed by this discussion. He could not rest without some explanation on this subject, and accordingly drew him into the garden after dinner, and there whilst pacing up and down the terrace, told him he had something very particular to say to him.

Howard's heart told him what was coming, and he resolved to summon his courage and speak openly on this occasion.

"You know, Howard," said the young peer in a tone between remonstrance and complaint, "I never made any secret to you of my wishes and hopes with regard to Emma Watson—you have long known that nothing but circumstances prevented my addressing her and asking her hand."

"Well then, I must say I look upon it as neither kind nor honorable of you to cut me out, or at least try to do so, for until she convinces me, I will not believe you have quite succeeded. But you should not have used me so, when I had been quite open with you."

His companion was embarrassed; for the total absence of self-confidence, which formed a prominent part of his character, made it very hard for him to publish his love whilst his prospects were uncertain.

"Tell me," continued Lord Osborne with some warmth, "do you not yourself love Emma Watson? Have you not sought to supplant me?"

"I will not deny that I do love her,—but I trust the acknowledgement will be safe with you—I own I love her—have loved her long—did love her well when you told me your own views, my Lord, and in fact have loved her ever since our first meeting in the assembly rooms."

"And why was I not told of this when I mentioned my plans to you—why allow me to form false hopes, whilst you were undermining the ground on which I stood?"

"You are unjust to me, my Lord, you speak as if I had tried to injure you, or prejudice her against you. Had I not a right to love her—have I not a right to win her if I can? Though I am but a poor parson and you are a peer, surely she is the only one to decide whether my addresses may not be acceptable to her. I have never attempted to thwart your success, nor have I ever made Emma a declaration of my own attachment. But I have as good a right to do so as yourself."

"I did not mean to call your rights in question at all, Mr. Howard; what I quarrel with is, your want of openness in not letting me know that I had a rival in you. Had you done so, I should have had no cause to complain."

"I own I was sorry afterwards that I did not speak openly, my lord, on that occasion, but my uncertainty as to her feelings prevented me!"

"By no means; you have forced a confession from me, which under other circumstances I would not have made; but I am very far indeed from confidence on the subject. She has never heard me declare my feelings."

"I am glad of it—well then I really think, Howard, the best thing you can do is to take yourself off for a few days, and leave the field clear for me. Now do, there's a good fellow, and I shall be eternally obliged to you."

"Not so very much, because, you see, if I am accepted it proves that you would be refused, and just saves you the trouble altogether; and if I am refused I will let you know, and you can come in directly and follow up your chase. Do you agree to it?"

"I must have a little time to think of that proposal, my lord," replied Howard, hesitating and unwilling to assent.

"Till to-morrow morning, I cannot give you longer, let me know what you settle on to-morrow, and I shall arrange my plans. Do you know my mother talks of coming down here?"

"Very soon; I think the good old soul has taken it into that precious head of hers to suspect what I am about, and in her horror of a misalliance, she is coming down in hopes of stopping me altogether. By Jove it would be a good joke to get it all settled before her appearance."

"Do you think Emma Watson will consent to be your wife, if she supposes, her ladyship, your mother, objects?"

"That's the worst of it—I am afraid she may have some scruples, but I mean to try my luck at all events. There's another thing too, to be considered, Fanny Carr is coming here—that eternal talker, Fanny Carr, and it would save me an immense deal of trouble with her if I could give myself out as an engaged man. She would not talk half so much."

"You really think that would make a difference," said Mr. Howard, trying to smile, but not very successfully.

"I have no doubt of it at all, and the blessing of being freed in some degree from the trouble of answering her is more than I could tell. That girl would talk the hind leg off a horse in no time."

Howard deliberated. He felt perfectly convinced that Emma never would marry from ambition or mercenary motives, but he was not quite sure what degree of influence the young peer might have over her heart. The idea of meeting Lady Osborne again was excessively disagreeable, and as he was really under the necessity of going to fetch his sister home, he thought perhaps he might as well go at once, and allow Lord Osborne a fair field. Then if the event were consonant to his own wishes he might return with a safe conscience. But the question arose, what would Emma herself think of it; in what light would she consider his quitting her thus suddenly, after the betrayal of feeling which he that very afternoon had made? Would she not think him the most capricious, the most changeable of mortals—might she not be justly affronted with him, indignant at his vacillation—might she not suspect him of trifling with her feelings—might she not think herself extremely ill-used—could he bear to forfeit the esteem which she had sometimes shown for him. No, Lord Osborne asked too much, he thought only of himself, and expected to rule Howard now, in an affair of consequence like this, in the same way as he had formerly done, when the question solely regarded what part of the river they should fish, or which copse they should go through with their guns. It was impossible, he could not, and he ought not to yield, and he determined that he would not. These thoughts occupying his mind, he was exceedingly silent during the whole evening, hardly venturing to trust his voice beyond a monosyllable, and never raising his eyes except by stealth to that part of the room where Emma sat.

The evening passed very much as might be expected amongst such a party—Margaret talked a great deal, and her husband took every opportunity of contradicting her assertions, and turning her opinions into ridicule. Lady Gordon gave up all attempts at keeping the peace as perfectly hopeless, and Sir William sat by Emma and entertained her with his conversation, whilst his brother-in-law was quite as silent as his rival. At length, to the great relief of the whole party, the Musgroves' carriage was announced, and they took their leave, and Emma, ashamed, agitated, fatigued, and worried, left the party immediately afterwards, for the silence and peace of her own apartments.

She was ashamed and mortified that the Gordons should have seen the want of concord, and the absence of courtesy between her sister and her husband—it was much worse than she had expected. Tom seemed to think no civility even was due, and Margaret set no bounds to her peevishness; but all this anxiety was merged in her considerations as to Mr. Howard's conduct and feelings. She could not comprehend him, and she understood herself only too well.

His last words to her might in themselves mean nothing, but there was a tone and a look which accompanied them which gave them a deep, and, to her, most important meaning. Her hand still seemed to feel the thrilling pressure of his fingers, and she could hardly believe that after this he could longer leave her in doubt as to his wishes.

Whether it was the agitation of mind which these reflections occasioned, or solely owing to the pain which for two days she had been suffering, she could hardly tell, but the next morning she found herself so feverish and unwell as to be quite unable to leave her room. She felt this the more because she thus, as she fancied, lost the interview with Mr. Howard which she had been promising herself, and until she found all chance of it gone, she had not known how very much she was depending on it.

In the meantime a scene which she little dreamt of was enacted at the vicarage. Early in the morning, Lord Osborne, impatient for the decision which he fully expected would be in his favour, hurried to secure an interview with Mr. Howard. Great was his surprise when he met with a firm refusal from this gentleman to accede to his proposal. He would not absent himself from Emma at this time; he would not forego the chances of success in his suit; no voluntary act on his part should cause her to doubt his sincerity, or suppose him indifferent to her. Lord Osborne was thwarted in a way which he little expected, and he had so seldom met with opposition before, that he knew not how to brook it on this occasion. He was quite silent, but with gloomy look, and long strides, he paced up and down the little drawing-room, uncertain what to do or say next, or how to express his indignation.

Circumstances, however, befriended him in an unexpected way; whilst he was giving way to his irritation by heavy steps and bent brows, and his host was heartily wishing the unpleasant interview terminated, the post arrived, and a letter was brought to Mr. Howard which speedily engrossed all his attention. It was from his sister, and written in great distress—her little boy was dangerously ill, and she urged her brother to come to her, as from a variety of circumstances she stood in need of his protection and advice. She was in lodgings, and the mistress of the house, a hard-hearted and parsimonious woman, took advantage of the difficulties in which she was placed, and not only imposed on her in every possible way, but refused her the assistance of which she stood in need in the present extremity.

Deeply grieved at this detail of the sufferings undergone by the sister on whom he doted, he felt not a moment's hesitation as to his determination. To fly to comfort and defend her must be his first wish, and let the consequences be what they might, all must give way before such an appeal.

"Providence, my lord, has decided against me, and your request must now be acceded to as an imperative duty on my part. My sister requires my presence, and if I can arrange my affairs to-day I shall leave by the night mail for Wales."

Lord Osborne's irrepressible pleasure was a certain proof how deeply he had taken this affair to heart, and how little he cared for the feelings of others, except as they thwarted or fell in with his own. He greatly commended Howard for determining to go immediately, and would have been quite as ready to commend Mrs. Willis for wanting him. He was zealous in obviating any possible difficulty about the performance of the Sunday duty, and only demurred to the absolute necessity which Howard alleged of going up to the Castle to see and take leave of the ladies.

But here his arguments were met with entire unconcern; Mr. Howard was determined himself to explain the reason of his conduct, and not trust that office to another. Perhaps he flattered himself that his friend Lady Gordon would considerately allow him an interview with Emma untroubled by witnesses, when he might have an opportunity of setting his own wishes in a clearer light than he had hitherto had courage to do. But if he nourished such ideas, they were of course doomed to an entire disappointment, for on arriving at the well known sitting-room, he learnt, with infinite concern, that Emma was completely invalided.

"Quite unwell, and unfit for any exertion," Lady Gordon pronounced her to be, and with so much fever about her that if the evening did not find her better, medical advice must certainly be sent for. Sorrowfully, therefore, he was compelled to take his leave, only cheered by the assurance that Lady Gordon sympathised much in his anxieties, and that Emma would certainly do the same whenever she could be allowed to learn them.

The certainty that she would learn the real reason that hurried him away was his greatest consolation, and in that case she must forgive, and would probably pity him. He went—and Lord Osborne, relieved from the immediate dread of such a rival, instantaneously resolved to defer his own declaration until some indefinite and distant period, there being not the least occasion to hurry, since any day previous to Howard's return would be early enough for him.

Emma's indisposition lasted several days, and was probably rather increased than otherwise by the information which her attendant gave her, that Mr. Howard was gone to Wales, for no one knew how long. She had no one to whom she could communicate her feelings, and the disappointment was all the more deeply felt from being dwelt on in secret. Lady Gordon possibly guessed her sensations, but was too considerate to show it if she did, except perhaps by an increased kindness of manner. She saw no one else of course except the apothecary, who was by no means an entertaining man, and would bear no comparison with her former acquaintance, Mr. Morgan. It was quite true what Lord Osborne had mentioned, that his mother had talked of coming down to the Castle; she, however, changed her mind and remained at Richmond instead; but Miss Carr arrived on a visit, during the time of Emma's retirement in her own room, and she once more commenced a series of attacks upon the young peer's affections, which though extremely detrimental to his peace of mind, did not at all produce the effect which she intended. Miss Carr began strongly to suspect that some unseen obstacle must neutralize her efforts, and form a bar to her progress. She could not believe he would be so impenetrable to her charms if there were no other affection to shield his heart. She asked questions, considered, watched, and came to the conclusion that Emma Watson, whose presence she had learnt with surprise, was the individual who cast a malignant spell around her intended victim, which enabled him to elude her best devices.

She never for a moment imagined that Emma herself could be insensible or regardless of his admiration; what was a prize of such value to Miss Carr, must be a still greater object to Miss Watson, and doubtless she was internally triumphing in her superior attraction and success. No doubt, indeed, but this sprained ankle was a part of her plan; all devised to make herself of importance, and excite his sympathy. Something must be done to counteract such deep-laid schemes, and that immediately too, or all exertion would be too late; but yet it must be cautiously entered on, or she might only hurt her own cause.

Fortunately for her plans, she was possessed of a very unexpected means of assailing Emma. She had been staying at Lady Fanny Allston's, her ladyship being her cousin, at the time when the negotiation was carried on for the situation of governess, and had learnt the exact reason why it had been so abruptly terminated. The scandal which had thrown a shade over Emma's name at Croydon, would, on reaching her ears have been passed as a thing deserving neither attention nor memory, but for the incipient jealousy which even then she felt against her rival.

This had fixed it in her memory; and now she was determined to bring it forward in such a way as to make it tell with best advantage in her own favor. She made no comment when she heard that Emma was in the house; and bore, without remark and apparent philosophy, the regrets of the whole party at her absence—only secretly resolving to watch Lord Osborne well on her re-appearance, and ascertain the state of his feelings from his looks and actions.

The return of Emma Watson to their usual party was hailed with great satisfaction by the family. She looked a shade paler than usual, but otherwise, well and animated—for she had, on her convalescence, learnt from her friend the exact reason of Mr. Howard's absence; and satisfied that it was inevitable, and no desertion of her from choice or caprice, she felt only uneasy for Mrs. Willis, not on her own account.

Sir William and his wife spoke their pleasure aloud; Lord Osborne only looked his in public, but he seated himself next her at breakfast, and was extremely attentive in supplying her plate with what he thought best.

Miss Carr being late, missed the rencounter—and by the same means, forfeited the seat at breakfast, which she had always, hitherto, appropriated to herself. This vexed her; and when, on entering the room, she saw Emma, she did not speak, but went coolly round the table and seated herself precisely opposite.

"Fanny," said Lady Gordon, "I believe you are acquainted with my friend, Miss Watson—you met her here before."

Fanny bowed haughtily, which was the only answer she would, at first, condescend to return; but after a moment's consideration, she said with something like a sneer:

"Though it is some time since we met, Miss Watson, you will be surprised to learn I have heard a great deal about you in the last three months."

Emma did look rather surprised, more, perhaps, at the tone in which this was said, than by the fact; she did not know what she had done to give rise to such a look of scorn or contempt. The next words enlightened her.

"Lady Fanny Allston is my relative—perhaps you did not know that, and I was there last April."

Emma felt a little confused at the many recollections which were connected with that name—visions of Mr. Morgan and country-town gossip—unpleasant sensations and unkind relations, flitted across her mind—but she looked up after a moment, and conscious that she had been clear of blame in that transaction, and not quite believing all Mr. Morgan had said on the subject, she replied:

"Then, there was much probability at one time, of our meeting. I suppose you know what passed between her ladyship and me?"

"Indeed I do," replied Miss Carr, fixing her large, blue eyes on her with a malicious look; "and all about a certain Mr. Morgan too—what a pleasant man he can be. I do not wonder at his misleading girls in that way. Ah! you need not blush so—upon my word, I think you were almost excusable in your situation. I dare say, I might have been tempted to do the same."

Lord Osborne's eyes were turned from his plate of broiled ham to Emma's face, with an earnest expression, which Miss Carr did not fail to notice. There was awakened jealousy, and surprise, and something of displeasure in his countenance as he looked at her—but who was the object of the displeasure, she was not quite certain; she almost thought it was herself.

"Why, my dear Fanny," said she, "I fancy you have got hold of some country-town gossip; I wonder you are not ashamed to repeat it."

"I certainly should disdain country-town gossip," repeated she, "what I was alluding to, was an event which nearly concerned Lady Fanny, and which no doubt, Miss Watson perfectly comprehends."

"I beg your pardon," said Emma, "but indeed, I do no such thing. If you allude to the fact of my employing Mr. Morgan as a means of communicating with your relative, I have no idea any one could blame me for such a proceeding, it seems so natural and straightforward."

"I was not thinking of your employing Mr. Morgan as a negotiator," replied Miss Carr with emphasis, "it was very friendly of him, no doubt, to interest himself in your concerns; single men are often friendly to young ladies."

"And so are married men too, I trust," cried Sir William, "at least I am; and, therefore, I recommend you young ladies, both of you, to postpone your unintelligible discussion on unknown topics, until such time as having no witnesses, you may be able to converse in plain English, without figure of speech, or oratorical hieroglyphics."

Emma looked gratefully at Sir William for his interference; he was always ready to stand her friend. Lord Osborne continued to look thoughtfully and uneasily at her, between the intervals of replenishing his mouth, or whilst stirring his coffee, but Emma felt not the slightest concern about his feeling jealousy or any other emotion; he was extremely welcome to fancy that she was desperately in love with Mr. Morgan or any other man in Croydon—especially, as in that case, he would probably make some relaxation in his devotion to her.

As her ankle was not yet sufficiently strong for walking, Lady Gordon proposed her taking a drive after luncheon in the pony phaeton, and until that time, prescribed perfect rest on the sofa. This Emma acquiesced in the more readily, as the post had brought her some peculiarly pleasant letters. One was from Elizabeth, detailing many interesting particulars relative to the preparations for her marriage, and some amusing anecdotes from the Croydon circle, the other was still more calculated to please and excite her. It was from Sam, and contained the agreeable information that a very good situation had presented itself. It was to Penelope that he was indebted for the offer. Since her marriage, she had been anxious to persuade her husband to give up his practice, or at least to take a partner in his business, and now she had the satisfaction of making an offer to Sam on such very advantageous terms, that he could not hesitate a moment about accepting them. He was to remove to Chichester next month, and though at first he was to live in his brother-in-law's house, if the scheme answered, he was subsequently to have a house of his own, and then he looked forward with delight to the idea that Emma could come and reside with him. The prospect of this gave her courage and strength to support all the disagreeable innuendoes which Miss Carr might throw out, and even to bear with Lord Osborne's presence and Mr. Howard's absence. Settled at Chichester, it was not likely that the former of these gentlemen would follow her for the purpose of looking at her, or that the latter, if he wished to see her again, would have any difficulty in tracing her steps. How happy she should be in her brother's little ménage, even if she were never to see anything more of those whom she had known whilst at Winston or Osborne Castle. She could fancy it all to herself, and in her joyous answer, she drew a lively picture of the pleasure she intended they should have together.

Tired of the anxieties attending an attachment which had not progressed very happily, she felt as if it would be delightful to settle for life with her brother, and forswear all other and deeper affection. If she could only make sure that he would never marry, it would be all perfect; so she wrote to him, and her letter made Sam smile with pleasure when he read it, and proved the best restorative after a toilsome day in the heat of the summer, during a particularly unhealthy season.

"William, as I am going to drive with Emma, you must really ride out with Fanny Carr," said Lady Gordon to her husband, before luncheon that morning. "She will expect something of the sort."

"She is so very cross to-day, I do not know what is the matter with her," replied the lady, "and really I cannot undertake her, or we shall certainly quarrel."

"Oh yes, because you are so good tempered, you will be certain to bear with her petulance, so do not refuse me," said the young wife with a look of entreaty, which her husband could not resist.

"Very well, I am resigned, pray let Miss Carr know the felicity that awaits her; but I hope you will ask your brother to accompany us."

"I am sure neither Fanny nor I should make any objection to that; but I do not think you will easily persuade him; he is shyer of her than ever, and seems quite to detest her."

"I do not wonder at it, any man would dislike a girl who made such a desperate attack on him; I am sure I should for one; I always liked you because you were so capricious and cross; sometimes unkind, and always careless towards me."

"You loved me purely out of contradiction I have no doubt, and to hear your account, we must both have been particularly amiable characters; but so long as you ride to-day with Fanny Carr, I shall be satisfied."

"And shall I obtain from her all the particulars about which she was indulging in such edifying hints at breakfast—shall I enquire into the particulars relative to Lady Fanny and Mr. Morgan?"

"I dare say they would not repay the trouble," replied Lady Gordon, "Fanny rather likes to say ill-natured things; I do not attach much credit to her stories in general."

"Upon my word, Rosa, considering she is your very particular friend, I think you speak very freely of her; I wonder whether you discuss my character with equal candour and openness."

"Yours—of course, why should you doubt it—but I think if there is anything to explain, Emma will probably explain it herself—she is so particularly open and straight-forward."

"She is so, indeed; one of the most amiable young women I know; don't be jealous, Rosa, but I like her very much."

Lady Gordon did not seem much troubled by jealousy, and so the affair was settled.

Miss Carr was very well pleased when she learnt what arrangement had been made, and only required to make her perfectly happy to be secure of Lord Osborne's company, as she had a most charming new riding hat, with a lovely plume, which she was certain would make her look bewitching, and place her beyond competition with Emma. Instead, however, of offering to accompany her, his lordship began quarrelling with his sister about the arrangement she had projected. Why was not Miss Watson to ride?—he was certain it would be much better for her than being cooped up in a pony phaeton, where she would have no room for her feet. In the saddle, as it was the right ankle which had been sprained, she would have so much freedom, and he was certain she would enjoy it extremely. Emma, however, protested against this arrangement; another day she would be glad to try a ride, but not this morning; she was too weak, quite unequal to such an exertion. Lord Osborne submitted, but said not a word of himself accompanying Miss Carr; who, therefore, considered it a settled thing. Accordingly, her new hat was arranged in the most becoming style—her long ringlets drawn out to float on her shoulders, and her dainty figure set off to the utmost by her tight fitting riding habit. But all in vain; Sir William was the only cavalier who appeared to wait on her, and he being a married man, was no good at all. She was very sulky, and Sir William had no other pleasure in his ride, than such as he could derive for himself from air and exercise on a beautiful day.

Emma and Lady Gordon fared much better; the fresh air, after confinement to one room, was delicious to the former; and, as her pleasure kept her nearly silent, her companion was not troubled to make herself agreeable either. They drove along, engrossed each by her own thoughts; Emma's wandering down along each sunny glade or green alley in the forest, revelling in the glorious pictures which presented themselves of ancient trees, and groups of deer, sunshine and flickering shadows, deep pools sleeping under precipitous banks tufted with fern and ivy, and crowned with feathery copse wood.

The scenery of Comus seemed exemplified, and she almost expected to see some mysterious forms gliding under the shadows of the forest trees. Lady Gordon's feelings were much more mundane, and more immediately connected with the interests of life. She was reflecting on the visibly growing attachment of her brother, and wondering what would be the result of it. At length she spoke.

"What shall I give you for your thoughts, Miss Watson? I am anxious, I own, to know the subject of them."

"I am thinking," said she, "what a lovely wood this would be to rehearse Comus in; on such an afternoon as this—would it not be effective?"

"What a good idea!" cried Lady Gordon, all animation at the proposal; "I should like it of all things! Suppose we try?"

"Yes; we should have quite enough—should we not? You shall be the lady, and Fanny, Sabrina; I, the Spirit—Sir William, Comus, and Osborne—let me see, we should want one other man. I suppose Mr. Howard would take a part?"

"Well, well; any one could do the brother's part. I think it would be exquisite. I am quite delighted with the idea."

"Never at all; but I am sure it must be delightful. I wonder whether Sir William would make any objection?"

"So much the better; difficulties to overcome give one spirits. Here we would have our theatre,"—stopping the carriage and looking round. "A marquee or something of the sort, and seats raised in a semi-circle—it would be quite delightful, such a fête champêtre. I am certain we could manage it; and the novelty of the thing would give it great éclat."

"But, Lady Gordon, if you talk in that way you will frighten me; I am certain I could not act before an audience—I never tried any thing of the sort, except in the most quiet way; amongst cousins and intimate friends, with nobody to look on, but my uncle and aunt, and one or two old people, whom we were not afraid of. We did it only for own amusement, without thinking of being looked at or producing an effect; acting for the entertainment of a circle of people, must be such a very different thing from acting for one's pleasure."

"Very different, indeed; and I should think much more agreeable; what would be the good of fine acting, if there was nobody to see it, and none on whom it could produce any effect."

"But acting in itself, is so very amusing, like dancing—one does not dance to be looked at, but for one's satisfaction; and it was the same with me in the only acting I ever attempted. I forgot every thing but my part."

