Nothing could exceed Tom Pynsent's pleasure at beholding himself again in England, and at Hatton. The Wetheral party were summoned by the warm-hearted, affectionate mother to attend the arrival of her son, and rejoice over his "second birth;" and a large party of relatives were invited to dine at Hatton, and celebrate his return. Mrs. Pynsent particularly desired Christobelle might appear upon the occasion. She thought the young ones had suffered enough in the matrimonial line; and, as that "poor bit of a girl was not old enough to be hawked after the men," she thought the lanky thing ought to be allowed to enjoy herself for a few years, and begin her pleasures by rejoicing over Tom's arrival. Sir John Wetheral decided that Christobelle should accept the invitation; and his lady offered no objection, though her daughter could not feel gratified by her remarks.

"Oh! go, by all means, Bell, as Mrs. Pynsent wishes you to meet Anna Maria. You and your father, of course, must hunt in couples; your tastes are so similar and so agreeable. I am much too nervous to join that coarse party. Of course, Mrs. Hancock will be there; I cannot sit in Mrs. Hancock's company. Anna Maria will come to see me some early day. I must beg of you not to colour up so vulgarly, when any one addresses you, and try not to sit down to any one's table so hungry and thirsty as you manage to do at home. Pray, eat a meal before you set off, to prevent that dreadfully famished look, Bell."

"I am always hungry with exercise, mamma."

"Nothing can be so insupportably in bad taste. I shall not be at Hatton to shudder under your voracious exposÉ, but I shall imagine you committing a thousand errors. I hope the Farnboroughs will not be present to observe my youngest daughter. I suppose I must be content to remain solitary, and submit to Bevan's attentions for that day. My daughters marrying so early has left me a poor, solitary being."

Christobelle was anxious to be useful, and she tried to look cheerful, as she exclaimed—

"I will remain at home then, mamma, if you please."

"Not as a companion, Bell. I cannot fancy you presume to offer yourself as my companion. Oh, no! go with your father, by all means."

Christobelle was accustomed to be treated with petulance; it was vain to hope for any change for the better, and her delight at the idea of her visit sheltered her heart under this blow. How wearying it was to endeavour to please, and yet to prove ever unsuccessful! But the visit to Hatton would balance much annoyance: she looked forward with intense eagerness to the first dinner engagement which had varied her existence; and she felt doubly grateful that her first appearance in public should take place without the fearful accompaniment of her mother's presence. Her father was sure to be kind and encouraging. How slowly did the days appear to pass by, ere she could be dressed for the festivities of Hatton!

A select number of friends assembled at Hatton on the eventful morning of Tom Pynsent's arrival. Sir John Wetheral and Christobelle arrived first, and the Wycherlys, Charles Spottiswoode, and Mrs. Hancock followed in their own order. They were allowed to witness "Tom's" re-entrance into Hatton—they alone were to witness the restless joy and expectation which revelled in Mrs. Pynsent's heart and eyes. None other possessed a claim to intrude upon her son's happiness, or divide with herself the first words, the look, and the affectionate embrace of her only child.

Mrs. Pynsent wandered round the rooms, and perambulated the Hall, as the time stole on towards the expected moment of meeting. The hounds were stationed in the park, with the whipper-in, to greet their master and do him honour, by baying deep and loud as he drew towards his home. The men were arrayed in their hunting costume by Mrs. Pynsent's desire, that her own dear boy might be surrounded by all he best loved, in the style he most approved, "for, married or unmarried, her Tom would love the dogs and his old mother to the end of time." Mrs. Hancock sat silent and quiet till her sister's restless movements roused her attention.

"I say, Pen, you've got the staggers."

"How can I be still, Sally Hancock, when I am expecting Tom? I can't sit like Bobby, there. Look at Bobby, sitting with his legs crossed, and his face as calm as if Tom was no son of his."

