which, perhaps, her uncle had anticipated. To be sure, an heiress is never at a loss for friends; but the very thought of strangers made Emily cling more closely to Lady Mandeville's protection. Her ladyship was very tired of Norville Abbey, and a little female diplomacy had been exerted for some time, to convince her husband that—whether put on those unfailing arguments, health or spirits a little change was indispensable, as Hortense says of her drawing-room's Sevres china, and or-molu, "C'est plus qu'utile, c'est nécessaire.” After many demurs-turnip-fields and covies, the ash coppice and pheasants, put into the balance against "Raphaels, Correggios, and stuff”—it was finally agreed they should travel for the next season, on condition that the following one was to see them quietly settled in the Abbey again, taking care of the county interest during that seventh year of such importance to our constitution, where the phoenix parliament dissolves into its original elements, again to be collected and re-vivified by the process called purity of election. Like most fair tactitians, Lady Mandeville, contented with present advantages, left the future to take care of itself: besides, after a year on the continent, Norville Abbey would offer contrast enough to be quite delightful. Arrangements were soon commenced and soon ended. Emily took leave of Mrs. Clarke, who gave her divers small commissions, and many ingenious hints how the custom-house officers might be evaded. The Doctor recommended her to learn to make milk coffee, a thing never met with good in England—and, as he justly observed, she might marry a man who was fond of it. "And I can say, from experience," added his wife," there is nothing like seeing to things yourself." Her last visit was to Mr. Morton: the old had died around him, the young were departing, and regret deepened into anxiety as he bade her farewell. "Come back, my child, as kind, as affectionate, and with hopes only less visionary because realised in their happiness: be humble, be thankful, and, my child, may God bless and keep you!" It was the last evening of all, and that Emily gave to her saddest farewell-to her home. She retraced the walks of her childhood; the shrubbery, with its luxuriant growth of roses, now in the full beauty of summer; the fruit-garden, where every tree and walk had a remembrance -those iron links of affection. The wind was high, and at every step a shower of fragrant and coloured leaves fell over her like rain: her fancy asked of her feelings, Do they weep to bid me farewell? Nothing exaggerates self-importance like solitude; and, perhaps because we have it not, then more than ever do we feel the want of sympathy: hopes, thoughts, these link themselves with external objects; and it is the expression of that haunting desire of association, those vine-like emotions of the human heart which fasten on whatever is near, that give an interest like truth to the poet's fiction, who says that the mournful waters and the drooping trees murmur with his murmurs, and sorrow with his sorrows. It was now the shadowy softness of twilight -that one English hour whose indistinct beauty has a vague charm which may compensate for all the sunshine that ever made glorious the vale of Damascus; and as she emerged from the yew-tree walk, the waving wind and the dim light gave the figures cut in their branches almost the appearance of reality, and their ous. shadows flung huge semblances of humanity far before them a less excited frame of mind than Emily's might well have invested them with the idea of something actual and ominIt was a relief to reach the broad open turf before the house. The room into which she meant to go fronted full west. The sun had set sometime, and his purple pageantry, like that of a forgotten monarch, had departed; but one or two rich clouds, like faithful hearts, retaining the memory of his gifts to the last, floated still on the air. The middle window of the oriel before her, just caught and reflected back the crimson light and colour. The ground below. looked bright and warm compared with the shade around. One of those fancies which will, despite of reason, link some peculiar object and feeling together, now crossed Emily's mind: she took a little branch of geranium-it was all leaves, for whose lingering fragrance she had gathered it-and planted it in the most sheltered spot, by the steps: "If it flourish, I shall flourish; if it perish, so shall I." The window was open, and she entered the room. How dreary it looked! The carpet was taken up, the chairs ranged in formal order round the wall, the fire-irons removed, and the grate so bright and so cold; the curtains were down, all the little ornaments put away, no flowers in the stands, and the pictures covered up: from want of sufficient material, the face of her uncle's portrait was still visible: she thought it looked upon her sadly and kindly, forgetting that such was its habitual expression. A movement in the passage roused her; hastily she sprang down the steps, and in an instant was hidden in the thick foliage of the path which led to the village, where she was to meet Lady Mandeville and the children. Little did she know the terrors she had left behind her. The foot in the passage was that of the old gardener, who, now residing in the house with his wife and daughter, had been sent by the said female authorities to close the shutters against damp, thieves, and other evening annoyances. He just caught sight of Emily -the white dress was enough; and, without pausing on the incongruity of a ghost in a large straw bonnet, he rushed back to the kitchen those spiritual securities, candles and company, enabled him to return; there was no trace of any earthly thing; the supernatural conclusion was soon drawn, the room pro : |