"I cannot give up my plan, however;" continued Lady Gordon, "you have put it into my head, but you will not find it easy to put it out again."

Just, at this moment, a turn of the road they were pursuing, brought Lord Osborne immediately before them, leisurely sauntering along on his horse.

He quickened his pace of course, on perceiving the carriage, and was beside them immediately; with a look of pleasure which was not lost upon his sister, who was always watching his address to Emma.

"So, I have had the good luck to meet you at last," exclaimed he, "I was dreadfully afraid I should come upon the other couple, instead of you, Rosa; and Fanny Carr looked so cross because I would not ride with her. I do not think I shall face her again for a month. I wish girls would learn to govern their tempers; they cannot always expect all the men to be scampering at their heels, just when they want it."

"You used her extremely ill, I must say, in running away from her as you have done, and riding alone after all. I wonder you are not ashamed of it," said his sister reproachfully.

"I did not run away from her; I waited till she was gone, and did not make up my mind until then, whether I would ride or walk," was his reply.

His sister then began, in the warmth of her present feelings, trying to interest him in the plan they had been talking of when he joined them. He did not know what Comus was, and as to acting out in a wood, he was certain it would be much more convenient, agreeable, and altogether safer to have the play in the house. He had no objection to acting at all, if he could do it, but he did not think he could—however, he would try.

Emma was not present when Lady Gordon made known her wishes on the subject of acting to her husband; but in the dusk of the evening, as she was sitting in the conservatory, she became aware, by a conversation she had with Sir William Gordon, that the request had been made. He came to her, and placing himself on a low stool at her feet, he began by telling her, in an under tone,

"I wish you had not put that idea into Rosa's head, Miss Watson, about acting: I don't like it at all."

"I am exceedingly sorry then," replied Emma; "but no doubt Lady Gordon will readily give it up if you wish it."

"I hate to contradict her," said the husband; "ever since she has taken to doing as I wish when I ask, I cannot bear to thwart her at all."

"You seem to regret her complaisance, Sir William; would you prefer having to reproach and quarrel with her?"

"I feel much more inclined to reproach and quarrel with you, Miss Watson. I begin to think you are a dangerous companion for my wife. Who would have expected such a wild scheme from you?"

"Really I hardly know what to say to your reproaches, because perhaps you may think I am trying to throw the blame from myself; but my idea and Lady Gordon's plans were so totally different, that they hardly seem as if they had the same origin. It was quite a vague notion on my part, suggested by the beauty of the forest scenery, and certainly neither comprehending company nor marquees, publicity nor expense."

"You do not suppose, my dear Miss Watson, that I meant seriously to blame you!" said Sir William half rising at her tone. "Rosa explained to me all about it in reality. But now she has set her heart upon the thing, I do not know what to do. She will never see any difficulties in the way of her wishes, and her enthusiasm is the most difficult thing in the world to resist. If she put herself in a passion about it, I should mind opposing her a great deal less. What do you recommend, Miss Watson?"

"Don't ask me," said Emma; "I should probably advise something wild and unheard of—such as either letting her have her own way, or putting a decided negative on the whole affair at once."

"I believe I must do that. It is so very unreasonable a plan; in this country picnics and fête-champêtres for ladies and gentlemen are almost quite certain to end in rain, spoilt bonnets, wet feet, and bad colds; besides, I do not approve of her acting, or yours, or any lady's, and shall certainly not countenance it with my assistance. But Rosa did wish it so very much, I am sure I shall not have the courage to refuse her."

"You do injustice to your own strength of mind and firmness of purpose, Sir William," said Emma laughingly; "you can be as positive and decided as any one, when you please, though you take so much credit to yourself for your amiable softness."

"And you expect me to give an opinion between man and wife—one which would make you both my enemies; I am not quite so wild as that!"

"Did you see Osborne out riding to-day? I presume he went off with you, as he would not come with us."

"He overtook us," said Emma, "and rode a little way with us; what a pretty horse he rides."

"It is very gentle, you need not be afraid, I know it well; but you need not do it if you do not like. Have you been used to horse exercise?"

"A year or two ago I rode a great deal; but I have not made up my mind about accepting his offer yet, even if he makes it."

"Have you not?" said Sir William quickly; "you had better, for it will certainly come, and it will be most convenient to know your own mind on the subject."

"Then I shall take the night to think of it, and be ready by the morning; give me your advice, Sir William—which do you recommend, aye or no?"

"The affirmative, certainly; it will give me great pleasure to see you added to our party, and to enjoy so much of your society."

"How long have you been studying such extremely complimentary speeches?" laughed Emma; "but however, I cannot wait here for you to explain to me, as really it is time to return to the drawing-room."

"Let me assist you," exclaimed Sir William placing her hand under his arm; "you are hardly yet strong enough to walk quite alone, I am sure."

"I must say, Rosa," said Miss Carr, to her friend the next day, "that I think you are the most complaisant of wives—much more than I should be."

"I am glad you approve of me, Fanny. What particular good quality has excited your admiration to-day?"

"The calmness with which you look on and witness the flirtation of your husband with that pretty Emma Watson. I wonder you like it," said Miss Carr, balancing her eye-glass on her chain between her two hands as she spoke.

"You give me more credit than I deserve a great deal, Fanny; I see nothing of the sort, and, therefore, my complaisance and calmness are not tried."

"Why surely with half an eye any one may see how much they are together—you cannot deny it."

"Were you aware of the long interview they had last night in the dark in the conservatory? She was sitting in the corner, and he almost leaning on her lap."

"A great deal of it was complaints of you, he was saying he could not manage you, and she was giving him advice on the subject. Then they said a great deal more about another subject, which I shall just tell you. You are of course aware that she intends to marry your brother."

"Well, she does, I assure you, I heard them coolly canvassing the subject, he was recommending her to make up her mind as Osborne would certainly make her an offer, and he said it would be inconvenient to be in doubt when the proposal was made."

"I am sure you must have very much misunderstood, Fanny, for I cannot believe Sir William, or Miss Watson either, were discussing any such subject. Nor can I at all comprehend how you came to learn all that you detail to me—were they talking before you?"

"No, not exactly—they were in the conservatory, and so was I, but very likely they did not see me."

"I wonder you remained there then as a listener to their conversation," said Lady Gordon, with an air of cool disdain.

"How could I suppose that your husband and your friend had any secrets to discuss, I am sure such an idea never entered my head; and you take it so coolly, I really quite admire you, Rosa."

"I do not see anything to agitate myself about, Fanny, unless you could persuade me to distrust my husband, a thing which I should conclude can be no more in your wish than it is in your power."

"I would not say anything if I did not know that Emma Watson to be a dangerous flirt, one who is artful and unscrupulous, and who made herself so conspicuous at Croydon that she was obliged to leave the place."

"How can you talk in that way, Fanny, I am positively ashamed of you," exclaimed Lady Gordon, quite indignantly.

"I assure you, upon my word, I am saying nothing but the most positive truth," asseverated Miss Carr, "I dare say she never told you anything about it, but I heard it all when I was at Lady Allston's, and can tell you the whole history about it."

Whilst she was speaking Lord Osborne entered the room, and hearing her last words, exclaimed,

"Ah, pray let us have it, Miss Carr: it would be a pity to defraud a young lady of an opportunity of repeating a bit of scandal."

"I think it only fair to tell you, Rosa," continued Miss Carr, "fair to you, and equally so to your friend, if it gives her the opportunity of explaining away the evil surmises set afloat about her."

"Oh, it's about Emma Watson you are gossiping," observed Lord Osborne turning away; and taking up a newspaper, he threw himself into a chair, and concealing his face behind the folio pages, he added, "Pray go on, and do not mind me."

"Well," said Miss Carr, "you know I dare say Miss Emma was left without a farthing of her own, and quite dependent on her brother, who is a shabby attorney at Croydon: this did not suit her—the wife was cross and mean, like most attorneys' wives I suppose, and Emma is what is called very high-spirited; and as they could not agree it was settled that Emma should go as governess some where. Lady Fanny was just parting with hers, and who should be recommended to her but my old acquaintance Emma Watson; I remembered the name directly; was it not odd?"

"Yes, rather," replied Lady Gordon, "because I know you seldom remember what does not concern you. I cannot comprehend how all this history became fixed in your mind, for really it seems of so little interest to any but Emma's friends. I knew much of it before."

"It amused me so much, to think of the girl whom I remembered flirting at Osborne Castle, making her appearance in a new character. But who do you think recommended her; my cousin's doctor, Mr. Morgan!"

Here Lord Osborne's newspaper rustled very much as he changed the position of his elbows, and Fanny looked round. His face was still invisible, so she had nothing to do but continue her narrative.

"Now you must know my cousin is in delicate health, nervous and excitable, and of course, like all such ladies, takes the English substitute for a cavalier-servante, namely a doctor. Her doctor, this Mr. Morgan, is reckoned a very clever man, and so I think he must be, for all ladies he attends, old and young, are, from half in love, to the greatest extreme of the tender passion. I believe his character is not quite sans tache et sans reproche, which decidedly renders him a more interesting object; and his manners are so exceedingly devoted and tender, that really I felt inclined to fall ill, that I might be attended by him. He proposed Emma Watson as governess, recommended her highly, and carried on the negotiation very successfully, when somehow or other, my cousin took alarm about the extraordinary interest of his manner, and having discovered that Emma was reckoned handsome, began to think it would not do. However, as she is very kind and candid, she would not condemn her without some enquiry; she has some inferior acquaintance in the town—I used to wonder why she kept them up—some old young ladies, great gossips; but I have found out now the use of them: when she wants a cook, or a nurse, or a governess, or a tiresome piece of work done, or a charitable collection made in her name, she turns over all the trouble to these Miss Jenkins or some such name, (one cannot recollect their plebeian denominations,) and they are only too proud and happy to fuss about for dear Lady Fanny, who in return invites them sometimes to tea, and asks her governess to meet them. Well, these amiable and obliging virgins were quite scandalized that the dear Lady Fanny should have been so nearly led into a grievous scrape by hiring the said Emma Watson, who besides sundry other offences, had been guilty of carrying on a very discreditable acquaintance with this very Mr. Morgan. Clandestine meetings, and private conversations in dark rooms, long walks in solitary lanes, and all that sort of thing. Now he is certainly not a man to be trusted in any other capacity than a doctor—nobody has a word to say against him in that particular—but certainly not the man to be safe in a tête-à-tête with a girl he admired—at least so far as her character was concerned; and Lady Fanny, quite scandalized, settled the matter at once by an instant rupture of the negotiation. I dare say," added the narrator laughing, "she did not want a rival so near her own person."

"And that is your narrative, is it?" said Lady Gordon; "it seems to me to reflect much more discredit on your cousin than on my friend."

"Upon my word, Rosa, you are rather free in your remarks on my relatives," exclaimed Fanny very indignantly.

"I beg your pardon; I have not complained of what you have been saying of my friend and guest."

"But what is there remarkable in Lady Fanny's proceedings to strike you with wonder? I think it was quite natural; setting aside any jealousy of Emma, she was surely right not to bring into her house, as governess to her daughter, a girl who had anything like a slur on her character."

"Excuse my saying that if Lady Fanny did not object to employing the man in question as a physician, she had no right to take umbrage if another permitted him as a companion."

"But I understood there was something quite improper in the way in which she commenced and carried on the acquaintance—quite clandestine and against her sister's known opinion. In fact, the whole affair was so shocking that no one would speak to Emma at Croydon, and she was obliged to leave the town in disgrace. In short, her reputation there was completely mise en pièce."

"I am perfectly persuaded," replied Lady Gordon, "that you have been exceedingly deceived in this affair. As to believing Emma Watson guilty of anything deserving censure, I cannot until it is proved."

"You speak only on hear-say evidence, Fanny: you heard from Lady Fanny what was told her by certain professed gossips, who must either have been acting as spies themselves, or have been the collectors and bearers of the slanders of other individuals. No, there is no authority for your assertions—no testimony which would stand in a court of justice."

"You are determined neither to see nor understand, Rosa, or you could not talk in that, way," retorted Fanny quite angrily.

"We shall never agree, so we had better not discuss the subject further," replied Lady Gordon, "suppose we go to luncheon."

The riding party had again been under discussion, and it was decided that they should all five take an excursion on horse-back, Emma being to mount the quiet and gentle animal so strongly recommended by Sir William Gordon.

Just as they were starting, their party was joined by another young man, a neighbour, who was coming to pay a morning visit, and whom Lady Gordon invited to accompany them. Whether for the sake of a fresh object, or in hopes of pique by contrast, or from some other cause unknown, Miss Carr fastened on him as a victim, and wherever the width of the road required a division, they two kept side by side. This was a peculiarly agreeable arrangement to the others, as allowing of two conversations deeply interesting to some of the parties at least. Lady Gordon wanted to have a private conference with her husband, on the subject which Miss Carr had been discussing, and she took this opportunity of belonging to a party of six to commence it. She told him everything straight-forward, from the accusation of a flirtation with him, down to the asserted loss of character. Sir William heard her gravely, and with fixed attention, without interrupting her eloquent narrative by a remark or a question. She concluded her story before he opened his lips, and then turning full towards her, he enquired:

"I really feel much inclined to do so, I assure you, the attempt to make dissension between us is so unpardonable."

"You should first be quite convinced that the attempt has been made," said Sir William very coolly.

"My dear William, what else can you call her accusation that Emma flirted with you? She could not make me jealous, but it was most ill-natured of her to say so; for were the scandal to come to Emma's ears, it would of course make her very uncomfortable."

"I beg your pardon, Rosa," replied her husband with a smile, "we were speaking of different individuals; you, I presume, understood my question as applying to Miss Carr, whilst I really referred to Miss Watson, and I own your answer rather surprised me."

"So it well might. Could you suppose me capable of resenting to Emma what Fanny might say. I thought you would have known me better. I shall take no notice of all the Croydon scandal, except by being kinder to poor Emma, and as to yourself, I must beg you will do so too. Talk to her, walk with her as much as you like, I am not afraid for either of you."

Sir William's eyes expressed far more than his brief answer seemed to convey, she could read their language, and therefore—"Thank you, I hope we shall neither of us abuse your confidence!"—was quite satisfactory to her.

In the meantime Lord Osborne was compelling Emma to undergo a catechism, the purpose of which she could not comprehend. He began by enquiring where she had been staying previous to her visit to his sister, made himself quite master of the connection of Miss Bridge with Croydon, and ascertained that Mr. Bridge was a friend of hers. He then informed himself whether she had any relatives still in the town, learnt with evident satisfaction that her eldest sister, whom he remembered, was still there, and also that her brother was settled in the place. Emma even told him that her sister was speedily to be married to a very respectable brewer in the town, quite heedless whether such a piece of information was likely to invalidate her claims on his regard. He seemed exceedingly well pleased with the result of his investigation, but no explanation followed as to the object of all his enquiries. As she thought one was certainly her due, she at length took the step of asking to what all these questions tended, if she might make so bold as to demand it.

He hesitated a good deal, and then said flatly he should not tell her, so it was no use her asking him; at least now, though she would very likely know it by and bye; he then added in a confidential tone, that he was going to leave home for a short time; but that he hoped in a few days to return to her with pleasure. She could not compliment him by pretending to be sorry at his departure, as she really cared very little about it; but she enquired, by way of making some kind of answer, whether his sister was acquainted with his plans. He told her she was not yet, but that he intended to tell her the first opportunity, as he had not yet had time to tell her, his project had been so suddenly formed; it originated solely in some news he had heard that morning.

Emma was too indifferent about him, to feel any curiosity as to the reason of his journey or its object—for she little suspected that it nearly concerned herself; the fact being that, in consequence of the scandal that Fanny Carr had repeated in the morning, he had resolved to go over to Croydon and exert himself to trace and confute, what he was certain were only base calumnies, and when he had succeeded in triumphantly proving her innocence, he meant to lay at her feet his title and his fortune. He was perfectly delighted at the prospect of proving his devotion to her by this piece of knight-errantry,—which, he flattered himself, would render him quite irresistible in her eyes; indeed, he had serious thoughts, if the original fabricator of these lies was a man, of challenging him—a step which he firmly believed would not fail to secure the heart of any woman, for whom the duel was fought.

His ideas on this subject were rather derived from the old-fashioned novels, where the hero invariably fights at least three duels, to clear the character of his lady-love.

Very soon after imparting this information to Emma, there came a division in the party; Lady Gordon having persuaded her husband to change places with her brother for several reasons. One of the motives that actuated her, was a wish to converse with Lord Osborne on the reports relative to Emma, and learn what he thought of Miss Carr's stories. But she rather wished likewise to separate him from Emma—with whom she thought he had been enjoying too long a tête-à-tête; and she was, moreover, determined to prove the entire absence of all jealousy as a wife, notwithstanding the insinuations of her friend.

Emma was always pleased with Sir William's company and conversation, and enjoyed this part of her ride much more than the first. She had the pleasant conviction in her mind that Sir William liked her; a feeling which made their intercourse very agreeable—and, as to the scandal which Miss Carr had tried to insinuate on that subject—she was so perfectly ignorant of it, that it never occurred to her that an exception to their being together could possibly be taken.

All Lady Gordon's eloquence and persuasive powers—seconded by the strongest curiosity, failed to draw from her brother an acknowledgement of his purpose in leaving home, or a definite opinion as to his belief, or otherwise, in Miss Carr's stories. On this subject, indeed, he was particularly impracticable, only exclaiming—

"Pshaw! don't ask me, Rosa, about any thing she says—you know I never listen to her."

One thing which greatly excited her curiosity, was the manner of her brother's journey; she had questioned him as to how he intended to travel, and he only told her to guess. In vain she attempted to do so. His carriages were all enumerated in vain—his horses, his servants, were not to accompany him; she concluded that he must be going on foot, and the object of his journey became more mysterious than ever.

He piqued himself on his discretion, and was delighted to torment her, until she was obliged to own herself fairly puzzled, and then he told her to console her—"Time would show."

In fact Lord Osborne left the Castle the next morning in a gig, with a single attendant, who only accompanied him a couple of miles, and then returned home, leaving his lordship and his portmanteau at a small road-side public house. Further than this, nothing was to be extracted by the most adroit questioning of Lady Gordon's woman, who well knew how curious her mistress was on the subject. But although his expedition was a secret to his relatives and friends, it is none to the reader, and we shall, therefore, without ceremony leave him at the public-house in question, until the stage-coach through Croydon passed, and picking him up transported him the rest of the journey.

The party left at the Castle, was too ill-suited to be particularly agreeable, and Sir William now and then privately complained to his wife of the dead weight which Miss Carr was in society where there were no young men present. She had so little conversation besides scandal, and so little occupation of any kind, that Sir William was extremely weary of her. She sometimes played a little on the harp, but she never did that with perseverance, or anything else at all. Her father had never allowed her to learn any species of needle-work, which in some shape or other forms the universal occupation and resource of women, because, he said, there were so many unfortunates who were compelled to earn their bread in that way, that it was unfair to take it out of their hands. With no taste for anything but the lightest species of literature, a novel was her only quiet resource, and in the country it was difficult in those days to procure a sufficient supply of new novels. Lady Gordon could only listen patiently to her husband's complaints; she did not know when Fanny and her foibles would remove; nor could she at all foretell when Lord Osborne and her spirits would return, though pretty well aware that they would re-appear together.

The only resource she could suggest was arranging a small party for a dance or some such amusement, as she had never said another word about the acting, which at one time had so occupied her mind. This would give her friend something to think of and amuse herself with, as she might arrange a new dress for the occasion; nay, if Lady Gordon could only unite a daylight and an evening party in one, she might have the happiness of preparing two dresses at least.

The prospect of such a pleasure revived Miss Carr, and she awoke to a full sense of the responsibilities of life, when so important a thing as a fête was in progress. Of what nature should it be, was the question, and one which occasioned as much amusement as could be hoped from the actual party. They had a great many different plans in their heads; fancy dresses—historical characters—costumes from the old family portraits in the picture-gallery, were all discussed with much warmth and animation. But every one of these proposals had so many objections attached to it. The difficulty of getting other individuals to enter into their views, and the impossibility of those unaccustomed to such scenes entering into them at all, were all suggested as impediments by Sir William, who had no fancy for any of their plans, and it ended in a much more simple arrangement. A collation in a marquée, in some romantic part of the park, bands of music stationed in favorable situations, to entertain them whilst eating; and the beauties of the glen, the echo, and the waterfall within a distance favorable for a walk, to amuse them afterwards. Then there might be the return to the Castle in the evening, and a dance afterwards, which would finish the day's pleasure, and afford a proper proportion of fatigue to all.

To settle on a picturesque costume for this occasion, became now the pre-eminent object of Fanny Carr's thoughts. Emma herself was under no uneasiness on that point, as Lady Gordon had taken the occasion to present her with a suitable and elegant dress, on the plea of making some compensation for the awkwardness of her brother on the occasion of the last ball at Osborne Castle.

Lord Osborne's return was delayed from day to day, by his finding more difficulty in his undertaking than he had expected; but as the course of his pursuit led him to London, he wrote from thence to his sister and gave her reason to expect to see him again before the fête day arrived. This was a relief to Miss Carr's mind, for although desirous of universal admiration, she was peculiarly anxious for his special attention and regard.

Fortunately for her she was gratified; as she was sitting in Lady Gordon's dressing-room the day preceding that for universal happiness, busily engaged in twining a delicate wreath to deck her hair on the festive night, Lord Osborne marched into the room, and suddenly laid down before her a packet of papers, which he was carrying in his hand. She gave a great jump and a little scream, exclaimed at his abrupt entrance, and enquired playfully if he meant to frighten her out of her senses. He replied quietly:

"Not in the least, but he knew there was no danger of that, as her nerves were sufficiently strong to bear a much greater shock."

But what in the world were those papers he had placed before her? what was she to do with them?

"What on earth are they?" said she, unfolding the packet—"'Testimonials—Miss Emma Watson—Rev. John Bridge—Barbara Bridge—Lucy Jenkins—Eliza Lamb—'good heavens! what is the meaning of all this, my lord—are you trying to make a fool of me?"

"No, Miss Carr, I am only trying to prevent your making a fool of yourself," answered he with perfect self-possession.

"I really am excessively obliged to you. I did not know I was in danger of such a catastrophe, or that I was likely to be indebted in that respect to your lordship's deep intellect, and brilliant genius. Pray may I ask the meaning of all this, for really at present my folly is too profound to allow me to reach the pinnacle of comprehension."

"You remember, Miss Carr," said Lord Osborne gravely, "those slanderous tales against Miss Watson, which you were pleased to repeat the day before I left this place."

"Yes, I remember saying something which indeed I am certain could be proved to a fraction. If you think I repeat things without a foundation, you are very much mistaken indeed. I assure you I am excessively careful of what I say, and never dream of giving circulation to unfounded reports, or—"

"I am excessively glad to hear it—I hope you never will—I listened to you then without speaking, I must beg you will do so now to me. Feeling perfectly sure, as I did, that your tale was untrue; I have been to Croydon—and, without troubling you with a long detail of the trouble I have taken, I shall just make a short story of it at once, by saying that the result is, that Emma Watson's character is perfectly clear."