Mrs. Hancock winked upon the company as she called out to Mr. Pynsent:—"I say, Bob Pynsent, Pen may have—"

Mrs. Pynsent turned quickly upon her sister.

"Sally Hancock, you be quiet now. You know Tom and Bobby, too, won't endure your jokes. If you begin joking, you will be sent back to Lea before Tom arrives."

Mrs. Hancock was not in the least degree ruffled by the threat.

"None of your great guns, Pen. I'm as silent as a mouse. I thought I should never be silent again though, when we caught Charley Snooks in the booth that race-day."

"Sally Hancock, what things you do remember! Shall we ever forget squeezing into the pit of the play-house, and finding Polly Sydenham twigging us from the side-box?"

Again both sisters were plunged into a recital of past levities, and were laughing immoderately, when the hounds sent forth their cry, and ran in full chase round the swell of the park which fronted the entrance to Hatton. They were laid on the scent of a red-herring, which had been previously dragged round the knoll, the moment the travelling-carriage entered the lodge. This was Mrs. Pynsent's particular command. She was resolved to celebrate her son's arrival in a manner most consonant to his tastes and feelings, and her heart prompted this mode of testifying her delight at his return. The cry of the dogs was a signal to rush towards the hall-door, and Tom Pynsent was waving his hat, and tally-hooing with all his might, as the carriage tore up the serpentine road from the lodge-gates. Mrs. Pynsent was in ecstacies of joy.

"Here, hallo, Bill! fetch your master's horse out in a minute; he has been saddled these two hours. I know what my Tom will do; his old mother knows him well. Jack Ball! off with you, and turn the colts into the park. Stir along, boys! Look at him—bless him! Come, Sally Hancock, let us have a cheer for Tom."

Sally Hancock was nothing loth; she shouldered her stick with the air of a corporal, and both ladies startled their companions by uttering a loud and protracted huzza. Tom Pynsent answered the shout. His body was half way through the carriage window, as he continued waving and hurraing to the scene before him. At last the carriage drew up, and Mrs. Pynsent's arms once more encircled her darling son. She hung round his neck entranced.

"My blessed Tom, my only and sweet boy, your poor mother is happy to get you back again. The dogs and colts, Tom, are well; the hounds all well, my Tommy. Your poor mother has looked well after them. And there's your father, waiting, Tom, to shake hands—and here's Sally Hancock!"

Mrs. Pynsent withdrew her arms reluctantly, and her son advanced to shake hands with his father. Mr. Pynsent's mild countenance shone with pleasure as he congratulated him upon his return, and confessed how much he had missed his society. Tom Pynsent was in tearing spirits at finding himself upon Hatton ground, listening to affectionate speeches delivered in pure English again. He shook hands with every one, and saluted every lady.

"How do you all do? How do you do, my fat aunt, Hancock? How do you do, Pen? Why, Spottiswoode, have you waited for me to be your bridegroom's man? How do you do, Sir John? I have brought home my little woman, quite rosy, you see—here she is. So, little Miss with the long name, how are you? Upon my soul, you all look 'grass!'" Tom Pynsent held his hand to his mouth, and turned again to the hall-door.

"Tally-ho, there!—bring 'em round, Barton!"

The saddled horse was trotted up, and Tom Pynsent sprang upon his back. He waved his hand to the company.

"I use no ceremony.—One gallop round the park, and I'll be amongst you again. Tally-ho, there. Tally-ho!"

The mettled steed plunged and reared under the tightened rein, while his master spoke; but, in an instant, he dashed from the door, and the horse and his rider were seen flying down the park, followed by the whole complement of dogs and attendants. Mrs. Pynsent gazed after her son with proud delight.

"I say, Bobby, there he goes! Didn't I tell you he would love to see his dogs round him? Bless him, his mother knew his tastes. There's his little wife gone off with her father! She does not stay to look at Tom. She doesn't care for his whims, Sally Hancock—how should a Wetheral care for any thing?—I don't, and I can't, abide a woman who is indifferent to Tom's whims."

