answered with sincerity and kindness equal to his own. The whole party
very soon afterwards dispersed.

Were it ours to follow our young and still, in appearance, childlike
friend Emmeline Hamilton to her room that night, we should see that the
smiles which had beamed around her lip had passed away, the flush on her
cheek was no longer there, and one or two bright drops might have been
observed slowly falling on her pale cheek, as she sat in deep musing,
ere she retired to her couch. She had dismissed Fanny, alleging that she
did not require her aid, and her long silky hair loosened from its
confinement, hung carelessly in golden waves around her. Tears fell on
her hand; she started, and flung back her tresses, looked fearfully
around her, and passed her hand across her eyes, as if to check
them--but ineffectually; another, and another fell; she leaned her
crossed arms upon the pillow, and her head drooped on them, and she
wept, wept as she had never wept before, and yet she knew not wherefore;
she was sad, how deeply sad, but that young and guileless spirit knew
not why. Child she was still in looks, in playfulness, in glee; a child
she still believed herself, but she was no child--that age of buoyancy
had fled, and Emmeline was, indeed, a woman, a thinking, feeling, ay,
and loving woman.

It might have been nearly a week after Edward's return, when, on
entering the library one morning, Mrs. Hamilton observed her husband,
Mr. Howard, and Edward in earnest conference, the latter appearing
somewhat agitated. She would have retreated, imagining her presence
mistimed, but Edward, the instant he perceived her, sprung forward, and
seizing both her hands, exclaimed, in a voice of entreaty--

"Dearest aunt, will not you use your influence with my uncle, and