"I am sure then, my lord, that Emma Watson herself must be excessively obliged to you; but really, excuse me for asking what is all this to me!"

"It's no use your attempting to deny it, Miss Carr, it convicts you at once of the very unpleasant and disagreeable fault of repeating slanderous reports. I hope it will serve as a warning to you to prevent such wickedness again."

"Upon my word, my lord, your Quixotism surpasses all ordinary bounds—do tell me what you will do next? Riding about the country one day to exculpate a girl who can be nothing to you, beyond a common acquaintance, and then sitting down to preach lectures to me, without fee or reward for it; I do not know how sufficiently to honour such exemplary greatness of mind."

"You are welcome to your wit and your eloquence, Miss Carr; I have neither wish nor pretension to equal you in the flow of words; but you cannot, even if you take the most round about form of expression possible, deny that you have been quite wrong in the whole affair."

"I am amazingly flattered by the extremely complimentary turn which your conversation takes, Lord Osborne. You seem to have benefitted by the superior style of society with which you must have associated at Croydon; really, your sister will hardly know you again. May I venture to enquire whether you have confided to the fair Emma—the heroic devotion and the extraordinary exertions to which she has inspired you?"

Lord Osborne, who was looking over the packet of papers which Miss Carr had tossed contemptuously back on the table, neither answered nor looked up; and the sudden entrance of Lady Gordon, prevented any further acrimony on the part of the young lady—who, as soon as she recovered her temper, became very sorry that she had spoken as she did, whilst under the influence of vexation and shame.

Lady Gordon appeared very glad to see her brother; though she declared she had always felt certain that he would return in time for her fête—she always had such good luck at her fête. Her astonishment was extreme when she learnt the end and object of his journey; and she certainly felt, besides astonishment, a considerable portion of secret annoyance, that he should have been sufficiently under the influence of partiality for Emma, to be roused to such an exertion. She, who knew him well, was aware how very strong must have been the feeling of interest which could incite him to undertake and carry through a task repulsive to all his former habits and tastes. It marked a very decided love indeed; and Rosa lamented the existence of such a partiality, even whilst rejoicing that its results were so favorable to the reputation of her friend. But, on the whole, she was growing more reasonable than formerly—like all women who love their husbands, she was adopting her husband's opinions, and beginning to think that Emma would be no disgrace to the peerage, were she ever to become a member of it; but that her brother's chance of winning her being small, his affection would not be conducive to his happiness. The astonishing degree of warmth he had manifested on the present occasion, shewed the state of his mind; but as for Emma herself, if she had read her feelings rightly, they were in favor of another object. Lord Osborne detailed to his sister the whole history of his exertions. He had gone to Croydon quite incognito—had established himself very quietly at the principal inn, and after bespeaking a dinner, walked down to call on the Vicar. To him he had detailed his object, and asked his advice, giving, as a reason for the interference of an unconnected individual like himself, the peculiar intimacy which existed between his sister and the young lady in question. Mr. Bridge had entered most kindly and warmly into his views, had pointed out the course he thought best, and made Robert Watson and his wife own that Emma had remonstrated against being exposed to meeting Mr. Morgan out walking, and that she had made no secret of the occurrence. It was not without great difficulty and adroit arguments that he had brought Jane to acknowledge the truth on this subject; only by representations of the necessity of clearing her own character, which she could do, by admitting, as Mr. Bridge knew was the case, that she had yielded to her sister's persuasions, and in consequence of them had abstained from sending Emma out with her little girl.

Having thus cleared Emma from the imputation of there being anything clandestine or intentional in her meetings with the doctor, a fact which the eldest Miss Watson could also corroborate, his next step was to see Lady Fanny Allston and learn from her who had been her authority for the slander to which she had yielded. Her ladyship was in town, but Lord Osborne, not to be baffled by such a circumstance, set off after her, and without waste of time presented himself in her drawing-room in London.

On his first application her ladyship denied all recollection of the circumstance, there were so many young women who applied for the situation of governess to Miss Allston, that she could not be expected to remember any of them after the lapse of so long a time as three or four months. But he was not to be so put off, and took so much trouble to remind her of the circumstances, that she was at last forced to admit that she could recal something about it. When in consequence he pressed for her authorities on the occasion, she laughed excessively at his heroic exertions in a cause which could not concern him in the least. What possible motive could he have she observed, for interesting himself in a girl whose state and circumstances were so obscure. A girl who was forced to go out as governess, what could he know about her—what ought he to know about her—a mere country-parson's daughter, without fortune or connections, it was ridiculous of him to be tearing about the country to vindicate her from a little country-gossip. His lordship must excuse her laughing at him for his knight errantry, but what mattered it whether the said Emma Watson had flirted with the doctor of Croydon or not, or who had said that she had, if she had not.

It appeared as if Lord Osborne's character had been totally changed under the influence of Emma's charms, or the excitement of his pursuit; indeed he owned to his sister it was as animating as a fox-chase, and that he enjoyed hunting up scandal-mongers excessively. Lady Fanny's ridicule, from which formerly he might have shrunk, could not now move him from his object. He answered her quietly, that the character of every individual was of value to them, and the more so in proportion to the less of wealth or importance they had. Her ladyship might, without scruple, forfeit her reputation for integrity, honour and justice, if she chose, by refusing what he asked, and thus robbing Miss Watson; and that the world, seeing she was Lady Fanny still, might consider it no great matter; but the case was very different with his sister's friend, who as Lady Fanny justly observed, had neither friends, rank nor fortune to gloss over the calumny, or support her through right and wrong, and who it was possible might depend on her character for her subsistence. But seeing that she was his sister's friend, and at this moment her guest, he was determined to see justice done to her, both for her own and his sister's sake; he therefore called on Lady Fanny, if she did not wish to be considered the fabricator of the false report herself, to acknowledge who was the author of it—for false it certainly was, as he had other means of proving.

After some attempts at prevarication, she at length owned that she had learnt the circumstances from Miss Jenkins, and she even at last produced and gave up to him the identical letter to herself which contained the whole tale, with a variety of circumstances which it was evident to any unprejudiced observer must have been entirely invention, as no one could have been witness to them, by the writer's own showing.

Armed with this document, Lord Osborne had returned to Croydon and laid the paper before Mr. Bridge. That gentleman, delighted at having reduced the accusations to a form so easily combated, had agreed that they should go together, and compel Miss Jenkins to retract her assertions.

They had called on her, and at first met only with impertinence and prevarication. She did not know who Lord Osborne was, and would not allow his right, or that of Mr. Bridge, to question her conduct. Supposing his lordship to be only one of Emma's relations, and as such deserving no particular consideration or courtesy, she did not scruple to behave with the insolence and neglect with which underbred people consider themselves entitled to treat their inferiors. Of course her confusion was extreme when she found, to her astonishment, that it was a baron whom she had scornfully answered, and whom she had scarcely condescended to ask to seat himself.

She fell, on this discovery, into a prodigious fit of agitation and flutter, protested that she was perfectly ashamed of herself—quite shocked his lordship should have been treated so—would not his lordship move nearer the fire—would he not take a more comfortable chair. She hoped his lordship would not refuse a glass of wine or a little cake; was he quite sure that he did not sit in a draft—the corner of the sofa and a foot-stool would be much better for him. Lord Osborne very positively, and rather abruptly, declined all her attentions, declaring that he wished for nothing better than his present situation, nor desired anything else from Miss Jenkins than the fulfilment of the particular object of their visit—the declaration what authority she had for her assertions regarding Emma Watson.

She now attempted to deny that she had ever said anything at all injurious to Miss Emma Watson's character; it was quite impossible that she should—she had the highest regard for the young lady in question, and must have for any one whom she knew to be the intimate friend of Lady Gordon, and about whom his lordship was so kind as to interest himself. She never could have been guilty of any unjust reflections on such a person, and it must be an entire mistake of Lady Fanny Allston's if she imagined anything to the contrary.

With the greatest self-possession Lord Osborne listened to her assertions, and then producing the letter and laying it before her, said he was exceedingly concerned to be compelled to disprove the assertions of a lady, but really her present words were so contrary to her former opinions as recorded on that paper, that he must beg to revive her memory on the subject. Would she be so kind as to look over the accusations which that letter brought against Miss Watson, and let them know how much of it was false, and what part, if any, was true; and how she became possessed of the knowledge which she had there set down.

Miss Jenkins looked a little confused on seeing her own writing brought to witness against her, but not nearly so much so, as she had done when she found she had allowed a peer of the realm to seat himself so near the door. However, she set herself to work resolutely to deny all she had written; she could not imagine how she had ever made such assertions, she could recollect nothing about it; it was most strange, most extraordinary, most wonderful, most incomprehensible that she should have written such things, she could not believe it possible: she even seemed to expect that they would be so complaisant as to disbelieve it likewise. Miss Lamb had been with her when she wrote the letter, it must have been on her authority that she had made these extraordinary statements. In short she was perfectly ready to contradict them entirely now, and to sign any statement which Lord Osborne would please to suggest; such was her respect for Miss Emma Watson, she was sure she could never speak of her in terms too high.

With great satisfaction, but unutterable contempt, Lord Osborne compelled her to retract every particular which she had formerly stated, and after agreeing that one copy of her present deposition should be sent to Lady Fanny Allston, they decided to continue their investigation by a reference to Miss Lamb, who was accused of being her fellow-conspirator on the past occasion.

Miss Lamb was a very different person from Miss Jenkins; cold and repulsive in her manners, and sparing of her words, she hardly deigned even to justify herself. She did condescend, however, so far as to say, that she had had nothing at all to do in the most distant degree with the affair in question, either by word or deed; though on being cross-questioned she admitted she had seen the letter which Miss Jenkins had sent to Lady Fanny; she had indeed been sitting by whilst it was in the course of composition; but she denied entirely having assisted her companion in any way, excepting in spelling and grammar, points in which she sarcastically observed her friend occasionally needed help. As to her requiring assistance or suggestion beyond her own imagination, where anything ill-natured was in question, that was quite unnecessary as everybody acquainted with Miss Jenkins's taste for gossip must be aware. She had such a superfluity of invention on all such matters as could be equalled by few ladies in Croydon. She, Miss Lamb, knew she had watched Emma closely, and discovered that Mr. Morgan had joined her occasionally when out walking, and this was quite enough to form the foundation of any little scandalous romance which she thought might look well, or be agreeable and amusing to Lady Fanny. For her own part, she knew no harm at all of Emma Watson, and she hoped that after this statement she should have no further trouble in the matter, as she was going out, and did not wish to be detained.

Thus their interview terminated; and Lord Osborne perfectly satisfied with his success so far, having shown the declarations of these two young ladies to Mr. Watson, and his wife, once more repaired to London, to learn what Lady Fanny thought of the paper he had sent her.

Her ladyship this time was ill-used and hysterical, sobbing over the depravity of human nature, which had led Miss Jenkins wickedly to invent such tales, and thereby greatly to deceive and incommode her ladyship; preventing her obtaining a desirable governess to her great inconvenience, and exposing her moreover to much trouble, anxiety, and other evils, endangering her reputation for veracity, and threatening to place her in a ridiculous position.

Lord Osborne could not help perceiving the absurdity and selfishness of her lamentations, but he let her go on as she would, so long as she agreed to sign an admission that she had been misled. He would not, however, make her the promise which she requested from him, that he would use his influence with this very charming young person to undertake the situation from which she had previously been so scornfully repulsed; he gravely observed he did not think it was any business of his, and that he could not interfere in her private arrangements. Lady Fanny, smitten with a vehement desire to become the patroness of the slandered Emma, determined, she said, to write and renew her proposals. He made no objection, though perfectly determined that proposals from himself, and of a different nature should if possible precede hers.

This resolution of his own he did not detail to his sister, nor did he communicate another circumstance which had occurred, namely that he had, whilst in London, sought an interview with his mother, whom he found deeply engrossed in a flirtation with a young colonel of the guards. He did not like the young fellow's appearance at all, nor the air of being at home which he assumed, but on his taking leave a still more unpleasant scene had occurred. His mother had enquired if Howard were still at the Castle, and on her son mentioning where he was, but adding that he hoped soon to remove him to a better living, her ladyship had broken out into the most violent opposition to this plan.

Lord Osborne had just learnt that the incumbent of another living, to which he had the right of presentation, a very old man, was in a state of health, which would in all probability speedily terminate in death, and he was perfectly determined to give it, immediately it fell vacant, to his former tutor. He felt that in every respect this would be a most desirable circumstance, and had not the present incumbent so opportunely fallen sick, he should certainly have attempted to negotiate some other exchange which would have promised a speedy removal. Why Lady Osborne should so resolutely set herself against it, he could not imagine; her feelings towards Howard he could not understand, unless in case of a suspicion which occurred to him proving correct, that the clergyman had refused the baron's widow. She who used to be so friendly and favourable to him, now indulged in feelings apparently of hatred and enmity. She evidently wished to injure him, wished to hinder any improvement in his circumstances, wished to prejudice her son against him. He thought his mother hardly in her senses on this subject, so extremely bitter and unreasonable her sentiments appeared. Her indignation passed all bounds when she found him perfectly unpersuadable on this point. His object in wishing to remove Mr. Howard was quite as potent as hers in wishing to torment him, and his obstinacy in following his own opinion at least as great; there was therefore no chance of their coming to any agreement, and they parted on very bad terms.

Now when his tale was done, he was ready to sit and listen to his sister's plans and designs for to-morrow, ready to encourage her with hopes of a fine day, and still more ready to anticipate much intercourse with Emma Watson. He determined to seize some opportunity during the approaching fête to make known his sentiments, and ask her hand. His courage felt quite high: he had been so successful in this undertaking at Croydon that he began to think he must have quite a winning way with women, and thoughts, complimentary to himself, which had never before entered his brain, began now to bud and grow, and rapidly increase within him.

The morning opened in a way as promising to Lady Gordon's plans as could be desired; bright and serene; a gentle air, not strong enough to wave the flag upon the Castle turrets, rustled amongst the forest trees; a deep blue sky, a cloudless sun, and the mist upon distant objects which accompanies heat in this country, all promised everything most charming.

The whole party were in high spirits, and when, after their breakfast, the ladies had put the finishing stroke to their toilettes, any unprejudiced observer must have admitted that they all three looked very captivating in their several ways.

Lady Gordon anxious to be on the appointed spot previous to the arrival of any of the guests, soon started from the Castle, and the two young ladies accompanied her.

The scene which had been chosen looked very lovely certainly, and the marquees and trees in its vicinity, festooned with flowers, and ornamented in many dainty devices, had a most tasteful air; but Emma could not help thinking that the forest glade in its natural state would have been more taste picturesque, and to her far more enchanting, than with the gay flags and ornaments which now decked it. She thought of the ages which had passed over those lordly trees; the generations of fair faces, which had perhaps strolled beneath them; the histories of happy or of broken hearts, which, could they but be known, would read so many a moral lesson to herself. They looked so very old, those huge spreading trees, with their giant trunks and wide extending branches; she quite felt respect for such stability and strength. Their boughs had probably waved

and now another generation was to meet beneath them, and how many gay, thoughtless hearts, would they this day shade.

They had not been long enough there for Miss Carr to be very tired of waiting, nor for Emma to be at all anxious for a change of scene, when the company began to arrive, and she had other amusement and occupation. It was a very large assembly, and every one came prepared to enjoy themselves, convinced that what Lady Gordon did must be wittiest and most fashionable, if not

The band played, the sun shone, the green trees waved in the breeze, the silks and muslins fluttered, fair checks reddened, bright eyes glanced, sweet lips smiled, fairy forms flitted about, everything was elegant, lively, agreeable—any thing but pastoral, not at all in the fashion of an old French print of a Louis Quartorze fête champêtre. There were no mock shepherdesses, with powdered heads and crooks in their hands; no badly supported and out of character costumes; people came to act no part but that of lively, and if they could be, lovely English ladies, in the most fashionable gowns, meeting well-bred, well-dressed, well-intentioned English gentlemen. There were smiles, and flattery, and flirtations, and a little affectation, and some small share of folly; but on the whole, it was an extremely elegant and well-satisfied party, and every one was ready to tell every one else how excessively pleasant it was, and how much more they preferred these delightful, unformal parties, to the more usual, but less exciting, in-door assemblies.

To those who loved good eating and drinking, it could not fail of being an agreeable re-union, for "the feast provided, combined," the newspapers said on the occasion, "every delicacy of the season, which an out door repast would admit of, in profusion, and the hospitable and liberal-minded hosts were truly delighted to press on their nowise reluctant guests, the choicest viands and the most refreshing products of the vineyards."

In reallity, there was a great deal of pleasure afforded on the occasion, and if there were some dissatisfied minds, it may be concluded that they were those, who under no circumstances were likely to be pleased.

Among the discontented was Margaret Musgrove, who came over with a friend, in that friend's carriage, her husband driving the brother of this lady, as he preferred anything to accompanying his wife. After their arrival, he attached himself to this friend, and carried on with her a very tender flirtation. Mrs. Harding Russell was a fine, dashing woman, who very much enjoyed a flirtation with her friend's husband, and was delighted to make herself conspicuous, and the wife uncomfortable. Margaret would not have minded, had the brother been inclined to assist her in paying her husband off—but this was not the case, he was a man's companion, not a woman's, and never troubled himself to flirt at all. Margaret for some time formed a very inharmonious third to the otherwise lively duet which was performing between Tom and Mrs. Harding Russell, whose company made her perfectly miserable; but at length she succeeded in securing as a companion one of her former acquaintances, who though he had long ago ceased to care for Margaret Watson, had no objection, faute de mieux, to make himself agreeable to Mrs. Tom Musgrove.

When the greatest portion of the visitors was assembled, at a given signal, the sides of the largest marquee were opened, and every one was invited to the collation. Amidst the throng and pressure of this occasion, Emma found herself within a short distance of her brother-in-law and his friend, and an unavoidable hearer of their conversation. Mr. Corbet was enquiring—

"What has come over Lord Osborne to make him such a different fellow from what he used to be? Why when I was here before, he was a fine, dashing lad, quite ready to join in any sort of sensible fun; and now he seems all taken up with women and girls. I remember when he would have scorned to join in such trumpery nonsense as this; but when I proposed just now that we should slip away to have a cigar and a little brandy and water, hot and comfortable, he told me he must attend to his sister's guests. Such a precious notion, 'pon my soul, I could not help laughing to think of a fellow like him turned into a lady's companion; a pretty thing indeed. If I were a peer of the realm, catch me troubling my head about any sisters or mother of mine."

"'Pon my honour, I think," said Tom, "it's a monstrous pity he is so altered, for I am sure he's not the same person to me that he was; I really think it is all for the sake of my sister-in-law, that pretty girl who is here now, you noticed her I dare say."

"Not I, I never look after pretty girls of that class—those I can have nothing to say to; there's an uncommon pretty girl at the lodge-gate, who stared at me as I came in, I noticed her there, and winked at her as hard as I could; and I intend to notice her again before I've done with her; but what are other pretty girls to me—not my sort, eh Tom?"

Tom laughed so much, Emma did not hear what followed, but it ended with a proposal that when they had had enough grub, they should adjourn to the lodge to look after the rustic beauty.

By this time Emma had been borne by the throng into the interior, and unluckily the place she found for herself, was close to Mrs. Harding Russell and her brother-in-law. She did not expect much pleasure from this vicinity, and could not, therefore, complain of disappointment, as well as disagreeables during this part of the entertainment.

Mrs. Harding Russell for some minutes would not turn her head towards Tom, and when he claimed her attention, she turned towards him with a scornful smile and exclaimed:

"Oh, you are come, are you? I hope you did not hurry yourself on my account, Mr. Musgrove. I should be sorry if you had put yourself to any inconvenience."

"Indeed I have though. I have been making frantic exertions, and trodden on at least a dozen toes to secure a place near you, convinced you would enjoy nothing unless I were here to help you."

"Upon my word, a very pretty speech—just like a man though—quite what one might expect from the vain sex. Pray do not take a seat, which I have no doubt must be very disagreeable to you. I dare say somebody else would change places with you: the young fellow talking to your wife—Baker—Butcher—Barber—what's his name—I shall call him, he would do just as well—he could hardly say less civil things."

"What did I say, anything rude? do you not know you were to take my speeches by contraries—did we not agree so—it is so much safer: but you know your power—your delight in tormenting me—caprice is so charming in women—and you know how to make it positively bewitching."

"Really I have not the slightest wish to bewitch you, nor can I believe that I do so—I have no power over any one, least of all you—I who have no charms, no graces—oh, no indeed, I do not expect civility, much less attention from men."

"Fie, you slander yourself and me, and the whole race of men in such assertions; you no charms—no graces—I should like to know where they are to be seen, that is all, if you do not exhibit them. I am sure Mr. Harding Russell would not say so, happy man!"

"What do you know of Mr. Harding Russell?" enquired the lady turning abruptly round to him.

"Say what you please, it is better to be an old man's pet than a young man's slave," retorted she.

"Possibly, but you may reverse that saying—a young man would infallibly become your slave, fairest."

The rest of the conversation need not be detailed, it was too common-place, and trivial to deserve further notice; every one has heard two under-bred and over-pretending individuals making fools of themselves and each other, by their compliments and self-flatteries.

Very much rejoiced was Emma when the conclusion of the banquet at last allowed her the relief of a change of neighbours and conversation. As she was looking about for some one whom she could join, standing back a little to allow the tide of finery and flutter to roll past, she suddenly found Lord Osborne at her side.

"Getting down quite with the wrong set—you belonged to us, and had no business at all with Mrs. Harding Russell, or women of that kind; I looked for you, but you had given me the slip."

"Oh, is that all?" replied she, "I was really afraid I had committed some glaring crime, from your lordship's reproaches, but if it was only sitting near the wrong persons, I assure you I have done penance enough already for that—I cannot say that I thought them very pleasant."

"I am glad of it," he replied with much animation, "you would have been very different from what I fancied, if you had found any pleasure in Mrs. Harding Russell."

Emma made no answer, and he immediately afterwards proposed her joining Lady Gordon, to which she assented. They found, on joining the circle round the hostess, that she was proposing for them a ramble through the prettiest parts of the park, to see the waterfall and the fairy fountain, and hear the echo, which was famous in the glen; there were a number of young people round her, and they seemed just in a humour for such an expedition. Some were to take carriages, some to go on foot, and amongst this latter group were included Emma and also Miss Carr, who seemed suddenly seized with a very decided partiality for Miss Watson, which grew particularly strong whenever Lord Osborne approached.

Quite uninvited she linked her arm in Emma's, and would be her inseparable companion in the walk. It was very pretty scenery through which they had to pass, and the lively party with their gay dresses gave it quite a novel effect. There was nothing like connected conversation carried on, only lively remarks, and quick repartees, with quaint observations from Sir William Gordon, who formed one of the party, and matter-of-fact assertions from his brother-in-law, who was, however, remarkably talkative for him.

In passing through one portion of the park under a sunny bank, they startled some of the harmless speckled snakes which writhed themselves away in haste, but not without causing much alarm and trepidation on the part of some of the young ladies, who protested they had a natural horror of such reptiles. This led the conversation into a new train, a long discussion on natural antipathies, when all the young ladies were called on by Sir William to declare what were their pet antipathies, presuming that they all cherished some such amiable weakness. He in return was immediately assaulted by an accusation of thinking ill of young women—entertaining satirical ideas about them, and making ill-natured speeches to them; which of course he denied, and the dispute which this accusation brought on lasted till they reached the fairy fountain.