"Don't mob the Wetherals, Pen; it's only the old lady: they can't help their mother."

"How well Tom sits a horse!" continued Mrs. Pynsent, who could not withdraw her eyes, or mind, from one object, for a moment. "There he goes, neck or nothing!"

Mr. Pynsent reminded his lady that Anna Maria was in the drawing-room, and that she had scarcely welcomed her. Mrs. Pynsent snapped her fingers.

"Tom is my son, and I'll attend to no one till he returns. Pen is with the young woman. I won't stir till Tom comes back. If the young woman loved Tom as I love him, she would be watching him in his delight there, looking so handsome and happy! I don't like her for leaving Tom!"

Mrs. Hancock was quite of her opinion, and Mrs. Pynsent was softened by her coalition.

"Sally Hancock, you shall dine here, to-day, if you will promise to be quiet."

"Now, Pen, what do I ever say?"

"I am afraid of you, Sally Hancock. You know Tom and Bob won't bear your remarks. You know you never were fit for ladies' society, after you married that Hancock."

"What was the matter with Hancock, except he was tipsy or angry, Pen?"

"Will you promise to be quiet, if I ask you to stay dinner, Sally Hancock?"

"I'll try for it, Pen."

"I believe you must return to Lea, after all, Sally Hancock. Tom will be very angry: he can't endure your remarks."

"Fiddle diddle, I'll be very good, to-day: I will, indeed, Pen."

Christobelle lingered at the hall-door, to enjoy the cheering sight of the hounds, and to watch Tom Pynsent's enjoyment. When that display was lost to her view, she flew again into the drawing-room, and seated herself at Anna Maria's feet. Christobelle gazed at her sister, and fancied four months' absence had affected a change. Mrs. Tom Pynsent spoke with volubility, and her manner was less timid and pleasing. A very high colour was upon her once pale cheeks, and her eyes were unnaturally bright and sparkling: altogether, Christobelle thought her sister Pynsent very much changed. When she had again received a salutation from her lips, and a brief compliment upon her growth and appearance, Anna Maria continued her discourse.

"Oh, I liked every thing exceedingly at Paris, as far as society was concerned: every thing eatable, shocking—but the Count de Nolis assured me the march of improvement had begun, and would be very evident when he returned. Tom did not like Paris. He felt the want of sporting, and those sort of noisy pursuits which are disgusting to the Parisians. The Count de Nolis introduced us to many delightful French families. I must confess I did not like it at first, but I was sorry to quit Paris. English customs are so wearisome, after the ease of French society!"

Sir John Wetheral looked surprised at Anna Maria's sentiments, and he glanced his eye upon Christobelle with an anxious expression, as she sat gazing at her sister. Miss Wycherly was entertained beyond expression by the change in her manners, and amused herself by calling forth Anna Maria's remarks. She inquired who the Count de Nolis was, who figured so much in their train.

"The Count! Oh, the dearest and liveliest creature you ever saw. He is engaged to pay Tom a visit, or rather myself, for I don't think Tom liked him. He will visit us in the autumn. I have been obliged to bring a French maid home, to dress me, because a lady's maid here is only fit to dress an English woman."

"Have you renounced the title of English woman, Anna Maria?" asked her father, gravely.

"No, indeed, papa. I shall always be English; but FÉlicÉ has such a way of blending colours, and making up dresses!—You shall judge for yourself. Is there a party, to-day, at dinner; or, are we to have a soirÉe?"

Mrs. Pynsent and her son entered the room, followed by Mrs. Hancock, as Anna Maria spoke. Tom Pynsent advanced to his lady.

"Well, little woman, chatting away!—Do you see, Sir John, how rosy we are by our trip? I wish you could have seen her talking and chirping to De Nolis. You would have been surprised."

"My heavens! What a couple of painted cheeks!" exclaimed Mrs. Pynsent, in a tone of horror.

