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.

Margaret sank on a sofa, and exclaimed in feeble tones,

"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.

"Which sister?" replied Emma, without looking up from her embroidery.

"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.

"And hitherto you have not been placed in this interesting situation?"

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.

He answered that he could not tell, and then added,

"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."

"From what you know of him or of me?" inquired Emma.

"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."

Mr. Morgan rather curled his lip.

"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."

She thanked him, and replied she was pretty well. He did not seem satisfied.

"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?"

She owned it did a little.

"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.

There was a pause, which she broke, by saying,

"My sisters are a long time away, I must go to see for them."

"No, pray stay another moment," cried he, rising too, as she rose. "Allow me one moment more, one other word."

She stopped; and he was silent for a minute, till she said,

"Well, Mr. Morgan, what am I to stop for?"

"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,

"Do you wish to be blinded, Emma Watson?"

"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."

"I have no objection," observed the ardent lover.

"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,

"I think, Miss Emma, you have not been brought up in a country town?"

"No, indeed," said Emma.

"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."

"You must be exaggerating, Mr. Morgan; I trust you are, at least."

"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."

Emma looked thoughtful, but did not answer.

"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."

"I am certain she will make a most excellent wife," replied Emma warmly.

"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.

CHAPTER II.

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?"

"That is perfectly true—but the meetings were quite accidental," said Emma.

"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."

Emma was silent and thoughtful.

"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.

He shook his head.

"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."

"I, sir! how is that possible?—and yet, Mr. Morgan hinted the same to me!"

"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."

Mr. Bridge readily assented; and calling Janetta, they turned towards the town.

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.

"I am quite at liberty to listen to you," replied Emma turning towards him.

"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."

Mr. Morgan looked at her with an air as if he would penetrate her brain.

"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."

"Aye, if you needed the lesson; but the reason is so very—"

He stopped abruptly.

"What is the reason?" asked Emma. "I told you I knew of none."

"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."

"I am unwilling to pain you, my dear Miss Emma."

"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,

"If it offends or affronts you, do not blame me for it."

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,

"You cannot think how grieved I am thus to pain you."

"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?"

"Certainly, whenever you wish; when can I see you?"

"I should like to see you alone," she replied.

"Then I will manage it—depend on me to-morrow."

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—

"What do you mean to do now—have you formed any plan?"

"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!"

CHAPTER III.

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,

"I wish he would never come again."

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."

"Well well, we will ask the doctor," replied he.

"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."

"What, Emma?" said Robert, "why she's ill I understand."

"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."

The Younger Sister: A Novel, Vol. III.

THE YOUNGER SISTER.

CONTENTS

CHAPTER I.

CHAPTER II.

CHAPTER III.