Seated by the side of the spring was a brilliant, dark-eyed, beauty of a gipsy, who seemed to be waiting their approach.

"Here's a part of the masque for which I was not prepared," cried Sir William; "I wonder whether my wife sent this woman here."

"I am waiting," she exclaimed with a smile, "to meet you all—not you, Sir William," putting him back with her hand. "It is not you I wish to see, but the young lord. Stand forth, Lord Osborne."

"Holloa! what now," cried he advancing—but another gentleman put him back, and placing himself before the gipsy enquired why she called him forth.

"I never called you, Arthur Brooke—who named your name?—keep in your proper place, and be not hurried to assume that of others." Then rising, she pointed to the spring and exclaimed, "Are you all come to drink at the fairy spring? How will you do it—where are your glasses or your pitchers?"

It was perfectly true they had all come to drink, but had forgotten or neglected to bring any vessel with which to draw the water. After looking at them for a moment, with triumph she exclaimed,

"You must then condescend to be beholden to the gipsy for your draught—see here," and she produced, as she spoke, a small silver cup: "Lord Osborne, take this cup and fill it for your guests."

Lord Osborne advanced and prepared to obey her. Sir William stopped him by suggesting perhaps it was a magic cup which might work them harm and woe.

"Scoffer!" said the woman. "It is a magic cup. Carry that cup steadily to your lips, full to the brim, without losing a drop, and it betides you success in your life's undertakings."

"Let me try first for myself," he said, and stooping filled the little goblet to the brim, raising it steadily and carefully.

"Success to our secret wishes," said he, and drained the cup to the bottom. "Will none follow my example," added he: then again filling the cup, he presented it to Emma; she took it and drank a part, then deliberately poured the remainder on the ground. The gipsy's eyes flashed.

"You defy me," she said, "dark-haired girl—but ere the sun stands again where it now does, your heart will be as heavy as your curls—your hopes as dark as your eyes—tremble—for the approaching news—you, who have dared to disregard my cautions."

"Whatever ill news may be in store for me," said Emma firmly, looking up; "it will come quite irrespective of the water I just poured upon the ground. I do not fear you. I have seen you before."

"Yes, we have met before; and I remember kindness with gratitude, and I grieve that young hearts should break—but it must be so—triumph and success to his lordship—but tinged with regret and sorrow—for he has drank from the gipsy's cup. Who will have their fortunes told."

"It is well to disbelieve, no doubt; but see now, you come to the fairy well for water; but, without my help, you would have come in vain. So it is with the future. You wish to draw knowledge from the dark bottomless well of destiny; you may seek in vain, unless you condescend to borrow of gipsy lore. Have courage and face the future."

"I am not afraid, I will have my fortune told," said Miss Carr, advancing; "tell me, if you can, what will be my fate?"

"No," replied the young woman, turning away, "I dare not predict for you—but one thing I foresee—disappointment and sorrow to you all—bright hopes faded—joyous faces clouded—smiles changed to tears for some, and the gayest hours cut short with grief and dismay. Farewell!"

She fled down the glen as she spoke, and a turn of the path hid her from sight. A something of fear and chill fell on the whole party. Sir William was the first to break the silence.

"Who is she, Miss Watson? she claims you as an acquaintance—where did you ever see her?"

Emma told him that it was a long time ago—before last Christmas—when out walking with one of her sisters. She did not explain that it was during that well-remembered walk, when she had met Mr. Howard for the first time after the ball, and he had accompanied them home. This young woman had followed them on that occasion, and Emma had persuaded Elizabeth to give her some relief from the kitchen, as she seemed almost famishing. Having been struck by her beauty, Emma had instantly recollected her.

The waterfall and the echo, combined with meeting those who had gone there in carriages, and detailing the adventure of the gipsy girl to them, sufficed to restore most of the spirits which had been damped by her predictions—and there was a great deal of merriment going on around her—but Emma remarked that Sir William looked particularly thoughtful and quite unlike his usual self.

"Are you brooding over the threatenings of the girl," enquired she, coming to his side, "you look so uncommonly grave, I really think they must have made an impression on you."

"Oh! Sir William," exclaimed she, "I did not expect such superstition from you. I am surprised."

"Are you," said he, looking fixedly at her; "do you not know that those people seldom prophesy without some foundation to go on? They are quick at guessing feelings and wishes, and combining them with past and passing events; and extremely quick at learning any kind of news and turning it to their own advantage. Their knowledge in this way is astonishing; and I certainly feel afraid lest it may prove too true,—that something to us unknown, has occurred to grieve us."

"You almost frighten me, Sir William," replied Emma, turning pale. "Your attaching such consequence to words which appeared to me spoken at random, seems quite like a reproach to me for treating them so lightly."

"Perhaps her predictions, after all, may be the worst things that we shall hear," added Sir William, trying to shake off his gravity; "and they will be quite fulfilled, if I make you so pale. You are tired—take my arm!"

She could not deny it; and was glad to accept a seat in one of the carriages to return to the Castle: whither the most delicate of the guests now agreed to turn their steps, to rest and refresh themselves after their exertions, previous to the ball at night.

Emma was content to lie down quietly in her own room, for her ankle was not strong, and she had taxed it so severely, that she felt dancing would be out of the question for her that night; she was rather sorry, for she really liked dancing; but she felt that prudence required the sacrifice, lest she should be lame for a much longer period.

How the rest of the afternoon was spent by the guests, she could not tell, except that the sounds of music and merriment were often borne through her open windows, and came apparently from the lawns or the terrace.

Refreshed by a couple of hours' peace and solitude, she repaired, about seven o'clock to Lady Gordon's dressing-room, and found her busy with her toilette. Her own dress and appearance received due commendation both from her friend and her friend's bower woman. It being the gift of the one, and the work of the other, it was no wonder perhaps that they thought it looked well. The attendant observed:

"It was quite a pleasure to make gowns for Miss Watson, she became them so completely: the work was never thrown away on her."

Perhaps the speaker had an eye to some future situation as waiting-woman to the young Lady Osborne, for his Lordship's devotion was quite evident to the inmates of the still-room, as it was then called; and Miss Watson was honoured accordingly. Whilst she was there, Sir William came in likewise, and chatted in a way, which drew from Emma the observation that he had quite recovered his spirits; his wife did not hear the remark, and taking advantage of the occupation which at that moment engrossed her, to speak without her notice, he begged Emma not to allude to it before her again. Of course Emma was quite ready to comply, but she thought it strange that he should attach so much importance to the circumstance.

They all went to the grand reception rooms together: they were already gay with parties impatient for the continuance of their pleasures. When the dancing commenced, Emma withdrew into the conservatory, which was cool and refreshing, for the ball-room was already heated by the company and the lights. Here she walked in solitude for some time; her friends were all dancing, Lady Gordon, her brother, her husband, and Miss Carr, so there was no one to interrupt her reverie, or disturb her meditations.

But at length, by the cessation of the music, she learnt that the long country dance had finished, and soon afterwards, couples and groups sought the same refreshment as herself. She sat down in a moon-lighted corner, where amongst the flowers and shrubs, and by the soft and subdued light, her white crape gown showed like the sculptured drapery of some marble statue, and here she was still suffered to remain in peace, though the conservatory echoed to merry voices, and the light laugh and sparkling sally of wit, sounded above the trickling of the silvery fountain.

Presently, the music recalled all the dancers to the ball-room, and she was again in solitude, but not now for long: a heavy step approached, and just as she was rising from her seat, Lord Osborne joined her.

"Now do sit down again," said he, "but how completely you have hidden yourself; I began to despair of finding you—ain't you going to dance?"

She told him her reason for declining it, at which he expressed concern, but immediately added:—

"However, perhaps on the whole, it is as well, for I wanted particularly to talk to you, without being overheard: can you listen to me now?"

She acceded, with some surprise at the request; he leaned against the wall by her side, and began.

"Yes, I will tell you why, only don't interrupt me till I have done, that puts me out; Miss Carr, whom you know I do not like, but perhaps you do not know I do not believe, would say such ill-natured things about you and Lady Fanny Allston, and her reason for not taking you as governess, none of which I believed, so you need not look angry, that I determined to go to her Ladyship, and make her contradict them. What do you think of that?"

"You really went to Lady Fanny on that subject," exclaimed Emma, "may I ask what authority you had for interfering in my affairs?"

"The authority, Miss Watson, the right which every man has to protect a woman who is slandered and defenceless. Miss Carr had slandered you to my sister, in my hearing; she referred to her cousin as her authority, I compelled her cousin to acknowledge the sources of the calumny, and having traced it to a contemptible and envious Miss Jenkins, I forced her to eat her words, and retract every aspersion she had cast on the character of one whom I always believed blameless. Are you now angry with me Miss Watson?" his voice softened at the last words, his energy fled, and he looked again like himself.

"I cannot tell what I feel," said she hesitating, "Tell me what Lady Fanny says now of me!"

"That she is convinced that she was misled by vile calumniators, and that she wished me to use any influence I possessed with you to renew her former negotiation."

"I think not; it depends partly on your motive, but on the whole I am inclined to forgive you."

She extended one finger towards him, saying with a smile her whole hand was too much at once: but he did not listen to her words; her hand was caught and pressed in his, and raised to his lips before she could release it from the unexpected thraldom. Then mustering all his courage and becoming eloquent under an emotion which makes many an eloquent man silent, he added,

"It was for your hand I did it, to earn a claim on that, that I travelled and met strangers, and wrangled with and coaxed them. It was because I could not bear a blot on your fair fame—you whom I love so very much: dear Emma—you who are so kind, so good-natured, will you not love me!"

"Lord Osborne," said she with profound gravity, "cease I beg; this species of conversation becomes neither your station nor mine. If I own myself obliged by your exertions for my sake, do not annul the obligation by words which never should have been spoken. Let me go!"

But he stood before her, and would not let her pass; whilst saying in a low, deep voice,

"You must misunderstand me, Miss Watson, or you would not speak thus. Have I not as much right as any one, to love what is fair and excellent—if I am plain and awkward myself, can that make my love an insult—and you—are you not deserving to be loved, worshipped, idolised by every man who comes near you. Have you not everything that I want—everything that would grace a far higher title, a much larger fortune than mine. But because I have none of these things is that any reason I should not admire, and love them, or offer my coronet to one who would so well become it. It is yours if you will but accept it; hand, fortune, title, everything—do give me an answer."

But before Emma could find voice to answer, or arrange her ideas, they were startled by a scream from the ball-room—the music stopped completely, and a sudden stillness for a moment prevailed, seeming awful by the contrast to what preceded: then came a murmur, like a hundred whispers in one, which seemed to gather and increase.

Emma had started up at the scream, and now stood suspended, with a beating heart and unsteady breath.

"What can be the matter," said he, "shall I go and see—sit down, do not alarm yourself."

She really was obliged to seat herself, for she could not stand; he went a few steps, where he was met by Sir William.

"For Heaven's sake Osborne come here and send off all these people, your sister is in a fit, and I am almost as bad from horror."

"What in the world is the matter," cried he, struck by the agitated tone and look of his brother-in-law.

"A report has been brought from Wales that Howard is dead," said Sir William, "killed by a fall from a horse amongst the mountains, and Rosa heard it suddenly—and I am afraid—"

"Killed—Howard—dead—good Heavens," instinctively he was turning to the spot where Emma sat, but Sir William impatiently seized his arm and hurried him away unconscious that she was near.

She was left alone to her feelings, and how the next half hour passed she never knew. She could neither think nor move; to feel was too much, for a confused murmur rang in her ears; a sound of suppressed voices, and hurried footsteps, and rolling wheels, and then all seemed still again. How long she sat there she could not calculate, horror-struck and immoveable, she seemed unconscious of everything but the one thought that he was dead. And so suddenly, so awfully—it could not be!—and yet it must be true; she shivered with horror, and then she seemed again to become insensible to everything, closing her eyes to the gay lights and gaudy flowers which appeared to mock her when she gazed at them.

She was just beginning to recover, but still unable to move, when she heard Sir William's voice enquiring,

"Good heavens, then she must have heard it all," cried Sir William, then hurrying forward as he caught a glimpse of her white gown, he gazed with anxious enquiry at her.

Her bloodless cheek, and her whole air, at once betrayed her knowledge of what had passed; but making a violent effort to conquer emotions which were almost choking her, she attempted to rise and come forward. She had hardly strength for the exertion, she trembled so violently, but still the effort did her good. Sir William looked at her compassionately, and drawing her hand under his arm without a word, led her away. Lord Osborne followed with a look of deep dismay in his face, and an air of indescribable dejection over his whole figure.

"Can I be of any use to Lady Gordon?" enquired Emma, forcing slowly, one by one, from her parched and trembling lips, the words which she could scarcely articulate.

"Lady Gordon is tolerably composed, and gone to bed," replied he, "let me recommend the same course to you. I am shocked to think you should have been left so long uncared for. You seem quite exhausted and worn out."

Emma gladly complied with his recommendation, and tried to sleep, but that was vain. Images of horror of every kind filled her mind the moment she attempted it, and she was glad at length to rise and throw open the window to breathe the fresh air.

The moon, which was still high in the sky, was beginning to grow pale before the increasing light in the east; the air was calm, the wind merely a gentle breathing: now and then was heard the chirp of the early birds in the neighbouring trees, but as yet the busy tenants of the rookery near the castle were still. The cry of the deer in the park, the lowing of cattle at a still greater distance, the murmur of the stream in the valley came distinctly on the ear, during the profound hush which preceded the dawn.

Everything looked so fair and calm, and happy—could it be that misery and disappointment, and suffering, were for ever lurking under all! How gay had been the commencement of yesterday; how sad the close! Such was worldly pleasure—such it must be—such it ought to be. Happiness was fled from her for ever; she could not expect to meet it again. A calm, dull future spread before her, uncheered by love, or home, or hope. Her affections blighted in their first spring, were for ever destroyed, and if she could learn resignation that was the utmost she could look forward to.

She burst into tears, went back to her bed, cried herself to sleep, and did not wake till a late hour the following day.

Of course she was looking wretchedly pale and miserable when she descended the next day. So conscious was she of this that she longed to remain in her own room, but feared that it might have even a more suspicious appearance than her pale cheeks. She was relieved on entering the sitting room to find only Sir William, Lord Osborne having breakfasted and gone out. He was looking sad and grave, but replied to her anxious enquiries, that his wife was better, but not well enough to leave her room yet. He regarded her with a compassionate expression, and said,

"You too are suffering from the events of yesterday—no wonder; such a blow coming after so much excitement and fatigue."

"Miss Watson," added he, "the gipsy must have known of this before we met her. She must have alluded to this shocking event."

It had been brought, it appeared, by one of the guests, whose cousin or brother, or some such friend, had just arrived from Wales, and learnt it before leaving Denbighshire. It had been accidentally mentioned by this gentleman in Lady Gordon's hearing; and she being at the time in a nervous, irritable state from fatigue, excitement, and the heat of the ball-room, had been seized with a violent fit of hysteria at the information, which had broken up the dancing and compelled her to quit the company.

"And my abruptness I fear overpowered you, Miss Watson," added Sir William, "I had no idea that you were there when I met Osborne, and spoke with the conviction that I was distressing no nerves weaker than his."

"Oh yes he feels it very much, but it is not his way to be overpowered by his feeling. None who had known Howard could help feeling it—so sudden an event—and quitting us quite well only a few days before—what his poor sister must have felt!"

Sir William paused, for Emma had walked away to hide her tears and smother her sobs at the window. The entrance of Miss Carr at the moment, well-dressed, and cheerful looking as usual, tended greatly to compose Emma's spirits, but quite overpowered Sir William.

"How miserably uncomfortable everything seems to-day. I cannot imagine why the death of this man—even supposing he is dead—should derange everybody here to such a degree. A thing which happened too some hundreds of miles away, Rosa in bed, and neither Sir William, nor Osborne visible. Don't you think it's too bad?"

"I dare say Lady Gordon will soon recover," replied Emma, "but I cannot wonder if she is indisposed considering everything—the heat, the fatigue, and all the excitement of yesterday."

"Then come with me, and let us get some," said she, passing her hand under Emma's arm. "There is no reason that we should fast, I suppose; for, though Mr. Howard's death is very shocking, I confess it does not take away the appetite quite."

Emma thought it would be the easiest way to consent, and they went accordingly. On entering the breakfast-room, which they had entirely to themselves, they found that, owing probably to the confusion in the household, the letters, by that morning's post, had been laid on the table there, and no one had seen them. Miss Carr immediately began looking them over, and presently exclaimed:

Emma received them, and glanced at their exteriors to see whether she should open them there. One she saw was from Miss Bridge—one from Elizabeth—and thinking that the occupation of reading them would prevent her hearing Miss Carr's chatter, she broke the seal of the latter, and began to peruse it.

It gave her a lively account of Lord Osborne's visit, and contained many hints as to the object of his journey and the motive for it, which suddenly re-called to Emma's mind the fact, which until that moment, had absolutely escaped her memory—his proposal to herself—a proposal to which he had, as yet, received no answer. It seemed hard and cruel to keep the poor young man in suspense, which would end in disappointment—for she could not hesitate a moment, as to her answer. Under no circumstances could she ever accept him, or persuade herself to think him an agreeable man. But the meditation on his love, and her intentions with regard to it, forced another consideration upon her, what else should she do with reference to him. Would he leave the house, or should she, or could they go on as before with any comfort to herself. It would be very disagreeable to have to continue in daily intercourse with a rejected lover, unless, indeed, he were much more magnanimous than the rest of his sex; for, with men in general, it appears, no insult can be deeper, no injury more severe, than a woman differing from their estimation of themselves, and doubting the fact of their making a suitable and agreeable husband. This is so unpardonable an offence, that there are few men who would acknowledge having met with such a rebuff, or if they do, it is in the well-known language of the "Laird o' Cockpen."

Emma flattered herself, on consideration, that she should not suffer from any pique on his part, as when her unalterable resolution was once known to him, there would be nothing to prevent his immediately removing himself and his disappointment to some other scene.

After dreaming over these things for some time, she took up the other letters and rose to go. Casting her eye, as she did so, on the post-mark and address of the third, which, hitherto, she had not noticed, she was startled by perceiving that it came from North Wales—and, if her senses did not deceive her, it was Mr. Howard's handwriting.

The small remains of presence of mind which this discovery left her, was just sufficient to check the exclamation rising to her lips; and the impulse of her feelings prompting her to seek solitude and fresh air—she rushed out on the terrace, down the flight of steps into Lady Gordon's flower garden; and there, secluding herself under a wide spreading bay tree, she endeavoured to recover sufficient breath and composure to examine the letter. With trembling fingers, beating heart, and tearful eyes, she broke the seal, and after hurriedly glancing at the date and signature, laid it down on her knees, and resting her head on her arm, burst into a fit of crying, which she tried vainly to control.

And was the hand which had penned those lines never to clasp hers again! Did the heart which dictated them—did it beat no more! Had the declaration of his love been delayed until the acknowledgment of her own could never gratify his ears! Why, oh! why was this! Why had he suppressed his feelings! Why had he left her! Why had he tortured her thus!

She caught up the letter—covered it with kisses—and then through her blinding tears attempted to read it. It contained a short and simple statement of his love, and an offer of his hand; if she could consent to be a poor man's wife, he would do his utmost to make her happy.

But it was all too late now; by the date it was evident that the letter had been written nearly a fortnight ago, and the tardiness of the post-office arrangements had alone prevented his receiving a reply. And he had, perhaps, been blaming her for silence and proud disdain—perhaps with the mixed quick-sightedness and blindness of love, he had been alike jealous of Lord Osborne's passion, and alarmed lest she were influenced in his lordship's favor. He might have been attributing her silence to this cause, and perished blaming her for coquetry, coldness, or ambition. Could she but have told him of her feelings—but now he would never know them.

It was a very great relief to her to give unrestrained course to her tears—there was no occasion now to repress them. She need not fear harsh constructions, nor shrink from animadversions on her feelings. She had a right to grieve. She had lost a declared lover, one too whose passion she had returned—and who would blame her now for pale cheeks and tearful eyes?

She did not think this with such distinctness as to put it into words, but she felt it deeply, and it was a strange comfort to her.

After the letter had been read many times, every word weighed and examined, and the reason which dictated his choice of each expression guessed at; after even the address had been accurately surveyed, and either anxiety or love discovered in every curve or stroke of the pen, it was carefully folded and placed in her bosom, there to remain for ever; for never could the feelings with which she regarded its writer change; never could she love another, or listen to another suit. Her lot in life was fixed for ever, and perpetual celibacy for his sake was not too great a compliment to the memory of one so dearly loved, so sadly lost.

After composing her feelings, smoothing her hair, and cooling her face at the fountain close by, she ventured to return to the Castle, with the intention, if she were permitted, of seeing Lady Gordon, though she had not yet decided upon telling her how deeply her feelings were involved in the melancholy past. Her friend was in the morning room when she returned to it, lying on a sofa, and on Emma's entrance there was a general expression of wonder as to where she had been for so long a time from the three who were sitting there. Her only answer of course was that she did not know she had been long away: she had been sitting in the flower-garden.

"I wonder you like to sit there," said Miss Carr; "I always am stung by gnats if I venture on such a thing."

Sir William, after an earnest look at Emma's countenance, withdrew his eyes, and was apparently occupied with a newspaper, whilst Emma drawing her embroidery frame close to Lady Gordon's sofa, sat down with apparent industry to her work, with the satisfactory consciousness that every time she drew a long breath, her precious letter was more closely pressed to her swelling heart.

The long silence which ensued was only broken by Sir William at last throwing down the paper, and proposing to his wife a walk or a drive—anything for change of air and scene. She agreed to the drive, and he went to hurry the phæton, she to arrange her dress. Miss Carr begged to accompany them, and could not be refused, though they did not particularly desire her society; and thus Emma was left alone to indulge in sad recollections and tender reveries, which were, however, speedily cut short by the entrance of Lord Osborne.

It was natural that, having seen the others go out without Emma, he should calculate on finding her alone, and equally so that he should be exceedingly anxious for an interview, as his question was still unanswered, his hand unaccepted, his future happiness as yet uncertain.

She looked up with an air of consciousness on his approach, which encouraged him to advance, and draw a seat by her side. He tried to take her hand, but the attempt was made with so much hesitation and awkwardness that she was not even sure whether he intended it; no repulse was requisite, the simple not encouraging it was enough to prevent so daring an act of gallantry. In fact, he had lost the courage which on the previous night had distinguished him; the warmth and animation were gone—he was again himself, labouring under rather more than his usual awkwardness of manner, and quite overpowered by his various sensations. To have expressed all his feelings would have been impossible even for an eloquent man—his love was so mingled with jealousy, his hope with doubt, and his satisfaction with regret.

He sat looking at her for some minutes in silence, which Emma thought particularly disagreeable, until at length she concluded that he expected her to commence the conversation, and looking up with as steady a voice as she could command, she enquired whether he had received any further intelligence from Wales.