"A couple of what?" cried her son, quickly. Anna Maria became perceptibly distressed: her husband surveyed her with looks of perfect satisfaction and admiration, entirely unconscious of the cause of her agitation.

"Yes, she is rosy enough now, bless her! I am glad France has done such wonders for my wife: she looked as healthy as the best of them in Paris. De Nolis advised her to rouge at first. No, none of that, says I. No wife of mine shall paint, like Jezebal. I was right, you see, for her cheeks soon grew blooming as a rose—didn't they?" he added, chucking her under the chin.

Miss Wycherly smiled. Anna Maria recovered her self-possession, and began a tirade against English costume, without answering her mother-in-law's observation. She spoke so much more rapidly than "Miss Wetheral" had ever spoken. She seemed to have acquired so much alertness of speech and manner—so much forwardness in making remarks—her eyes were so bright, and her cheeks bore such a deep couleur de rose, that Christobelle sat in fixed attention, watching her movements. She thought Anna Maria remarkably improved in person; she admired the vivacity of her countenance, and manner; but she was no longer the simple and elegant Anna Maria, so gentle and so mild—that many opinions had decided her to be insipid. Every one appeared watching her with nearly equal surprise and attention. Mrs. Pynsent stood with her arms akimbo, and her eyes rooted upon her son; but the others were all earnestly listening to Mrs. Tom Pynsent, as she commented upon the dreadful tournure of the English fashionist.

"I assure you, Penelope, you could discern an Englishwoman the instant she appeared in the street. Her walk is firm and good, but her shawl and bonnet is only English. I had such a lecture from De Nolis! He made me put aside all my Shropshire habiliments, and I was obliged to be entirely refitted by Le Boi."

"Well, by Jove!" cried Tom Pynsent, "that was not my doing: De Nolis was the ladies' favourite, and he turned my little wife's head about dress. I liked her just as well in her stout silk pelisse, that put me in mind of Wetheral and Shrewsbury."

Anna Maria playfully placed her hand upon her husband's lips.

"Do be quiet, Tom, and don't be so very English."

Tom Pynsent kissed the little hand which enforced silence, and held it in his own capacious palm. Anna Maria drew her chair closer to her husband, and, leaning her head against his side as he stood near, continued her discourse.

"Upon my word, papa, I liked Paris dearly, but Tom complained of this, and disliked that. He would not eat his dinner, because it was stewed frogs; he said he would not eat frogs—he would not drink sour wine—he would not do any thing to be comfortable."

"I wanted to come home in a fortnight," said Tom, still playing with his lady's hand; "but my little wife would not listen to me. De Nolis and herself led me a pretty dance, I can tell you. Hang me, if I understood their jargon in Paris, and I only knew Jack Smith, and Tom Biddulph, to talk with. Spottiswoode was at Florence; De Nolis jabbered away every where with my wife; while I and Jack amused ourselves with quizzing Biddulph. My wife had never any leisure to write home, or talk to me."

"My dear Tom!"

"No, I vow you were always laughing and talking with that French fellow, and his cursed broken English."

"But who ever saw me without you, Tom? and what pleasure should I have had, if you had not been close to me?"

Anna Maria clasped her husband's hand with an air and manner so affectionate, that all hearts present felt assured of her domestic happiness. Her father's expressive face became enlivened, and Mrs. Pynsent almost involuntarily gave Anna Maria a startling slap upon her shoulder, as she cried,—

"I'm a happy woman, since my Tom is loved by us all alike. I tell you what, young woman, I fancied you could not love my son, because you did not remain to witness his delight with the hounds; but now, I see you do love him, though you will never understand his old mother's fondness."

Anna Maria started at the blow, but she held out her hand to Mrs. Pynsent, and assured her every one must love Tom who lived with him. He had lingered in Paris against his will to please her. He had suffered every disagreeable annoyance in silence to give her satisfaction; and Tom had never objected to any whim or amusement required by herself. How then could she do otherwise than love him beyond every earthly creature?