"No!" he replied, abruptly, but the question roused him to exertion, and he added,

"You cannot imagine, however much I may think of the unlucky event, that I came here to talk about that to you. I am come to ask, to entreat, to claim an answer to my question last night: for every man has a right to an answer to such a question!"

He paused, and she tried to speak; it was at first with difficulty she could utter a syllable: but her courage rose as she proceeded, and she was able to finish with firmness.

"Lord Osborne, I cannot deny your claim to an answer, but I regret that I should be under the necessity of paining you by that answer; I cannot accept the offer you have made me, but I shall always remember your good opinion, and liberality of sentiment, with gratitude."

"I did not ask for gratitude," replied he reproachfully, "what good will that do me? Besides I do not see that I deserve it."

"You have judged me kindly, my lord; you have given me credit for rectitude, nay you have exerted yourself to prove it, when others might have thought and acted very differently."

"Yes; I dare say—some who did not know you as well, might have judged you harshly, but Emma, dear, beautiful Emma, I knew you could not be wrong. I have loved you so dearly, and I never loved any woman before, it is very hard you will not like me in return."

"I cannot, my lord," said she, her eyes filling with tears, "I have no love to bestow on any one, my heart is—" she stopped abruptly.

She raised her eyes proudly for a moment, but there was nothing of impertinence in his look or tone, nothing which need offend her; and moved by her feelings at the moment she exclaimed,

He looked down intently, and taking up one of her embroidery needles thrust it backwards and forwards through the corner of her work, for some minutes, with an energy which ended in breaking the needle itself—then again addressing her he said in a feeling tone.

There was something in the manner of this very unexpected admission which quite overpowered Emma's heroism; it was so different from what she had expected; she covered her face and burst into tears.

He sat looking at her, then said, "Don't Miss Watson, pray don't cry—it makes me so very uncomfortable; but indeed I do pity our poor friend, and the more so because loving you so very much myself, I feel what he has lost; and I am so sorry for you too; you must have felt it—the shock of his death I mean."

Emma's sobs quite prevented her speaking, but she struggled to suppress her tears, and presently succeeded in mastering her agitation.

"I did, but not till this very morning," answered she, hardly conscious of what she was saying.

"With such feelings, I cannot expect you to listen to my suit, and will not torment you with it. Remember you have not a sincerer friend in the world than myself, or one who would do more to prove his good opinion. And I do not say it merely to be thanked—as I mean to shew you whenever I can."

He took her hand this time, and pressed it, looked at it as he held it for a moment, and then as she drew it away, he rose and left the room.

She was quite surprised at the way in which the interview had terminated; he had shewn so much good feeling, so much less of selfishness than she had been in the habit of mentally attributing to him; there was no indignation, no wounded pride, no pique or resentment at her refusal; it was almost as if he had thought more of her disappointment than of his own, and regarded her feelings as of more consequence than his attachment. Her opinion of him had never been so high as when she thus declined his proposals: she felt that with a suitable wife, one who could value his good qualities, improve his tastes, and really love him, he might in time turn out a very estimable character.

If he were but as fortunate in his selection of a partner, as his sister had been, there was every probability of his equalling her in domestic happiness. She did not regret her own decision, but she regretted that he should have been so unfortunate as to love where no return could be given; if he had but chosen one whose heart was disengaged;—but as for herself, she was not the woman who could really make him happy; she had not the energy and decision of character requisite for his wife; she did not wish to govern, and she felt that she could only be happy, in proportion as she respected as well as loved her husband; unless she could trust his judgment and lean on him, she felt convinced she should despise him and be miserable.

When the family met at dinner, Lord Osborne was there, and she had not the slightest hint as to his probable departure; but there was nothing in his conduct or manners to create unpleasant feelings, or reveal the past to lookers on. There was but little said in their small circle that evening; the shock had been too recent to be yet so soon rallied from. Lady Gordon had been so very much attached to Mr. Howard; from her girlhood he had been her peculiar admiration, and her standard of excellence as a clergyman: the only wonder was that this attachment had continued on both sides so entirely platonic; that considering their opportunities of intercourse there had never been any approach to love. But so it was—whether there was too much pride on both sides, or whether her heart had been unknowingly engrossed by Sir William Gordon, she could not have told, but certainly, though they had talked and jested, quarrelled and been reproved, agreed and differed for the last four years, they had never passed the temperate zone of friendship, and her sorrow at his death was expressed fully, unreservedly, bitterly, without exciting the shadow of jealousy in her husband's mind. Indeed he fully sympathised in her feelings for he had loved and highly valued Howard, whom he had known intimately at College, before he became the young lord's tutor.

Fanny Carr was the only member of the party who seemed quite unaffected by what had occurred, but she was out of temper about something which concerned herself, and was fortunately silent.

Emma went to her friend's dressing-room the next morning by particular desire to breakfast quietly with her, whilst Sir William was sent down to do the honours of the house to Miss Carr and his brother-in-law.

"I want to talk to you, my dear friend," said Lady Gordon, "but I hardly know how to begin—about this shocking affair—poor, dear Mr. Howard, is it not sad?"

"I thought so," said Lady Gordon, earnestly gazing at her face, "I knew your heart—you have, of us all, the most reason to regret his death."

"You are not angry with me for the suggestion," continued Rosa, taking her hand, "I would not offend or vex you, but I cannot help expressing my interest in your feelings. It was so natural that you should return his affection."

"I could not help seeing what was so very evident, but you, doubtless, were better informed on the subject?" replied Lady Gordon, with some curiosity.

Emma controlled her feelings enough to give her a sensible account of the letter which she had received the morning previous; that precious letter which had doubled her sorrow, and made her feel her misfortune so much more deeply.

"How very sad," cried Lady Gordon, "and that was really the first you heard of his attachment—the first declaration you had from him; it must have broken your heart. I can imagine in some degree what you have felt. Had he been alive what answer would you have returned?"

"What answer?" exclaimed Emma, "how can you ask, Lady Gordon—you know what I should have said; that his love was dearer to me than all the wealth of the country, or the honors of the peerage!"

"Never, never—I can never love another, or cease to regret the one I have so sadly lost. Time can only increase my regret. But we must not think only of ourselves, what must his sister have felt—dear Lady Gordon, think of her; how I wish I were near her, to love and comfort her."

"Poor thing," sighed Lady Gordon, "yes I do pity her. She was very fond of him, and she can never have another brother."

Just at this moment a gentle tap was heard at the door; Lady Gordon gave her permission to enter; and the opening door displayed to their astonished eyes, Howard himself.

Yes, there he was, to all appearance perfectly well,—the man whom they had been mourning over as dead, stood before them in flesh and blood, with no other difference from his usual air, than that he looked rather flushed with exercise, and somewhat surprised at his reception.

"I fear I am an unwelcome visitor," said he, amazed at his reception; "shall I withdraw?"

Before either of the ladies could reply, Sir William precipitately entered the room; he had apparently been in the act of dressing, for he made his appearance without a coat, and unmindful of where he was, he rushed up to Howard, and actually embracing him in the excitement of his joy, exclaimed:

"My dear fellow, twenty millions of welcomes to you, how came you here—we never thought to see you again!"

"Oh, how I rejoice to see you alive—you cannot think how we all grieved when we heard you were dead!"

It was now Howard's turn to look bewildered: he turned from the husband to the wife in uncontrollable amazement, and said:

"May I ask what is the meaning of all this—are you performing a comedy or acting a charade!"

"Why I suppose," said Sir William, recovering himself a little, "we do all seem rather frantic to you, since you must be alike ignorant of our anxieties and the relief your presence has occasioned. The fact is, we heard you were dead!"

"Take care, or Mr. Howard will begin to believe it too, and that will frighten him," said Rosa, laughing almost hysterically.

"But do tell me what you thought was the matter with me," said Howard impatiently.

"We heard you had fallen and been killed amongst the rocks," said Sir William, "and we were very unhappy about it. I assure you, you have been wept by bright eyes, and fair cheeks have turned pale at the news of your death. There is not a man in the whole county has been more talked of than you; the news of your melancholy death reached us in the gayest moment of a fête, sent Lady Gordon into fits, and all the company out of the house, broke up the dance, interrupted six tender flirtations and three rubbers at whist, in short, caused more unhappiness, disappointment, and dismay, than an ordinary individual would reasonably expect to excite either living or dying."

"Really it is a very uncommon fate for a man to hear the lamentations occasioned by his death, and if what you say is not exaggerated, Sir William, I ought to be greatly flattered," replied Howard smiling, but at the same time looking round the room to see what was become of the one face, whose expression he was most anxious to read. But Emma was gone; she had left the room without a word of congratulatory greeting, or a single expression of interest.

"I cannot think how you can jest about so serious an affair, William," said his wife reproachfully, "you did not jest, however, whilst you believed it; he is not quite without feeling, Mr. Howard."

"And did you honor me with tears, Lady Gordon?" said the young clergyman, taking her hand with an irrepressible feeling of gratification. "That was a thing almost worth dying for."

"Come, come," said Sir William interposing, "do not be making love to Rosa before my face; though she did cry, hers were not the only tears shed on the occasion, nor the most flattering to you."

"Your old housekeeper, and your gardener's daughter," replied Lady Gordon maliciously.

"Abominable conceit—who else do you expect to hear of?" exclaimed she, "I declare all men are alike, if you give the smallest encouragement to their good opinion of themselves, they set no bounds to their presumptuous expectations. I shall tell you no more. Find out for yourself who feels any interest in your fate."

"Miss Carr expressed great sensibility on the occasion," interrupted Sir William, "I was dancing with her at the time the news arrived, and she said:

"Thank you," replied Howard with a glow of satisfaction, "you have told me quite enough to satisfy a much less modest man than I am. I have heard sufficient. But I think I know how the report arose. I was left behind at a riding party, as the girth of my saddle broke, and I stopped at a country shop to get it repaired. I dare say in the imperfect Welsh which was all we could muster of the country's language, there was some confusion made between a broken girth and a broken neck, which gave rise to the distressing intelligence."

"That may be very possible," replied Lady Gordon, "but I shall never in future believe any report of your misfortunes again, and if you want me to grieve again for you, you must break your neck in good earnest."

"Excuse me, but I have no wish to cause you any concern, Lady Gordon, or to put your feelings to such a test."

"About two hours ago; and I own I was rather surprised to find my house shut up, and nobody at home; but if my servants thought me dead, it was all very natural."

"No doubt they will tell you they were afraid of remaining lest you should walk again," observed Sir William.

"As I do not know when they will return," continued he, "and I do not wish to break into my house, I must throw myself on your hospitality for to-day, if you will receive a poor wanderer."

Of course he was made extremely welcome by his friends, and invited to remain as long as was convenient. It was very pleasant to be so kindly received; but there was another voice he was longing to hear welcome him, another hand he wished to press, another smile to bless his eyes. As soon as he could he left Lady Gordon, and went to look for Emma. In the breakfast-room, the library, the conservatory, the flower-garden he sought her, but in vain; in fact she had shut herself into her own room, to give utterance, in grateful thanks, to the emotions which swelled her heart; emotions far too powerful for words.

At the moment she could not have encountered him with anything like a due and decorous dignity; had she seen him, she must have been guilty of expressing too warmly her interest in his welfare: it would not do to flatter him with a knowledge how very glad she was at his having safely returned; for he was but a man, and as such, liable of course to all the foibles of mankind: the vanity, the triumph, the selfish gratification which such a dangerous knowledge would create. She thought very well of him certainly, but the temptation to conceit might be too strong, and she might have to rue the day if she placed such confidence in him.

No, she would not see him till her feelings were in better order, and more under her own control.

Such was her resolution as she sought the shelter of her dressing-room; it did not occur to her, that he might consider he had a claim on her attention, and a right to demand an interview with her; a claim and a right which no man very much in love could be expected to forego.

Having been quite unsuccessful in his search for her, he took a very plain and straight-forward course to obtain what he wished, going to Lady Gordon for assistance.

"Will you be my friend," said he, appealing to her with a look of great concern, "my friend in a very important matter."

"Then procure me an interview with Emma—I cannot find her any where, and I cannot exist longer in suspense. Dear Lady Gordon, do pray have pity on me!"

"Yes!" replied she, affecting to look very grave, "I have pity on you; and since you wish so much for an interview, I will try and procure one, that is if Emma is not absolutely bent on refusing to hear you. But are you prepared—can you stand the shock which awaits you?"

"Good Heavens! what do you mean, Lady Gordon?" cried he, catching her hand in his with an accent of alarm.

"Why, what do you expect?" said she, withdrawing her hand, "but that she will refuse you; what else can you anticipate?"

"Refuse me, why—do not torment me—I am not afraid—" he added, trying to smile.

"Upon my word, a very modest speech!" exclaimed she, "so you feel no alarm—tranquil self-confidence possesses your soul. Emma will be intensely gratified!"

"So I am to call Miss Watson down to you, persuading her to come with an assurance, that you feel so confident of what her answer will be that you entertain no anxiety, no alarm. Is that what I am to say?"

"Say anything you please, Lady Gordon," exclaimed he, in desperation, "only procure me the sight of Miss Watson, and the opportunity to speak to her."

He anxiously hastened to the rendezvous she appointed; she crossed the gallery to her friend's dressing-room.

On obtaining admission, she found Emma had been lying on the sofa in a darkened room; she sat down by her, and affectionately kissing her forehead and cheek, she said,

"I am come to congratulate you, my dear Miss Watson, that our imaginary tragedy has proved an entire fable—Mr. Howard is quite well, and all the loss on the occasion is that of a very pleasant dance, which I had intended should be very much enjoyed."

"It seems so strange and incomprehensible," observed Emma, putting back the ringlets from her forehead, "I could hardly believe my eyes, or credit my senses, and as to speaking, that was out of the question. I hope you did not think me very rude if you noticed me, but the only thing I could do, was to run away."

"But now you have recovered your self-possession, and the use of your speech, I hope you do not mean to seclude yourself here all day; pray come and join us all. You had better."

"Perhaps I had," said Emma, "I will come with you in a moment; just let me smooth my hair first."

Miss Carr and Sir William were in the sitting-room; but Lady Gordon did not stop there; to the great relief of Emma, who dreaded the remarks of the young lady, they walked into the conservatory, through it, and entered from the other end the library window.

Lord Osborne and Mr. Howard were there together, but the former instantly took flight at their approach. Lady Gordon still keeping Emma's hand under her own arm, led her up to Mr. Howard, and said,

"I have brought my friend to congratulate the dead-alive, Mr. Howard; she was wishing to say civil speeches to you like the rest of us, but as I have done my duty in that way, and a twice told tale is tedious, I shall leave you, to go after my brother."

As Emma had held out her hand to the gentleman, she could not follow Lady Gordon in her flight, though looking exceedingly inclined to do so; for he held her with a gentle pressure, and would not let her go. His eyes were so earnestly bent upon hers, that she dared not look up after the one glance she had given him; and she stood, her slender fingers trembling in his grasp, longing to speak, but wanting courage to break the silence.

"I am glad Miss Watson is not to be the only one from whom I hear no word of welcome," said he gently. "If you knew how very grateful I should feel for one sentence of kindness—even one look which evinced interest, could you refuse me?"

"I assure you, Mr. Howard," said she, determined no longer to stand silently blushing like a criminal before him; "I assure you it was not want of interest, or kindly feeling towards you, which kept me silent."

"No, indeed," but the words were accompanied by so very deep a blush, that they looked exceedingly like a falsehood.

"There was a letter, which I wrote, but to which I received no answer, which hurried my movements—do you now know what I mean?"

"I believe I do," she uttered in desperation finding he seemed determined she should answer him.

"And though you would not write, you will condescend now to answer that letter by word of mouth," taking her hand in both of his; "I am sure you are too generous wilfully to torment me—and if you had known how much pain your silence gave me, you would not have allowed it to last so long."

"Mr. Howard," said Emma, looking up, but making no attempt to withdraw her hand; "I only received that letter yesterday morning; and as I then thought you were dead—you cannot imagine the pain which the receipt of it occasioned me."

She spoke hurriedly, without considering the full value of her words; but he saw the implied meaning—where was the man ever blind to such a compliment. The speech he made on the occasion, was a great deal too rapturous and lover-like to bear transcribing, indeed, when lovers' speeches really come from the heart, they would seldom be sufficiently intelligible to interest general readers. There is so much understood by the pressure of the hands—so much explained by the language of the eyes—and so much made up by other signs well-known to the initiated, but unnecessary to detail to those who have never gone through such an ordeal, that in most cases it seems probable an accurate relation in words would be the most tiresome, the most incomprehensible, the most ridiculous thing in the world to those not taking a principal part in it.

Where the heart takes but a small share in the proceedings, indeed, fine speeches may be made, but where the affections are engaged, the meaning can be perfectly understood without them.

The result of his speech, and Emma's answer, was much more favorable to his happiness, than the reply which she had made the previous day to a similar question from Lord Osborne. She acknowledged that she loved him, and that the dread of being poor, or the desire of being great, would not prevent her promising to become his wife.

When the first effervescence of his joy had subsided, and he was able to speak in a calm and reasonable manner, and consider what was best to be done, he urged her to come out with him into the park, as the first step to securing her company perfectly undisturbed—for, in the library, they were constantly exposed to be interrupted. Here she tried to obtain from him some rational account as to why he had tantalised her so long by deferring an explanation—which, for any thing she could see to the contrary, might just as well, or better, have been made long before. Since he professed he had loved her even before she went to Croydon, why did he take no steps to tell her so; or why, since he ended in writing, did he not write to her there? Was it necessary to go as far as North Wales to find courage for such an epistle.

He told her it was doubt and want of courage kept him silent—then he contradicted himself and said it was really jealousy of Lord Osborne. He had believed the young baron loved her.

So he might, perhaps, was Emma's reply—but what had that to do with it; to make the admiration dangerous, it was necessary that she should return his affection, "and surely, you never suspected me of that?" said she.

"How could I tell? Might you not naturally be dazzled with the idea of a coronet; why, should I have interfered with your advantage or advancement?"

"As if it would be to my advantage to marry a man like Lord Osborne," replied Emma. "I do not wish to say anything derogatory to your friends, or to Lady Gordon's brother, but indeed I think you might have given me credit for rather a different taste at least. I have no wish either to flatter you too much; but I fancy, whether better or worse, our tastes are more consonant than mine and Lord Osborne's."

"What right have you to ask me any such questions, Mr. Howard? so long as I assure you, I did not love him, that ought to be sufficient for you—let his feelings remain a secret."

"Set me the example of sincerity and openness then, tell me to how many ladies you have made love—how many hopeless and inextinguishable flames you have nourished, and how many hearts you have found obdurate to your finest speeches."

Mr. Howard protested he had never loved any other woman, never sought any other hand than hers, and never made fine speeches to any one. With all his eloquence and ability he was not able to extract from her the fact, that she had refused Lord Osborne. She had two motives for her silence; a feeling of delicacy towards her rejected suitor, and a decided determination not to flatter Howard's vanity by such a mark of her preference. She thought it quite enough for him to know himself accepted without learning, at least at present, how many she had refused for his sake.

Lady Gordon, and her husband, learnt with sincere pleasure, that a happy understanding had been established between Emma and her lover; they both hinted that the disappointment to Lord Osborne would not be lasting, and that the attachment would on the whole have done him good. He had improved so much during its progress, had become so sociable and civilised by his affection, that he seemed a different person; and whilst rejoicing at the change, they trusted he would not relapse under the effects of his want of success, but would prove himself worthy of his place in society, and his position in the world.

As to the young man himself, he felt his disappointment most acutely, but it did not make him more selfish than he had been. On the contrary it seemed to give rise to a magnanimity of sentiment which could hardly have been expected from him.

Two days after the engagement it was found he went down to see Howard at the vicarage immediately after the post had come in. That morning he had received an announcement of the death of the old rector before mentioned. He now hastened to offer the living to Howard, delighted to have it in his power thus to improve his circumstances.

"Howard," said he, "I have learnt by this letter that the living of Carsdean is vacant. I am glad of it—as I am sure it will make you much more comfortable. Will you accept it?"

"My dear lord," said he, with much emotion, "you are too kind to me: I am ashamed to accept such a benefit, when I have robbed you of what you so much desired."

"Do not speak of that," said the other, "she took her choice, and no doubt chose wisely; I always felt you were beloved, Howard, even whilst I was fool enough to flatter myself with success: but I am not angry either with her or you, and since I cannot make her happy myself, I am glad I can help you to do so. This living was always meant for you—but coming as it does just now, it gives me very great pleasure."

"I knew you were generous," replied Howard, "and I can feel how much satisfaction the power of obliging must confer."

"Make her happy, Howard, and when I can, I will come and see you, but it is best at first that we should be apart. You accept my wedding gift!"

"A noble one, like the heart which dictates it, and a welcome one indeed since it removes the only obstacle to my marriage," replied Howard.

"Howard, you are a lucky man; I would have given half my income to have had the power of persuading her to accept the other half. You know, I dare say, that she refused me?"

"Did not Emma tell you? She did refuse me, and I loved her the better for it, for it was entirely for your sake; but as I thought you were dead then I did not take it so much to heart, because I trusted to time and perseverance when my rival was removed."

"And when I came back and destroyed your dream, how you must have hated me! I wonder you could shake hands as you did, and say you were glad to see me."

"Howard," said Lord Osborne with much agitation, "if I thought you were serious in what you say, I would never speak to you again; I know you only say it to torment me, but is that generous when you are the winning party?"

"I beg your pardon," said Howard holding out his hand; and no more was said on the subject.

"What a pity it is," said Emma Watson to Howard when he was joyfully detailing to her his happy prospects, and Lord Osborne's generosity, "what a pity it is that Lord Osborne's manners are so inferior to his mind. With so much good feeling and generosity of sentiment, it is unfortunate that he should have so little engaging in his appearance and address."

"I do not think so at all, Emma, for if his manners had been such as you admire, and calculated to set off his good qualities, you would certainly have been lost to me."

"What abominable conceit!" cried Emma; "you really take credit to yourself, do you, for such very captivating manners yourself, since you think that those alone are the passports to my good opinion."

"I did not mean to say that; I trust my other good qualities are so remarkable that you have, in their favour, overlooked any little deficiencies which might otherwise strike you in my manners."

"Modest, truly! What is the income of the living which his lordship presents to you?"

"About a thousand a year, I believe, and a very pretty country and pleasant neighbourhood. I have been there, and always thought I should like it so very much."

"I am quite sorry to leave this pretty place though," said Emma looking at the Vicarage near which they were wandering; "I am sure the other cannot have so pleasant a garden, nor so pleasant a little drawing-room. Those were happy days when we were snowed up there."

They then went off into a long series of reminiscences and explanations through which it would be useless, were it possible, to follow them.

Emma spent one very happy week at the Castle after her engagement; which was not the less agreeable to every one concerned because both Lord Osborne and Miss Carr left it. He quitted his house immediately after the conversation above recorded; and she then decided that her visit had been long enough to such dreadfully dull people as Rosa and her husband were become: so she took leave of her dear friends and returned, unsuccessful, home.

At the end of a week, Mr. Howard found it necessary to go too; there was business connected with his new living which must be attended to, and unwillingly he tore himself away.

Mrs. Willis still continued in Wales, for though Charles was better, and indeed daily gaining strength, the physicians had so strongly recommended sea air for the re-establishment of his health, that his mother had decided on spending the summer on the sea-coast there.

Howard's departure proved, however, only the prelude to Emma's return to Croydon. Elizabeth's marriage was fast approaching, and she pressed to see Emma again before that event. The idea of again becoming an inmate of Robert's house was so very repulsive to Emma that she demurred from that reason alone, and she was much more inclined to accede to Miss Bridge's repeated invitations to return to Burton. But this Elizabeth urged would be doing no good at all; fourteen miles would as effectually preclude daily meetings as forty, and would be only tantalizing instead of comfortable. The affair was at length arranged through the intervention of Mr. Bridge, who invited both his sister and her young friend to take up their residence for a time in his Vicarage at Croydon. And so it was settled at last, and after a hundred kind words and caresses from Lady Gordon, and the most cordial good wishes from her husband, Emma left the Castle, travelling, be it recorded, in one of Sir William's carriages half the way, where she was to be met by Miss Bridge's chariot, to convey her the latter half of the journey.

With no accident and no adventure she reached Croydon, and of course received a far warmer welcome than when she had formerly made the same journey.

Elizabeth was waiting to receive her—her face was seen through the flowers in the drawing-room window, and she reached the entrance door, and ran down the steps to open the carriage before the fat, well-powdered footman had time to put on his livery coat. She led her sister into the house, and in the passage pushed back the bonnet and the dark curls from her cheeks, to see if she was as pretty as ever. Then, before leading her into the drawing-room, she paused again to make her guess who she would find there.

"You little goose," replied Elizabeth, "as if I should have thought it worth while to make you guess that!"

Then throwing open the door she ushered her in, and in another moment Emma was clasped in the arms of her dear brother Sam. This was a very unexpected pleasure—she had hoped to see him certainly, but never for a moment anticipated meeting him so soon. It was the joint kindness of Miss Bridge and Elizabeth; the one well remembering the affectionate terms in which Emma always spoke of her brother had been suggesting the possibility of his coming, and the other eager to carry out the plan had persuaded George Millar to ask him to his house for the week preceding the wedding. He had arrived that very afternoon, and after an introduction to his future brother, had accompanied Elizabeth to meet Emma.

Emma had much to communicate to Sam; besides her own prospects she had matters which must be interesting to him as concerning himself. A farewell visit which she had paid to the Edwards had brought another engagement to her knowledge. Mary Edwards was soon to be married to Captain Hunter. She found them tête-à-tête in the parlour when she entered, and appearances were so very suspicious, that even without the direct information which Mrs. Edwards subsequently whispered to her, she would have concluded her brother's cause to be lost.

Mrs. Edwards appeared on the whole better reconciled to the match than Emma, from her early recollections, would have supposed. Perhaps she had discouraged Mary's partiality for the Captain, from a doubt of his sincerity, which was now removed; or perhaps finding herself in the minority, she had given up her previous objections, because it was no use to persist in them; whatever were her feelings, she had received Emma's congratulations with a good grace, and Emma hoped there was no ill-will implied in the message of compliments which she charged her to deliver to their old acquaintance Mr. Sam Watson.

All this she had to communicate to Sam, who listened with philosophy, and whistled sotto voce instead of an answer. Certainly the part which piqued him most was Mrs. Edwards' message; for some time indeed he had almost despaired of Mary's affection, but he could not bear that the mother who had never been his friend, should suppose he cared at all about it.

There seemed nothing wanting to complete the felicity of the happy party assembled at the Rectory of Croydon. Perhaps indeed Mr. Howard would not have been flattered had he supposed this the case; but so it really was; Emma had parted from him so recently that she hardly felt the want of his society yet, and the satisfaction of knowing herself beloved was at present sufficient for her repose of mind. The agitations and anxieties of suspense were over, and were followed by a calmness and peace of mind which seemed all that she could require. She had now as much to hear as to tell, for Sam had been to Chichester, and seen Penelope and her husband, had arranged the plan for his future establishment, and his prospects were of a very bright character. Could he only have commanded a couple of thousand pounds, besides what he possessed, there would have been no difficulty at all in stepping into a comfortable house and flourishing business. As it was, the prospects which Penelope promised him should be realized in a short time, were sufficient to raise his mind and ease his spirits.

The next morning Emma had a succession of visitors. Miss Millar was among the first and gayest of the number. She came up with Sam immediately after breakfast, to spend a long day, and expressed great satisfaction at seeing her again.

"You cannot think how dreadfully dull I have been," said she, "almost ever since you went away. George being in love is the stupidest thing in the world. Formerly when he had done with his business, and escaped from his offices he used to be glad of my society and would read or walk when I wanted him, but now all that is quite changed, and if I do get a speech from him once in a week I am taught to consider it a great favour. Upon my word it is a sad disease."

"Oh I trust not," cried Annie quite seriously, "I hope I shall escape the infection, I have such a horror of the whole thing. I beg the pardon of all such of the present company who may be engaged, but I think that people in love are very ridiculous."

"Can you always discern at the first glance when they have the disease," enquired Miss Bridge good-humouredly.

"Yes I think I can—but happily it leaves no marks, and when it is passed, people may be as amiable as before. But it's a sad thing that young people should be so constantly exposed to the danger. I hope you will keep clear Emma, in spite of the atmosphere to which you have removed."

"Is it worse than when I was here two months ago?" enquired Emma, secretly smiling at her young friend's remarks.

"We shall soon see," replied Annie; "if there were any one to fall in love with here, I am certain you would be in a dangerous position."

"Well, why should you except me?" said Mr. Bridge, "here I am a bachelor, why may I not aspire to be considered as a dangerous individual?"

"You, my dear Mr. Bridge—because you are engaged to me; you know you long ago promised to marry me yourself," replied Annie.

"I am flattered at your remembering our engagement, young lady, but I am astonished that you are left so long to me without competition; I think you must be something like Beatrice."

"No, I never had lovers to mock," said she, "except Mr. Alfred Fremantle, and he is the facsimile of Sir John Suckling's constant lover, or rather he resembles him in constancy, but has none of his wit to express it. What is it he says—

Sam turned round from the window, and repeated the lines to which Annie alluded. She looked astonished.

"I thought you were a surgeon, Mr. Samuel Watson," said she still in amazement, "and though never doubting that you knew a great deal of anatomy and such things, did not expect you would be acquainted with love poetry."

"And is it to want of taste or want of time, Miss Millar, that you would attribute my imaginary ignorance?"

"I do not wish to offend you, but certainly I had expected a surgeon's tastes to be different; and I should have referred a case of dislocation or fracture to you, with much more faith than a failure of memory."

"You thought I could mend your finger better than a broken verse, and that though I might make you whole, I should make a line halt—was that it?"

"I believe it was, and my amazement is so great, I do not know when I shall recover," replied she saucily.

"I know you always had a strong prejudice against the medical profession," said Mr. Bridge smiling, "you considered one specimen the type of the whole class."

"I am delighted to hear it," exclaimed Sam, "I like of all things to meet with prejudiced people, one has such a pleasure in disputing with them; good, strong prejudices are delightful things, they are so constantly changing their color and complexion; for I have often observed a strong dislike converted into a decided approbation, whilst the owner is unaware of the change, and gravely assures you he never alters his mind."

"That must be a man's prejudice, Mr. Watson," said Annie, "women are much more consistent. I have hated doctors, surgeons and apothecaries ever since I was five years old, and Mr. Morgan gave me some bon-bons which made me sick. I have always distrusted them since that."

"I am not at all surprised," said Sam, with much gravity; "such an offence was unpardonable, and well deserves to be visited on the whole of the medical profession by your unchanging and unmitigated contempt. After this we cannot allow your dislike to be called a prejudice!"

"Is your brother always as impertinent to every young woman as he is to me?" enquired Annie, turning to Emma, "he seems determined to quarrel with me—has he naturally a bad temper?"

"Really I do not know," replied Emma, "I have seen so little of him, and never with any other young ladies; do you imagine want of temper a necessary accompaniment to his profession?"

"Oh no, I am not quite so bad as that," said she laughing, "doctors ought to be particularly bland and insinuating, able to make all the bitter realities they inflict on one, pass easily under the sweetening cover of a smile and honied words."

They were interrupted by the arrival of other visitors. Emma having just arrived from a prolonged visit to Lady Gordon at Osborne Castle, was likely to become a very popular character at Croydon; there was so much virtue comprised in the friendship of a baronet's wife, and as it was whispered, the admiration of her brother; for accounts of his visit to Croydon had been whispered abroad, and such an act could only be attributed to one motive. All her former acquaintance looked on her as a baroness elect, and all began to find out what a very charming girl they had always thought her. They would not for the world neglect calling on that sweet, amiable Emma Watson. They were so delighted to see her back again; they were so eager that she should make a long stay amongst them all. Croydon would be so gay with all that was going on. The three Miss Watsons had been such a very great addition, it had never been like itself since they came.

Amongst her visitors were her sister-in-law and niece. Emma was really glad to see the little girl, who clung to her and begged her to come back again very soon, as she had no one to teach her now so nicely as she had been used to do.

"My dear Emma," cried Jane, "how delighted I am to see you again, and so blooming as you are looking; upon my word, I really begin to see what Mr. Morgan once said of our likeness. I hope you left your kind friends at the Castle well—charming young man Lord Osborne; nothing of hauteur or pride about him. He seemed quite at home with me—but, to be sure, when people have lived in the same sort of society, they acquire a sort of ease towards each other. I cannot make out that he knew my uncle, Sir Thomas, but he reminded me very much of some of the young men that I used to see at his house."

Here she paused, and Emma, thinking some sort of remark necessary, and yet not having the least idea what she was expected to reply to, only ventured to enquire for her brother.

"Mr. Watson? oh, he is well enough, I believe! I have not seen him this morning, however, for he breakfasted early with Elizabeth; I believe, if he can, he will come and see you some day, but indeed, Emma, you must come to us. We have plenty of room, and should you have any friends coming, we could easily accommodate them too. I would not mind putting myself to any inconvenience for your sake, my dear."

"I am sure I feel much obliged, but at present I mast decline your offers," said Emma, trying to speak with warmth.

"Oh, no, not at all, I assure you, you could expect nothing less from us; we, you know, are your nearest relations, and under certain circumstances, we may naturally be expected to show our approbation and patronage; every young woman has a claim on her own family; so you will certainly come back to us."

"And indeed, dear, I will not take a refusal, so I shall certainly get a room ready for you, and another shall be prepared for a friend whenever it is needed. Did you leave Lord Osborne at the Castle, did you say?"

"Really, for so young a man," continued Mrs. Watson, "his air and manner were remarkable; so exceedingly high-bred and aristocratic. I have seldom seen manners which delighted me more, I assure you. Don't blush so, my dear," added she, making believe to whisper; "nobody here knows anything about him, except you and me."

"Then allow me to suggest that, as a reason for dropping the subject," said Emma, "and recurring to some one more generally interesting."

"La, my dear," laughed Jane, "it looks very suspicious, your not choosing to talk of him. However, if you don't like it, I will say no more—I would not vex you for the world, my dear sister—what a sweet pretty gown that is you have on; Lady Gordon's choice, beyond a doubt."

"No, indeed," replied Emma, smiling, "but I dare say Miss Bridge remembers choosing it for me, whilst we were at Burton."

"What sort of bonnets are most in fashion, Emma?" asked Jane, "Elizabeth's wedding bonnet is, to my taste, vastly ugly; not that I pretend to be a judge at all,—though I used to be thought to have some taste—but I dare say, she was quite right not to take my advice; one must not expect to be always judged candidly—every one cannot see one's merits; so I am not surprised—how are heads worn now?"

Emma tried to recall and describe some of the bonnets she had seen at Lady Gordon's fête, but Mrs. Watson pronounced her description unsatisfactory, wished she had been there to see it, and wondered Margaret had never thought of asking her over for that day. She might have done it so easily, Jane was sure, and considering how very kind Jane had been to Margaret, and how large a share Robert had had in bringing about her marriage, she thought it was the least she could have done, to shew her gratitude and mark her sense of former favors.

Emma tried to excuse Margaret, but fortunately, before she had wasted much eloquence in that way, Jane perceived it was time to withdraw.

No sooner was she out of the room than Sam returned from the window where he had ensconced himself during her visit, and exclaimed:

"Really, I hope it is not very wicked, but that woman puts me more out of patience than all the rest of the world of Croydon put together."

"The rest of the world of Croydon is infinitely obliged to you," said Annie Millar, walking up to him; "allow me, sir, as its representative, to make you a grateful curtsey on the occasion. You can bear with us all better than with your sister-in-law?"

She made him a saucy curtsey as she spoke, looking exceedingly pretty as she did so.

"You ought to be ashamed of yourself for such a speech, Sam," said Emma, at the same moment; "I am sure she meant to be kind."

"Yes, but who did she mean to be kind to, Emma? was it to Emma Watson or some imaginary future baroness," replied Sam.

"Why should I enquire into motives, or attribute a bad ones? She might have been just the same if Lord Osborne had never existed."

"Your brother wants to see how violent prejudices become him," said Annie Millar, "do not argue with him—he does not deserve it."

"Miss Millar is angry with me for the implied reflection on Croydon," said he, "but I knew she had not been brought up here, and never thought of her as belonging to the place."

"And what do you know of Croydon, to give you so dark an opinion of its inhabitants?" enquired she, "I do not think we slander, or court here worse than in other places."

"I have heard a great deal about you all, from my two sisters," replied he; "Emma especially, gave me lively pictures of your proceedings. I was well acquainted with you and your irreconcileable prejudices against unfortunate surgeons several months ago.

"Perhaps I might—but I do not think he would read it if I did—especially if I crossed the letter! George is not fond of letters!"

"Oh yes! I should like to have seen Emma's to you. I am sure they would have been very interesting—does she not write very clever letters?"

"I used to think them interesting and clever—but, perhaps, that was because I am only a surgeon, and could not be expected to have either taste or judgment," replied he, with mock humility.

"Oh, but I think you might have both on that subject—your admiring Emma's letters is decidedly a proof of it."

"And though you have never seen any of those letters, the liking which secures your approbation?"

"Ah! you are too clever for me—you want to make me contradict myself, or something of that sort—but I will not argue with you, and then you cannot prove me wrong."

"You need not say you will not—you cannot argue; no woman can, they can only feel, and express those feelings."

"And taking the converse of your proposition, Mr. Samuel Watson, I presume that men surpass us so much in argument, because they have no feelings. Am I to infer that?"

"We have them, but we guide them, not they us. It is exactly the reverse with you, and you never see more than one side of a question," replied he, in the most straightforward manner possible.

"Yes; you have some feelings very apparent," replied she, "contempt for women is evidently a prominent one."

"Contempt, Miss Millar! no indeed, you do me injustice, if you think so—but, perhaps, you imagine that a part of my profession?"

"I certainly think it one that hardens all the feelings," said she turning away and thus putting a stop to the conversation. It had been settled that the whole vicarage party were to dine at the Millars' that afternoon, and it now became time for those who did not belong to it, to return home to prepare for dinner. Elizabeth Watson, her brother, and Miss Millar accordingly set off together. Elizabeth taking Sam's arm, and Annie walking on her other side; they made the passage with scarcely a syllable passing between them; and as the Millars' house was nearer the vicarage than the residence of the Robert Watsons, Annie left them at the door of her house.

"What do you think of Annie Millar?" cried Elizabeth eagerly, as she and her brother proceeded together. "Is she not charming?"

"Oh, Sam," continued Elizabeth, "I do so wish you would like her; I have always thought she was exactly suited to you. She will have twenty thousand pounds of her own, and I am sure she is much better worth liking than Mary Edwards."

Elizabeth, in her open-hearted zeal for Sam's welfare, never for a moment reflected that she was taking the most probable way to prejudice him against her, since there is nothing which in general has more influence that way than a sister's praises; whilst the surest means to interest a man's favor for any young woman, is to abuse or find fault with her. True to his feelings as a man, Sam of course replied:

"If you reckon her merits by her pounds, I dare say she is, but I do not see otherwise in what she surpasses Mary Edwards."

Fortunately they had just arrived at the termination of their walk, and Sam having seen his sister safely deposited in the house, returned alone to George Millar's residence.

The evening was a very merry one, for the whole party was well assorted and in good spirits, in spite, as Annie observed, of the tremendous event hanging over some of them. But it was not Elizabeth's nature to be very pensive; positive evils did not make her sad, it was not likely then that what she firmly believed to be a positive good, would weigh heavily on her spirits. She was perfectly satisfied with her future prospects, and could look forward without any trembling emotion to her approaching fate. After dinner, when the ladies had returned to the drawing-room, Elizabeth, who was burning with anxiety to make known the fact of Emma's engagement, began enquiring of Annie, if she thought her sister changed since her visit to Osborne Castle. Miss Millar declared she was looking better, plumper, gayer, prettier than ever; but in no other respect was she altered.

"Then you do not suspect her of having fallen in love?" enquired Miss Watson laughingly.

"I see no trace of it," said the other, examining Emma from head to foot with a grave air, taking a candle from the chimney-piece to throw more light on her countenance. "I see no symptoms at all, pray do not attempt to raise such unfounded imputations against her, Elizabeth; your insinuations disgrace you!"

"Nay then, in my own justification I must inform you, Annie,—shall I tell, Emma—or do you blush to own the truth?" enquired Miss Watson with a significant smile.

"Not that she is engaged to that Lord Osborne!" cried Annie, starting back with horror, "you are not going to confirm the rumour which Miss Jenkins and Mrs. Watson so industriously circulate, and that brought Miss Morgan and Miss Fenton to call on her to-day. This can never be."

"My dear Annie," said Emma smiling quietly, "that Lord Osborne, as you call him, is a very estimable young man, and would make any woman who liked him very happy I have no doubt."

"Indeed! well I hope he will, if you are going to marry him," said Annie with a mournful countenance and expression, that made Elizabeth laugh out-right, "but in that case, when you are Lady Osborne, we shall never see you again."

"I dare say not," replied Emma, "but, believe me, I never intend to be Lady Osborne, so your alarm is unfounded."

"And you are not engaged to him, and you are free—oh, how glad I am—I was sure you could not be," cried Annie quite rapturously.

"Well then, Annie, I am sorry to lower your opinion of my sister, but as the fact must come sooner or later to your knowledge, and you seem now tolerably prepared to receive it, I have to make to you the distressing announcement that Emma is in reality engaged to be married, though not to Lord Osborne, who is not the only man in the world I assure you."

"Emma engaged to be married," said Annie with a desponding look, "then I have no hope; the next thing I shall hear, is that my hand is disposed of; we shall none of us escape it. Dear Miss Bridge, how did you manage?"

"I would not recommend you to wish for my fate, my dear, I had a bitter disappointment," replied the old lady with extraordinary placidity.

"My dear madam," said Annie respectfully, and taking her hand as she spoke, "I beg your pardon a thousand times, but I assure you I did not know that, or I would not have jested on the subject."

"My dear child, the thing is too long passed to hurt my feelings now," said Miss Bridge smoothing down Annie's glossy hair as she inclined her head towards her; "but I do not think you would wish to buy my present peace of mind by undergoing all I have felt and suffered."

"Well Elizabeth, do tell us what is the name of your sister's young man—who is he and what is he? I am longing to know all about it."

Elizabeth told them all she knew, and when she added that Lord Osborne had recently given him a valuable living, Emma enquired whether she was not right in saying that Lord Osborne was an estimable young man.

"What, because he has livings to dispose of?" said Annie. "I suppose he could not help that."

"Oh! but you must understand that Lord Osborne was in love with her, and therefore, as he could not marry her himself, it was very generous of him to give his rival an income to enable him to do so."

"Emma tries to make a mystery of it," continued her sister; "I cannot get her to own that Lord Osborne proposed to her; but I am sure if he did not, it was because she accepted Mr. Howard before he had time to do so."

The gentlemen at this juncture returned to the drawing-room, for neither of the three seemed disposed to prefer the bottle to the ladies, and Annie sat down to prepare tea. Sam approached the table, which was a little removed from the others, and tendered his assistance if necessary. She did not accept or decline his offer, but looked a little confused; he could not decide whether she was angry or vexed, and stood quietly by considering her countenance, and aiding her whenever she required more water from the elegant silver kettle which swung over a spirit-lamp in the place of our modern urn.

At length, when the others seemed engrossed with their tea and conversation, she raised her head and said, with a little embarrassment,

"I certainly owe you some apology, Mr. Watson, for the incivility of my last speech to you this afternoon. I am quite shocked to think I should have been so rude."

"Indeed, Miss Millar, I was not affronted, for I had known your opinion before, and I thought the apologies were rather due from me, since, though quite unintentionally, I had given you the idea that I entertained a contempt for women. I did not deserve that accusation, but my expressions must have been wrong, if they awoke such an idea."

Annie could not help feeling that even a surgeon might look very handsome, and that his tone and manner might convey the conviction of his perfect sincerity: she liked him, in spite of his profession.

"Seriously, Mr. Watson, I should never accuse you of anything of the sort," returned she after a moment's reflection; "so I suppose we may pass an amnesty for past offences, and declare a truce for the present."

"No," she replied shaking her head; "that would be promising too much. I shall be certain to quarrel with you again, and it does not do to break treaties. Do you know I was never, as a child, so much inclined to be naughty as when I had just promised to be very good. Let us content ourselves with a four hours' truce, renewable or not at the end of that time."

"Be it so," replied he laughing, "if you think that the safest proceeding or the most agreeable. So you were a naughty girl, were you, at school?"

"Oh, always in a scrape—the torment of my governess," said she laughing at the recollection. "They used gravely to shake their heads, and say they did not know what would become of me; I should never be good for anything; so idle—so rebellious—so mischievous—so saucy—and withal so merry and happy—I always got my own way with them all."

"First to play at battledore and shuttle-cock, and repeat 'I love my love with an A,' &c.—then to dance—I liked that—then to do cross-stitch, tent and marking—I worked a magnificent sampler, which I will show you some day. Then I learnt my letters and to read, because they promised me some fairy tales if I would try. The next accomplishment I acquired was to do a sum in the rule of three, for which I was rewarded with 'Sir Charles Grandison,' in seven volumes. I do not know that I learnt anything else, except the way to govern all my companions, coax my superiors—oh, and write a letter."

"Well, I think it must have been a very good school, and if ever I have daughters they shall be sent there too. I admire the system exceedingly."

"Yes, I think it was a very good school," replied Annie; "to be sure, I learnt nothing worth knowing, and a great deal which I had better have let alone: one sees a prodigious deal of meanness, and manœuvring, and artful conduct when thirty or forty girls are assembled together; but I suppose it is all right, since it has gone on for so many generations, and I do not know that women are worse than they used to be before they ever pretended to learn. We do not expect to rival Lady Jane Grey, or Queen Elizabeth, or the daughters of Evelyn, and I dare say if we did, we should only be disliked and ridiculed. No doubt it is quite right that women should be idle and frivolous; it keeps us in our right places in the world."