Tom Pynsent looked all astonishment during the dialogue which passed between his wife and mother. It did not occur to him that his Anna Maria's love was less sincere than his mother's affection: and as to his wife's recapitulation of his virtues, "Who the devil married a woman unless he meant to indulge her?"

This little scene, and Anna Maria's public testimony in favour of her husband's kindness had great effects, however, naturally and unsuspiciously as it had been spoken. Mrs. Pynsent was charmed by her daughter-in-law's simple and affectionate statement, and she was the head-piece at Hatton. From that moment every good feeling was enlisted on Anna Maria's side by Mrs. Pynsent; and her fondness for her daughter threatened to equal the affection she bore her son. She told her sister, Hancock, Anna Maria might paint her cheeks as scarlet as the Babylonian woman's gown if she liked, she would raise no objection. She cared for nothing but Tom, and if his wife loved him and made him happy, she might paint and talk of that Frenchman as much as she pleased.

The dinner-party appeared to Christobelle's eyes the ne plus ultra of human happiness. She was attended to by every person; and no one appeared startled by her awkwardness, or the vulgarity of her manners. Lady Wetheral's searching eye was not present; her severe remarks did not sound in her ear, and she enjoyed profound peace of mind and body. No subsequent dinner-party ever equalled that day in its effects upon her head and heart. She sat between her dear father and Charles Spottiswoode, enjoying their conversation, and looking upon happy faces. Miss Wycherly's lively spirits were ever amusing, and her spirited dialogues with her cousin Tom appeared to Christobelle to be the concentrated essence of wit and cleverness: she laughed unrestrainedly and joyously throughout the evening.

Sir Foster Kerrison and Clara were among the dinner guests, with Lucy. Clara's expression of figure and countenance was that of extreme hauteur, and she did not look at, or address Sir Foster during the evening. Sir Foster himself had regained his usual "far niente" since his last appearance. When the gentlemen returned into the drawing-room upon the summons to tea, Sir Foster deposited himself in an arm-chair, without addressing any of his neighbours. He looked on the amusements and the different groupes with a smile, as he sat stretched to his utmost length; his eye winked with tolerable rapidity, and a subdued chuckle every now and then evinced that his mind received pleasure from some part of the conversation which reached his ear at intervals. Clara alone preserved a haughty silence to all, and appeared cold and indignant. Lucy Kerrison, whose age approached nearest that of Christobelle, sat by her after tea, and confided to her hearing the miseries of Ripley.

"I declare, Miss Wetheral, Ripley is more solitary and disagreeable than ever. Papa and Clara do quarrel so dreadfully, that we cannot expect any one to come near the house." Here Lucy lowered her voice. "There was such a scene the day papa brought Clara away from Wetheral! Oh! Miss Chrystal, what dreadful things they said to each other! Papa, you know, is very violent, though he looks so still and quiet, and Clara was very provoking. Papa struck her once, and yet she would not be silent; she was very insolent, and papa threatened to turn her out of the house before the butler. It was very dreadful. Well, Clara ran away, and papa, you know, brought her back. Good gracious! how Clara did abuse him in the hall before all the servants! Papa only laughed then. I assure you they quarrelled this morning worse than ever; papa forgets as soon as it is over, but Clara keeps worry, worry, worry, till another quarrel is begun. I wish some one would ask me to stay with them: Lady Wetheral promised to have me with her; but I have never been asked since Clara married papa."

Christobelle mentioned her mother's illness, and her lowness of spirits.

"I am very sorry. Ripley is nothing now but a scene of quarrels. I was not aware of Clara's temper at Wetheral. I fancied her quick-feeling, but not violent. I assure you she makes papa worse, by her provoking manner and her determination to have the last word. What can it signify who has the first or last word in a quarrel?"