She spoke with something in her tone between jest and bitterness, to which Sam hardly knew how to answer.

"I protest against your giving the conversation such a turn; it is breaking our truce," said he, "you must either speak in complete jest, or serious earnest. I shall be getting into a scrape again with you, if I answer now, for I do not know which you mean."

"Let it pass for a jest then, lest you should think me seriously discontented with my position in society," replied she, "and in the meantime, give me Miss Bridge's teacup to replenish!"

"After all, for a surgeon, he really is pleasant," thought she, "it is a pity he has such a bad profession, I am quite sorry for him."

It was with these feelings that they sat down to cards; after which, of course, they had no more private conversation until the company had left the house.

The week that preceded Elizabeth's wedding, seemed extremely short to the whole of the parties immediately concerned; every day was occupied with some excursion for their amusement, and every evening was passed at the house of some friendly acquaintance, who would not be refused the pleasure of their company. Nobody, at this epoch, was more popular than the future Mrs. George Millar; since her neighbours could not prevent her marriage, they were determined to extract as much pleasure from the occurrence as possible. For this end they gave a number of tea-parties to welcome her brother and say good-bye to her sisters, and learn as much as they could of the future plans and prospects of each. The handsome Mr. Samuel Watson, with his lively manners, promising prospects, and probable disengaged heart, was really a most interesting object; and since Emma was supposed to be engaged, and there was no further ground for her exciting jealousy, she was allowed, on all hands, to be uncommonly handsome and agreeable too. Nothing, therefore, was omitted, which could express their favourable opinion of the whole family, or their anxiety to be on good terms with them all.

It was no particular misery to Jane that, whilst every one else was pressing for their company, there was not one day left disengaged for her. She liked a great better to be invited to meet them, as she was every evening: for, unless she could quite outshine all her neighbours in the elegance of her entertainment, she preferred giving none at all; and as it happened that Robert was in a stingy mood, she had, with difficulty, extracted from him sufficient money to buy the very handsome gown and bonnet in which she was to appear at the wedding.

At all these parties where, of course, the Millars regularly met the Watsons, Sam still contrived to be a great deal with Annie,—but the most favourable opportunities for intercourse, were during their long rambles in the country. Then he was always her cavalier, and they quarrelled and laughed together without interruption. Her spirits seemed as inexhaustible as her strength; she could both walk and talk for miles without mental or bodily exhaustion, and often tired out all her companions except Sam.

It was no wonder then, when he paid her the compliment of untiring attention, and unvarying amusement, that she should, in her turn, find him a most delightful companion, infinitely more agreeable than any one she had ever known. No more was heard about his profession—she forgot it entirely, and only considered him in the light of a very pleasant acquaintance.

It was natural that, during some of their many engagements, Emma should again meet Mr. Morgan; and equally natural that she should feel some embarrassing recollections at doing so. A bow was all that their situation, at the first moment of meeting, allowed to pass between them; but, when by a movement amongst her neighbours, a vacant seat, and the power of reaching it allowed him, he did not hesitate to avail himself of the opportunity, and place himself by her side.

There was nothing of restraint or embarrassment in his manner—no appearance of consciousness or shame; he did not know, perhaps, how much their joint names had been made the subject of gossip and scandal—she thought so for a moment, but then, from what she remembered, she knew he must have been aware of it; then she felt angry at his impudence; but finally, she concluded that, after all, he was taking the wisest course; and that to converse quietly, as if nothing had passed to raise an unpleasant feeling, would be, on the whole, the conduct least calculated to excite attention.

Calm and polite as she was, he was sensible of a difference in her manners from past days, and he did not indulge a hope of regaining her confidence; but it wounded his vanity to suppose that she, amongst all the women of his acquaintance, beheld him with calm dislike; whilst he could not even to himself deny her superiority over the many whose approbation or admiration constantly followed his footsteps.

If he could not regain her friendship he wanted at least to excite some emotion in her mind, and call up one of her former smiles so full of brightness and feeling. With the tact which gave him half his popularity, he hit upon the subject most likely to awaken kind sentiments in her heart; he began praising her brother. The introduction had given him so much pleasure, he was, he would not say astonished, but certainly most agreeably surprised to find Mr. Samuel Watson so very superior a young man. There was no likeness to Mr. Watson—no—he could not compliment his good friend, Robert, by saying that there was; seldom had he seen two brothers more dissimilar; but her younger brother's manners were so good—such a young man must make his way in the world, must be a favourite; there was every probability of his success; nay, there was certainty of it: there was intelligence and spirit in his eye, which promised nobly. Then he enquired minutely into his prospects; entered with the warmth of a friend into the plan for his establishing himself at Chichester, and gave several hints for his benefit.

Emma, in spite of her aversion to the speaker, and her determination that nothing should make her admit even the semblance of mutual friendship in their future intercourse, found herself speaking with unintentional warmth and animation. She checked herself immediately, and a shade of vexation passed over her countenance; which was not lost on her companion. Accustomed to study the minds and inclinations of his various patients, his quickness at reading all the little marks of feeling evinced in their countenances, enabled him pretty well to appreciate the state of her mind; but when he proceeded on the same subject, in hopes of once more inducing her to express her feelings, he was extremely vexed to find that, after making him some short and trivial reply, she rose and walked away.

This movement marked a decided aversion on her part which piqued him deeply, and for which he was not prepared. He remained in his seat, spoke to no one else, and occupied himself, whilst he continued in the room, in considering whether he no longer had any chance of regaining his influence with her.

He knew pretty well all that had passed, and all that had been whispered about their former intimacy; but he thought that since all that had been set in a favourable point of view, and her character perfectly cleared, she need not now have been so cold and distant to him. If, as was whispered, she was engaged to some one else, there was no reason for shunning him, unless, and the thought actually thrilled his mind with delight, unless she had really preferred him, and now feared to trust herself in his power. This would account for all her conduct; her flight to Burton—her engagement itself, and her present shrinking from him—all might be traced to the same source. His vanity was excited to the highest pitch, as he thought of this interpretation, and he could believe her quite capable of such strength of mind, and firmness of purpose. Other women when they had liked him, had thrown themselves in his way, but it was perfectly consonant with what he supposed her character to be, that she should follow a precisely opposite course of conduct.

If this were the case he felt sure he might regain his former influence by a little dexterous management, and as a first step towards it, he resolved to cultivate the friendship of her youngest brother. Had he known that he was perfectly excluded from her regard by the double barrier of a very ill opinion of himself, and a warm attachment to Mr. Howard, he might have spared himself the trouble of the attempt.

Towards the end of the week a sort of gipsy party had been arranged to form an expedition to a pretty park in the neighbourhood, which from the absence of the owner was a frequent resort on such occasions. Mr. Morgan was not originally asked to join it; but knowing what was going on, he presented himself at the door of George Millar's house just before the company started, and his expressions of regret at not having time to see more of Sam speedily produced a very hearty invitation from Mrs. Turner, the chaperone of the party, to accompany them; for, as she observed, "on such occasions the more the merrier."

It was a very large party without him. Mrs. Turner and the two Millars, four Watsons, for Jane was of the party, with Alfred Freemantle as her escort, since her husband would not leave the office, two cousins of hers, young ladies who had arrived the day before to grace Elizabeth's wedding, Miss Bridge, and some young ladies, natives of the town: in short they numbered fourteen without Mr. Morgan, but as ladies were in the majority he was heartily welcomed by several of the party at least, if not by those particular individuals whose favour he most desired.

How the whole of the party were disposed of in different vehicles, need not now be particularised; there was variety at least in their equipages, and the power of choice in arranging themselves. Sam was the charioteer of an "inside Irish car," which of course amongst its passengers numbered Annie Millar, and likewise Emma Watson; Mrs. Robert Watson; two young cousins, completed this party, and apparently made any addition impossible; but one of the girls, not liking to be entitled to only a fifth part of the attention of any gentleman, suddenly abdicated her seat in favour of Mr. Morgan, that she might enjoy the place of third in a gig, under the escort of Alfred Freemantle. Nothing could have been more consonant to his wishes, than this sudden piece of good luck which thus befell Mr. Morgan: his gaiety was quite remarkable, but his judgment and tact, were still more so. For he devoted himself at first to please the stranger, and do the honors of the country to her; he was bent on making himself agreeable, but it was in the most open and unsuspicious way. There was nothing of tenderness or sentiment in his manners, nothing approaching to flirtation in his address to Miss Hall, and to the others it was as perfectly correct, as if dictated by Lord Chesterfield himself.

Annie, indeed, was too much engrossed by the driver to notice the intruder; she had no attention to bestow on any one else; and had not the horse been particularly quiet and sagacious, and the road remarkably smooth and straight, it is by no means unlikely that their drive might have terminated abruptly under some hedge, so much more was Sam himself occupied with the lady behind, than the road in front of him. Neither Miss Hall nor Emma, however, made any complaint of his coachmanship; for Emma, being opposite to Annie, enjoyed the full benefit of her lively remarks; and whilst her neighbour confined his attention to his vis-à-vis, the proximity to him, in which she unexpectedly found herself, did not discompose her at all, nor did she feel any impatience for the termination of so agreeable a drive.

When they alighted in the park, which was the termination of their drive, they found most of the company assembled before them, and separated into groups strolling about on the borders of the artificial lake, a sail on which was one of their projected pleasures. In consequence of this, these five were left together to entertain each other, until the arrival of the whole party enabled them to arrange their plans for the day's amusement. The point of rendezvous was an ornamental boat-house, standing at one angle of the lake, embowered in fir trees, and commanding a pretty view of the opposite banks, which were high and woody. Miss Hall was, what was then more rare than now, a sketching young lady: and her pencils were speedily produced. But she could not bear inspection whilst taking her views, and unceremoniously desired the other four to walk away.

It was a proof of Sam's great good-nature to Emma, that he continued with her, and declined the tempting opportunity of securing a comfortable walk with Annie Millar, that he might not leave his sister with no other companion than Mr. Morgan. Perhaps Miss Millar might not entirely appreciate this self-sacrifice on his part, or possibly might not thank him for it, so much as Emma; certainly Mr. Morgan, who had calculated on a different line of conduct, judging from the evident admiration which Sam had previously testified for Annie, was very much disappointed at it. He took care to keep close to Emma's side, ready to improve any opportunity that might present itself; and thus they wandered about, without thinking much of where they were going, or paying much attention to the really pretty scenery around them. The consequence of this was, that they lost their place in the boat, for being quite out of sight and hearing when it was ready, their companions did not wait for them; and the intended sail had so entirely escaped the memory of the quartet, that the first thing which recalled it to their memory, was the sight of the boat, which caught their eyes just us they gained the summit of an eminence commanding a view of the whole sheet of water at their feet.

Sam expressed a hope that Miss Millar was not vexed at this incident. Annie protested that for herself she did not care about it, but she should be very sorry indeed, if she had beguiled Emma from sharing in any pleasure she would have enjoyed.

Emma, on her side, was of opinion that they were much more comfortable as they were; the boat seemed very much crowded, and she thought to be squeezed in such a way that they could not move, nor even turn their heads to contemplate the scenery, was not half so pleasant as sitting on the green bank where they were resting so comfortably.

"In parties of this sort," said Mr. Morgan, "all depends on the company; an uncongenial companion will spoil everything—even the finest landscape in the world."

"Very true," replied Annie, quickly; "but how can one help that? One can not say to a disagreeable person, 'Go away—you annoy and distress me!' One can only smile politely and suffer internally."

"You, I dare say, can smile whilst annoyed," observed Sam, "but I never can; whether I am happy or miserable, I show it immediately."

"Do you indeed," replied she, "I am sorry to hear that; I had been hoping that the gloomy look and air of despondency with which you have treated us, were your habitual manners, and might not really indicate the state of intense suffering to which I suppose I must now attribute them."

"I am certain my looks have expressed my feelings accurately," replied he sturdily.

"Very well, I shall set my imagination to work to invent some romantic cause for the dejection of spirits which you display. You are, probably, repenting over some lost patient, whose end you hastened by your surgical arts."

"I do not think you ought to jest on such subjects," replied he, gravely; then, as she turned her head towards him with an expression of surprise, he added, "Excuse my liberty of speech. I quite forgot who I was speaking to."

She was silent and looked down, so that her bonnet concealed her countenance. He viewed her uneasily, and wanted to know whether she was affronted—or from what other reason she maintained this silence. Mr. Morgan saw all this; he could not read Annie's feelings exactly, but he felt convinced that, had they, at that moment, been without witnesses, some very tender scene would have ensued.

He now took up the conversation by observing, how much more beautiful the landscape would be in two months' time, when the tints of autumn gave a little variety to the scenery. The dull, heavy green of summer, he declared, reminded him always of mourning; it was so sombre.

He appealed to Emma, and she was compelled to reply. She had nothing to urge against his preference for the autumnal tints—except, that their proximity to winter gave them sadness, which, in themselves, they did not merit.

"The sadness of autumn is, however, compensated by the hopes of returning spring; we can bear to part with the verdure, which we know will be restored in fresh beauty. In that respect, how superior is inanimate nature, and our feeling of love for it, to human friendship, or regard, or esteem."

"Who can tell when a faded friendship shall be renewed, or when a withered hope shall again look flourishing and verdant. The blast of winter is certain to pass away, and its consequences vanish with it—but the fatal breath of enmity—the chilling effects of whispered malevolence—the poison of calumny—tell me Miss Watson, of a cure for these, if you can."

"Yes, patience—one needs that, indeed, to bear what I alluded to—when one sees the face which used to meet one with a smile, averted gravely—the hand once freely extended, now drawn back—the kindly words, once gushing out from the friendly heart, like water from a copious fountain, exchanged for the slow and measured accents which freeze the heart, as they drop out one by one; when one sees all this," he continued, lowering his voice, but speaking with impressive energy; "and knows it to be the cold deadness of feeling produced by the ill-will of others—the blighting words of malice—what can one hope—to what spring shall one look forward? when may one expect the young feelings of friendship to bud again?"

"Depend upon it they will, unless there is something more than unkind breath to check them. To pursue your allegory, Mr. Morgan, if the plant of friendship wither irretrievably, it must be because there is something wrong at the root, otherwise, it is certain once more to revive."

"I believe," said he, after a momentary pause, "my feelings are deeper and more permanent, than those of most people."

"Yours Mr. Morgan!" interposed Annie, amazed, "I had no idea you were troubled with any thing of the sort—when did you first find out that you had any feelings?"

"Why, to own the truth, though we have been so long acquainted," said she, "I cannot say that I ever undertook to investigate the nature or extent of your feelings on any subject. I had a sort of general idea that you had some; but of what quality I should have been very much puzzled to say, except that I certainly should not have thought of constancy as your particular forte. However, I am willing to plead total ignorance on the subject. Ignorance for which I alone am to blame, arising from indifference and inattention."

"You need hardly remind me of that, Miss Millar," retorted he with mock humility, "I am quite aware that I am too entirely an object of indifference to you, for my feelings to be considered worth a moment's attention."

He walked away, as he spoke, to a short distance, and seemed occupied in viewing the landscape from the brow of the hill on which he stood, his features expressing an appearance of wounded feelings struggling with pride.

"At least he wants to make us believe so," replied she softly, "but it's all seeming—seeming—there is nothing real about that man."

"Now I rather like him," said Sam, "he seems so kind and friendly towards me, I am quite indebted to him for the interest which he has taken in my prospects, and the useful hints which he has given me."

"I did not consult him on the subject, it is a point on which I should neither ask nor take advice."

"Bravo, Mr. Watson—a most spirited determination. It is a point of so little consequence indeed, and one in which your own experience must be so calculated to guide you, that no doubt your intention to reject all advice, is most judicious and praise-worthy."

"Are you of opinion that I am incompetent to act for myself in such a case?" enquired he.

"I shall tell you as I did Mr. Morgan just now, I am ignorant and indifferent on that subject—and now you can go and walk on the other side of the hill—or if you think it will look more picturesque, by the side of yonder angry gentleman."

"No, Miss Millar, your ignorance, and indifference shall not drive me from you; I would rather try to enlighten the one and overcome the other."

This, though whispered softly, seemed to overpower her; she coloured deeply; rose from the bank where they were sitting, and walked away to the side of an adjoining thicket, where she employed herself in trying to gather some brier roses from the hedge. Sam watched her for some minutes, then perceiving that in stretching forward to grasp a blossom, her veil had become entangled in a thorny shrub, he started up, and in a moment was at her side to aid and release her.

Emma did not like to follow them, thinking she should be in the way, and expecting that a few minutes would bring them back. In the mean time Mr. Morgan looked round, and seeing her alone joined her. He still affected to look hurt and sad, and Emma generously gave him credit for more feeling than he deserved.

"You must not mind what she says," suggested Emma kindly, "I am certain she sometimes speaks without thinking, but never from malice or ill will, even when she seems severe."

"She does not surprise me," replied he; "I am used to her ways, and there is no change in her; she is always the same, it is vacillations of friendship, variations of good opinion which I confess astonish and pain me. And yet why should they—after all, the human mind is so liable to error, so prone to seek misconstructions, so inclined to change and variation, that nothing of the kind ought to surprise me."

She was determined to be silent, and occupied herself in wishing for the return of her brother and Annie, who had strayed farther than she had expected, and were now out of sight.

He was disappointed at her silence, and changed the subject into an enquiry as to whether she should make a long stay at Croydon. She told him she was only to remain until her sister's marriage, which would, as he knew, very shortly occur.

"And then," said he, "may I ask where you are going—do you return to Osborne Castle?"

"Certainly not," replied she decisively, "I do not think I am likely to go there at all. Sir William and Lady Gordon have taken a house in the neighbourhood of his own property, and if I visit them, it will be there."

"I trust you, with your talents and accomplishments, your taste and your sensibility, are not doomed to pass your life as the companion of an elderly lady, buried in an obscure country village, unknown and unadmired."

"There might be many worse positions in life, more disagreeable companions, and more trying situations, Mr. Morgan," replied Emma with warmth.

"Forgive me if my interest for you has led me to express my feelings in an unauthorised way. I cannot entirely forget the past, nor consign to oblivion all that I once flatter myself was felt between us."

She could not exactly tell what to answer him, for she really hardly knew what construction to place upon his words. He paused for a moment and then resumed.

"Rumour was wrong then, when it asserted that there were ties in contemplation, which would bind you closely to Osborne Castle—that, in short, the young lord, doing justice to the merits which would grace a higher rank, had sought to make you his wife."

"I had thought it strange indeed if a young man so unformed, so bearish, so almost brutal, had known how to value, much more to win, a jewel so bright and excellent."

"I must beg, Mr. Morgan, if you mention Lord Osborne's name at all, it may be in terms such as I may listen to without offence. Pray remember that I am under obligations to that family, for which it would be a bad return to hear, without remonstrance, such aspersions cast on the head of it. But I must confess I see no reason why either they or myself should form the subject of your interrogatories. You have no claim either past or present, which can make these enquiries anything short of impertinent, and I must beg they may cease entirely."

She then walked a few steps to see if she could obtain any view of her brother and friend, for whose return she felt anxious. Nothing, however, was to be seen of them, and as she paused, her companion was again at her side.

"How unfortunate I am," said he in a low tone, "it is constantly my fate to offend those for whom I feel the deepest interest, and to be misunderstood on every occasion where my sentiments are concerned. Interest, friendship, zeal, constantly carry me beyond the bounds proscribed by cold custom and formality, and I am repulsed in a way which all but annihilates me. At this moment you are angry with me; have I sinned unpardonably?"

"I am not angry" said Emma, drily, "but I must beg that all personal subjects of conversation may be dropped; we have neither sentiments nor interests in common, and on all topics connected with feeling I must impose a total silence."

"Unfeeling, cruel girl," cried he, then seeing that she resolutely walked away in the direction of the boat-house, where she concluded the party must be now assembled, he followed her steps in haste, and placing himself by her side, he continued in a low but emphatic tone,

"Emma Watson, why should you scorn my offers of friendship, and my professions of regard? Why should you shun me as if I were some dangerous enemy? Do you mistrust my word; or am I responsible for the silly gossiping of idle women? Did I not warn you against it?—why then visit it on me? Or have I personally offended you?—what have I done?—you will not speak—you try to elude me—nay, but you shall hear me; you shall answer me by heaven!—Who has wronged me in your opinion?"

"Mr. Morgan, let go my hand—is this honourable?—is this manly to attempt to obtain an answer to impertinent enquiries by compulsion?—Let go my hand—I tell you I will neither hear nor answer you!"

"Emma, I was wrong—" said he, softening his voice, but instead of releasing her hand, clasping it in both of his, "I ought to know you better—I understand your heart and feelings—"

"You do no such thing, sir,—or you would not detain me here, or compel me to listen to such language. Let me go—I command you."

"Of mine, it is everything in the world to me—you love me—deny it if you can."

"No, it is not insolence, Emma, you look beautiful in scorn, but you need not scorn me; I am your equal in birth and education—aye! and in taste and mental qualities too—and happily possessed of the fortune which you want. And I love you, and tender all to you. You have done what no other woman ever did—for your sake I would even stoop to the yoke of matrimony; so great is my love and admiration for you. Now have I said enough—now you may venture to confess the feelings long treasured in your heart—the love which I have long read in your downcast eye, and averted smile—maiden modesty need no more compel you to silence—speak, my Emma—bless me with the words I am longing, panting to hear."

He advanced one step nearer as he spoke, and seemed about to pass his arm round her waist, but Emma availed herself of the movement to snatch her hand from his, and stepping back, whilst she cast on him a look of withering scorn, she replied,

"Yes, you have said enough, Mr. Morgan, to warrant my speaking plainly—and I will speak—from what extraordinary perversion of reasoning, you have persuaded yourself I loved you I cannot tell, but I trust you will believe me once for all—when I say my feelings are entirely the reverse of yours—and when I add—I love and am engaged to another."

Mr. Morgan stepped back in his turn with an air in which disbelief and bitter mortification struggled, with an attempt at indifference and contempt.

"Engaged—impossible—Emma, you are deceiving me—it is a downright falsehood!" exclaimed he.

"I must beg you to leave me," said she, haughtily. "I am not accustomed to associate with those who accuse me of falsehood—I can find my way alone."

She had continued to walk on from the moment she had declared her engagement, and she flattered herself she must be approaching the boat-house, but as they had reached the low ground, and were making their way amidst thickets intersected with narrow paths, they could not see the building.

"And it is for this," he exclaimed, presently, "that I stooped to ask your hand—that I humbled myself as I never before did to woman, to be scorned and rejected—false-hearted girl—true type of your weak and vacillating sex—leading me to believe you preferred me, that you might spurn me from you with disdain!" he approached one step nearer as he spoke, and his face wore a look of malignity which absolutely frightened Emma—he saw it.

"No, you need not shrink from me—I am not so mad as to do you harm; you are safe under the protection of the laws. I would not risk my freedom for all the girls in Surrey. But I must speak my feelings—"

He had no time, however, to say more, for hurried footsteps were heard behind them, and in another moment Sam was beside his sister.

"My dearest Emma, I beg ten thousand pardons, but I was so sorry that I left you—I assure you I had no intention of doing so—only—only—Annie Millar persuaded me; but the moment we met some one whom she could join, I ran back for you, and found you were gone—I am very sorry. You are not angry with me?"

He felt her hand tremble under his arm, and looking in her face, perceived she was very pale.

"You have walked too far, dear Emma," said he affectionately; "you wanted my arm—how sorry I am. Why did not Morgan support you?"

He looked round, but the gentleman in question had taken another path and was out of sight. Emma tried to speak, but instead of articulating words, she only burst into tears, and astonished Sam by appearing on the verge of a fit of hysterics.

He had too much sense to press for an explanation, but contented himself with making her sit down, removing her bonnet and gloves, and supporting her till she was calm again.

He then begged for some explanation of her emotion: she said she was foolish: he admitted that was possible, but only if she refused him all reasons for her conduct. She promised to be more explicit some other time if he would only now give her back her bonnet, allow her to make herself tidy, and rejoin the party.

These very reasonable requests could not be refused, and they returned to the boat-house together, just as another division of their party entered it likewise; consequently their appearance without Mr. Morgan created no surprise or remark.

He returned a short time after, quite calm and happy in appearance, and nothing on either side transpired to attract the attention of the company, or give rise to the smallest surmise that anything unusual had occurred. It was some comfort to have to deal with so complete an actor, one who would betray nothing undesirable, by word or deed.

After dinner Sam again drew Emma aside and would not be satisfied till he had, by close questioning, extorted from her everything that had passed. Nothing less than the exact words, so far as she could remember them, would do for him; he supposed things twenty times worse than the truth, unless she could assert, on her honour, the exact state of the facts. She was quite miserable at telling him, because she could not get him to own what he thought, or promise to take no further notice of the circumstance. Instead of giving her the assurance she required, he sometimes laughed and put her off with an evasive answer, sometimes frowned and resolutely closed his lips—sometimes told her to go away for a foolish girl, and not meddle with what did not concern her.

She was certain he meditated more than he would own, and her fears made her apprehend that any demand for explanation or apology from Mr. Morgan, would produce a quarrel which must end in a challenge. With wretched feelings she returned to the party.

Here they found a rather noisy scene. Alfred Freemantle and Mr. Morgan, having both elevated their spirits by the great quantity of bad wine which they had imbibed at dinner, were trying to induce some of the young ladies to accompany them in the boat, which was lying near the shore. The two Miss Halls and Mrs. Robert Watson, were carrying on a half-romping opposition to this plan, but evidently intending to yield their consent after a proper opposition.

Alfred Freemantle accused them of being cowards, which the three ladies of course denied.

"Come, then," cried Mr. Morgan, catching her hand and dragging Mrs. Watson down the bank. "Come and shew that you trust me!"

"I have no influence with either," said Sam, coolly, "perhaps you could dissuade her better than I!"

George followed her, and drawing her back, whispered something in her ear, which was not communicated to the others, but which seemed to have some effect upon her. She paused a moment, and then returning to the others said,

"I think you are right, George Millar, it will not agree with me so soon after dinner. I shall not go."

"And if you do not, Jane," said Miss Hall, "I am sure neither my sister nor I shall venture—it would be quite improper without a chaperone."

"I know what it is," cried Alfred, "you think we cannot manage the boat, but you are quite mistaken, as you shall see. I am not drunk, though you think we are; we will go without you!"

As he said these words he sprang on board after Mr. Morgan, who was already there, and they pushed off from the shore, and rowed a little way. Presently two of the other young ladies called to them to enquire where they were going.

Mr. Morgan replied that they were going to land on a little island opposite to smoke a cigar—would they come?

The girls acceded to the proposition; and, contrary to the advice of the whole party, persisted in their determination. The boat returned to take them on board, and no sooner where they seated, than Alfred amused himself by making the boat roll in the water, in order to frighten them. Had they sat still, there would have been no danger—but in their alarm they both started up, and catching hold of him at the same moment, they all three fell heavily against the gun-wale and upset the boat at once.

A loud scream from the party on shore was, of course, the first effort of their sympathy. The two other gentlemen simultaneously rushed into the water, and without much difficulty, succeeded in rescuing the two ladies—for the accident had happened so close to the shore, that it was not out of their depth. Alfred Freemantle likewise rose, and scrambled towards the bank, up which he crept a deplorable object.

The young women of course, excited the greatest sympathy, and none but Emma, at the first moment, remembered that there had been a fourth person in the boat. But she had kept her eyes on the place where he had sunk, and saw, with horror, that there was no trace of him—he did not reappear.

Every one turned at the name, from the dripping objects round which they had been crowding—ejaculations on every side were heard.

"True, Morgan! he has sunk—he is drowning! good heavens! can you do nothing? Call for help! run for the boatmen!" and twenty other exclamations.

"But we must be cautious," continued Millar, "he may be sunk in a hole, or entangled in the weeds—the bottom is very foul."

Emma pointed out, as well as she could, the spot where he had disappeared, and watched, with breathless anxiety, whilst the two swam round and round, and dived again and again. His hat was floating on the water at a little distance; but no sign or trace of him appeared. One of the party had summoned the boatmen, who, after much delay brought drags and hooks, and having succeeded in righting the boat, they did their utmost to discover the missing man; but they did not seem to have much expectation of success; they said they knew it was a dangerous part of the bank; that there was a deep hole just thereabouts, into which the gentleman had probably sunk, and that many years ago, a similar accident having happened, had occasioned the former owner of the place, to forbid boating there at all. But his son had, for some years, allowed it, though they should not wonder if he were to shut it up now from the public.

Their conjectures on the subject might have lasted a long time before any one interrupted them, for the whole party were too horror-stricken to speak. The dripping and the dry alike stood together in motionless excitement, or intense anxiety, watching the result of their efforts. It seemed impossible, that one but lately so full of life and spirit, one of themselves—one who had for so long a time belonged to them, could have thus suddenly disappeared without warning, and have left no vestige behind. It was too horrible—to perish before their eyes, and from so trivial a cause. For many minutes, the extremity of their feeling was shown by their total silence; then, when the conviction was forced on them, that he was really lost, hysterical sobs and screams were heard, especially from the two girls, who had been the immediate cause of the accident, and who, shocked at their own share of the misfortune, shivering with cold, convulsed with horror, and in every way overcome, now demanded the attention of such of the party, as had any sense or self-possession left.

Fortunately the carriages were at this moment announced, and the only possible thing to do, as they were far from all assistance, was for the sufferers to be wrapped in such cloaks as could be found amongst them, and conveyed back to Croydon as speedily as possible.

Neither George nor Sam would consent to leave the place, whilst a shadow of a hope remained that the body might be recovered, but they insisted that their sisters should return home at once, as they proposed, when all was over, if the search was unsuccessful, to walk to a public-house on the outskirts of the Park, and dry themselves there, before returning to Croydon. Emma had the presence of mind to propose that a carriage and a supply of dry clothes should be despatched there to meet them, by the first of the party that arrived at home.

Under the escort of Miss Bridge's manservant, instead of Sam, Elizabeth, Emma, Annie, and Miss Hall, returned in the vehicle which had borne them so gaily and light-hearted to the Park. But little conversation passed, and the few words which were said, had no reference to the fatal event; it was too recent and too shocking to speak of. To Emma, indeed, after what had so lately passed between them, the circumstance seemed beyond description or imagination terrible. The angry feelings with which they had parted, the malevolence he had expressed, and the evident state of half-intoxication, to which he had perhaps resorted to drown his disappointed feelings, and conceal his chagrin and mortification, all seemed to rise up, as if to reproach her conscience. Why had she been so scornful and so bitter; perhaps, had she answered more mildly, had she shown less contempt and more compassion, he might still have been alive, all this might not have happened. It appeared like a horrid dream altogether, their angry dispute—Sam's indignation, and her fears for him, and finally, Mr. Morgan's sudden disappearance, all had passed so rapidly, that she could scarcely feel it a reality.

One thing she was resolved—she would never join a large, mixed pleasure-party again; it was impossible that real satisfaction could be found in such society, and so far as her experience went, they seemed always nothing but preludes to some heavy misfortune. It was a relief to her to find herself once more at home in the Rectory at Croydon, alone in her apartment, able to think without distraction, rest without interruption, and cry without observation.

She was so completely worn out, that to sit down and indulge in a very hearty flood of tears was the greatest relief imaginable.

Sam called at the Rectory on his return to the town, and saw her for a few minutes. It was dark and the candles were not lighted, so she had ventured down stairs to meet him.

The next day brought a pleasing change to the current of Emma's thoughts. She was walking slowly under the old trees on the lawn, and was not aware of any one's approach until an arm was suddenly clasped round her waist, and she found herself obliged to submit to several very unceremonious kisses from her lover, who had contrived as usual thus unexpectedly to meet her.

"How you do startle one," cried she struggling to release herself. "I will have you indicted for assault."

"Tears, Emma," said he looking at her attentively; "what are those red eyes for?"

"You had better not ask questions," replied she, "lest you should hear unpleasant truths."

"But I will ask questions, and you must answer me!" said he earnestly; "I cannot let you cry without knowing the reason."

"Then I shall feel under the necessity of effacing the marks of your tears in the best way I can," replied he.

She then relieved her mind and his feelings by telling him the whole history of their yesterday's excursion and its termination, which led of course to almost interminable references to past events, explanations and details relative to Mr. Morgan himself, of all which until this moment he had been profoundly ignorant. The slanders circulated relative to Emma, the expedition of Lord Osborne to rebut them, and the trouble he had taken on her account made a great impression on him, and he took a vehement dislike to Croydon and everything connected with a place where Emma had been exposed to such misrepresentations. Of course he would not admit that she was in the least degree to blame for past events, or that she had showed any undue severity towards Mr. Morgan—on the contrary, he thought she had throughout been too lenient towards him; but this was an error arising from the rare goodness of disposition which led her in so remarkable a degree to tolerate the imperfections and weaknesses of those around her, of which her attachment to himself was a conspicuous example.

He had some news to communicate in return for hers, which though not of quite so tragical a nature, was to him a great disappointment.

The rectory house at Carsdeane proved to be in so extremely dilapidated a state that, in order to make it at all a comfortable residence, Lord Osborne proposed to rebuild it entirely. In the meantime there was no suitable home for Emma, and he feared their marriage must be delayed at least for some months, instead as he had hoped of taking place immediately.

This was a very great disappointment to them both. Emma had ventured to hope that the Autumn would have seen her installed in a settled home, of which she would be the mistress, and they tried very hard to persuade themselves and each other, that it would not be more prudent and advisable, to wait till Mr. Howard had a house to receive his bride. They might have succeeded perhaps in thinking so themselves, but they could not induce their friends to agree in the decision. On the contrary, like most friends when two young people wish to marry, they all concurred in considering it a very great advantage that they should wait a little.

And I am far from supposing them wrong in the idea. Taking into consideration Emma's youth, for she was not yet quite twenty, and the shortness of their acquaintance, which had as yet lasted barely six months, I am of opinion that the delay even of a whole year would have been by no means detrimental to their future happiness. It was perfectly natural that both Mr. and Miss Bridge should adopt this idea, and I trust equally so that since they urged it, Emma should yield to their prudent persuasions: the more especially as appearing to yield at this time and agreeing to wait a twelvemonth, would by no means preclude them from entirely changing their minds in a couple of months time, in case they should see any occasion for so doing.

As to any difficulty about Emma's home in the meantime, Miss Bridge declared it could not exist, since her house was always open to her, and she could regard her in no other light than as her adopted child. In vain Mr. Howard remonstrated. Miss Bridge was so firm in her conviction that Emma had better spend the next year in her house, and professed so much satisfaction at the idea, that he at last declared, in despair, he was certain it was for the sake of securing her company that Miss Bridge interposed to prevent the marriage.

Before however the two disputants could settle their conflicting claims on Emma's society, a new turn was given to the affair by the intervention of her youngest brother. He should want a companion at Chichester, and it had always been an understood thing he declared, that Emma was to live with him till she married. She readily admitted the fact, and so it was settled; she was to accompany him to Chichester immediately after Elizabeth's wedding, and remain there as he said, "until they were tired of one another."

Howard yielded this point much more readily than the other. Carsdeane was much nearer Chichester than Burton, and he could easily visit her there. Besides his penetration led him to surmise that Sam would be soon desirous of placing another person at the head of his establishment; that a sister's society would not long content him, and that when this change took place, he would probably be thankful to be relieved from the charge he was undertaking. He thought it likewise a great advantage that she should be removed entirely from Croydon for a time, and from the painful impressions which he observed seemed still to haunt her. She had suffered so much there, as he now began to understand, that he could not help wishing that she should see the place no more; a wish in which she certainly did not concur when she remembered it would be Elizabeth's future home.

The wedding that week was a very quiet one: the death of Mr. Morgan had thrown a damp over the whole town from which it could not at once recover, and no one felt inclined to indulge in festivities where he would be so much missed. Accordingly everything was conducted in the simplest manner, to the great disappointment of Mrs. Watson, who vowed it was hardly worth putting on her new and handsome clothes, when there would be no one to see her at Church.

It was some alleviation to her distress of mind however to remember that they would be equally handsome and more interesting after the wedding was over, and she should be able to appear in uncommon splendour, when returning all the congratulatory visits on some subsequent occasion.

When all was over, and Mrs. George Millar and her husband had set out from Croydon to make a short visit to London, which the bride had never seen, Emma took an affectionate leave of Annie Millar, and returned to the Rectory to prepare for her journey.

Sam remained a few minutes behind; it was only to ask Annie if she still thought marriages as foolish as she had always declared them to be.

"Twenty times worse," said she, "they are not only foolish but sad, and I shall consider myself particularly fortunate when this miserable day is fairly over."

"What do you consider the worst part of the affair," enquired he, still lingering.

"Oh the leave takings," said Annie hastily, "if Elizabeth had never married you would all have stayed on here waiting for it, and we have been so happy for this last week. Now you are going, and you must take Emma too!"

"I dare say you would not wait for my leave; men always take it for granted that women sit down and cry when they leave them," said she saucily.

"I should certainly entertain no such expectation Miss Millar; I am aware my profession renders me too unpleasant in your eyes for you to do otherwise than rejoice at my departure."

"Upon my word you make me out to be a very rational young woman," replied she; "when did I ever find fault with your profession, or express a wish that you were other than what you are? Because I should never have chosen the surgical profession myself is that any reason that I should detest a man who did—or so long as you do not exercise your skill on me, or in my presence, do you imagine I object to your exhibiting it elsewhere?"

"I had much rather you should detest my profession than consider it with indifference, Miss Millar."

She only looked down and blushed, then holding out her hand, said in a hurried manner,

If Sam felt discouraged by this sudden termination to his interview, the feeling lasted no longer than till the receipt of Annie's first letter to his sister after they were settled at Chichester; for there the allusions and reminiscences were of a most flattering kind, and the frequent mention of his name, and the manner in which it was introduced gave him very great pleasure.

Emma became reconciled to Penelope's marriage when she saw how well she was suited to her situation in life, and though she did not greatly admire her brother-in-law, he was so very superior to Tom Musgrove, that she thought her sister quite fortunate in comparison with Margaret. To forget everything that had passed of an unpleasant nature previous to her marriage was the wisest source which her friends could adopt; and it is so exceedingly common that there should be something which requires forgetting, that if the relatives of all married couples acted in the same way, there would be a great deal more of unity in the world than at present.

Before she had been resident at Chichester three months, two events occurred, which effected a change in her plans. One, as Mr. Howard and many others had foreseen, was the engagement of Sam and Annie, and preparations for their speedy marriage. The other was more unexpected.

Her aunt, whose sudden and ill-advised marriage had originally deprived her of her home, exasperated by the unkind and unprincipled conduct of her young husband, quitted him abruptly; procured a separation, and as she still retained the control of her income, he was left very much as he deserved to be, no better off than when he made his mercenary marriage. She returned to England, wrote to Emma, then came to her; was delighted with Sam, with Mr. Howard, and with everything she learnt of their doings, past, present, or future. She made Emma a magnificent wedding present, both in money and clothes, and declared her determination of ultimately dividing her fortune between her youngest nephew and niece. In the meantime, she took an elegant mansion in the parish of Carsdeane, and insisted on the marriage taking place immediately, and the young couple taking up their residence with her, until the rectory house was prepared for them.

This advice was much too agreeable to be long resisted, and before Emma and Mr. Howard had seen the anniversary of their first meeting, they were man and wife.

Whether they ever repented the interference of Miss Bridge to delay, or of Mrs. MacMahon to hurry the union, I leave entirely to the imaginations of my readers to settle; satisfied with having done my duty in detailing events as they really occurred.

There is but one more circumstance of any importance to relate; but that is, that Lord Osborne, after Emma's marriage, joined a regiment abroad as a volunteer—fought for some years in the Peninsular, and returned to England about ten years after he had been refused by Emma, accompanied by his wife, a very charming young Spanish lady, with whom he fell in love, because her dark eyes reminded him of Mrs. Howard's.

He had forgotten the likeness long before he reached Osborne Castle; and no one who saw Mrs. Howard when visiting the young bride, or watched his devotion to Lady Osborne, could, for a moment, have imagined that Lord Osborne's love could have had such a foundation.

I have nothing more to say of any of the party, and only trust that all who read my tale, may be convinced, as I am, that prudence, gentleness, and good sense, will secure friends under the most disadvantageous circumstances; but that marriage alone, unless undertaken with right feelings and motives, cannot be considered a certain recipe for worldly happiness.

This is a very excellently-written novel, and in tone and manner is far above the ordinary standard of fashionable fictions that are still so prodigal in their number. The title of the story does not imply the depth, the intensity, and the fine passion which it certainly embodies, because it is far more suggestive of gilded folly, of brilliant vanity and of meretricious attraction. In itself, however, it is a worthy evidence of the talents for authorship which the fair writer undoubtedly possesses. The dialogues are good, the plots excellent, and bears upon them more than the impress of probability. The descriptions are true to nature, when speaking of nature and form, otherwise, absolute pictures in themselves, worthy the pencils of Watteau or Laneret, or any of those charming triflers which the age (and the one subsequent) of the grand monarque, produced.... In the Italian scenery and in the Italian intrigue, there is a freshness and attraction which the reader will find in these pages much to his sympathies, while the fidelity and tact with which the accessories of place, and character are blended together, constitute not the least attractive charm of a very charming tale.—Despatch.

One of the most striking and admirable traits of the authoress, is the strength and yet severe simplicity of the diction. The reputation which Mrs. Daniel has already obtained by her former works, such as 'My sister Minnie,' 'Poor Cousin,' &c. will be considerably increased by the real merits of this novel. Our extracts will give a fair specimen of Mrs. Daniel's literary power.... Dispatch.

'It is a general attack upon all persons who have rendered their names well known by railway enterprise. It will excite a sensation in drawing-rooms, counting-houses, and circulating-libraries.'—Morning Herald.

The way in which it is worked out is worthy of Dickens in his happiest moments—the scenes are graphic and life-like, and there are touches of deep pathos and strokes of humour which bespeak a master hand.—Gloucester Standard.

We have few Christmas books this season. The 'Shadows,' is the largest we have seen. It is a very neat volume got up in the style of Dickens's works, and well written.... The illustrations are good and numerous.... The passages in the world of spirits, contain remarkably powerful writing.... The book will be popular.—Tait's Magazine.

It carries with it an excellent moral in favor of the working classes, and especially of females doomed to starvation of the needle.—Literary Gazette.

Mr. Torr's pictures of rural scenes are charming and life like as the farm-yard of Moreland, but elevated and refined by an accomplished taste.—Court Journal.

In all his pages there is an honest, cordial, healthy English morality. The novel merits perusal.... Morning Herald.

This novel possesses a merit to which few of the present day even pretend ... its story is exceedingly well constructed.... Atlas.

This is the best romance we have read since the days of Sir Walter Scott. The scene in which it is laid is new to the English reader, and there is in the portraiture of its principal characters all the freshness of originality. We doubt if any one, even the most hackneyed of novel and romance readers, can venture upon perusing the first chapter, without feeling deeply interested in the progress of the tale, and anxious to proceed with it to its close. In the perusal of this romance, there is the conviction that the plot, which makes the work a romance, is the only thing that takes it out of the range of history; for its incidents are facts to which only new names are given. Its portraiture of manners and of classes as they exist in Servia is as correct as that given of England in the reign of Richard Cœur de Lion, in Ivanhoe. Thus forewarned that a new and eventful period in the history of a strange country and an extraordinary people is embodied in this romance, the public is invited to its perusal. We can assure them that it will be found well worthy of their attention, and our only regret is, that we cannot spare space for even a single extract from this truly affecting and interesting romance.—Morning Herald.

One of the finest, most powerful, most truthful romance of the age.—The Naval and Military Gazette.

The great act of the opening is intensely striking, and colours all the future.... There is general simplicity. No effort to be fine, or sentimental, or pathetic. The 'Forest and the Fortress' a genuinely good historical novel, and does infinite credit to a female pen. We recommend it as one of the best of its order: keeping close to the realities and truths of history, and most ingeniously and skilfully impregnated with inventive charms, to render those realities and truths, dramatically popular.—Literary Gazette.

We have read it with a pleasure in which method and reason have as much share as imagination. It is more readable than ninety-nine hundredths of so called historical novels.—Athenæum.

The author must have read a great deal to enable him to acquire the information, paint the portraits, dress up individual traditions in the clever fashion he has reached in his "Rizzio"—the volumes are, in every respect, curiosities of literature.—Literary Gazette.

A most valuable and interesting publication, valuable to the scholar, who is well acquainted with the history of the times of which it treats, and interesting to all who read merely for amusement.—Morning Herald.

"Rizzio" is a curious work. The author has read a good deal upon the history of the period in which he lays his story, and looked into its habits and manners. There is a certain imitation of reality about it, which really carries the reader along.— Spectator.

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The Project Gutenberg eBook of The Younger Sister: A Novel, Volumes 1-3

THE YOUNGER SISTER.

CONTENTS Volume I

CONTENTS Volume II

CONTENTS Volume III

CHAPTER I.

CHAPTER II.

CHAPTER III.

CHAPTER IV.

CHAPTER V.

CHAPTER VI.

CHAPTER VII.

CHAPTER VIII.

CHAPTER IX.

CHAPTER X.

CHAPTER XI.

CHAPTER I.

CHAPTER II.

CHAPTER III.

CHAPTER IV.

CHAPTER V.

CHAPTER VI.

CHAPTER VII.

CHAPTER VIII.

CHAPTER IX.

CHAPTER X.

CHAPTER XI.

CHAPTER XII.

CHAPTER XIII.

CHAPTER I.

CHAPTER II.

CHAPTER III.

CHAPTER IV.

CHAPTER V.

CHAPTER VI.

CHAPTER VII.

CHAPTER VIII.

CHAPTER IX.

CHAPTER X.

CHAPTER XI.

CHAPTER XII.

CHAPTER XIII.

CHAPTER XIV.

CHAPTER XV

CHAPTER XVI.

CHAPTER XVII.

CHAPTER XVIII.

CHAPTER XIX.

THE FULL PROJECT GUTENBERG LICENSE

CONTENTS

Volume I

CONTENTS

Volume II

CONTENTS

Volume III