Christobelle was equally surprised at Lucy's description of Clara's talents for tormenting. She knew her disposition was very warm, and that she could be roused into violence; but she had never evinced a disposition to provoke. Christobelle had always considered her too proud to descend into wanton provocation, and too indifferent to her husband, to endure altercation after the cause had passed away, which provoked resentment. Clara's worst feelings were perhaps roused into action by Sir Foster's violence. Had her good genius interfered, to prevent the unhappy union of two beings so ill suited to each other, Clara had been a happier and better woman, and Sir Foster a more respectable and intelligent neighbour and friend. Christobelle looked at Clara as Lucy proceeded in her remarks, and could perceive her brow lowered, and her handsome mouth compressed. The cause of the morning's quarrel, as detailed by Lucy, was indeed frivolous, and wretched in its folly.

"That horrible fishmonger was at Ripley this morning, and Clara began vexing papa with the old affair over again—good gracious! how she did irritate him! Well, papa never forgets to revenge himself at the moment, so he went into the servants' hall, and brought a large fish into the sitting-room—goodness, how it smelled! Papa chuckled very much, so I knew he was preparing for mischief; and he threw the creature into Clara's lap, upon her beautiful silk dress—upon my honour! Clara told him he was a brute, too brutish for his own servants' hall; and there was such a dialogue! I ran away; but the servants listened at the door, and heard it all. Pelham says it was a proper Billingsgate on papa's side, and only just 'over the way' on Clara's part. Papa has forgot it now; but Clara will remember it for a month to come."

This was a sad prospect: Clara, so young and inexperienced, was already wedded to dissention, and beginning her young career of life in bitterness! Clara, full of spirits, and energy of character, was deepening the shades of evil, by an unwomanly and improper contention with the husband she had chosen against her father's wishes. What must be the consequence of powerful passions constantly in collision between Sir Foster and Lady Kerrison, since their early matrimony was so discordant? Miss Wycherly spoke anxiously and feelingly upon the subject to Anna Maria.

"This is a fearful match, my dear Mrs. Tom, and Ripley will be the grave of your sister's respectability. The Kerrisons' quarrels are already the topic of conversation at every table where your family are not present. Can you advise Lady Kerrison to be patient?—will she bear any interference?"

Anna Maria hoped all things, when they were more settled at Hatton. Tom would perhaps interfere a little, and if any one could bring things about, she was sure it would be Tom, he had such a peculiarly agreeable manner. She would speak to Tom upon the subject.

Clara's eyes glanced towards the groupe, and she rose to join them.

"What are you all chatting about so earnestly?" she observed, as they made room for her. She seated herself between her sisters. "Go on with your subject: what was it?"

Miss Wycherly answered for all.

"We were talking of matrimony, Lady Kerrison."

Clara's eyes sparkled with a thousand fires, as she slightly waved her hand.

"Let me continue it with you, Miss Wycherly, for I am able to speak from experience. Who is counsel for that state? I am decidedly upon the other side."

"We were only observing how much power the woman possessed over the man's mind, by gentleness, patience, and soft words, under trials, my dear Lady Kerrison."

"Gentleness! patience!" remarked Clara, with a laugh of disdain,—"ask my brute any thing patiently!"

Anna Maria caught her hand, as she extended it scornfully towards Sir Foster.

"Now, dear Clara, don't be energetic. I will ask Tom what he thinks. Tom always says things so agreeably."

"I will say what is true, if it proves disagreeable," replied Clara, withdrawing her hand from Anna Maria's light grasp, and again pointing attention, by a graceful movement, to Sir Foster, who sat silently winking his eye. "If there is a creature born to be a blessing to woman—patient, gentle, and interesting—look at that man."

Sir Foster winked violently. Anna Maria bent towards Lady Kerrison.

"Hush, my dear sister; do not offend Sir Foster, I beseech you; pray do not attract people's notice. My dear Clara, forbear!"

"Nay, he is attractive enough in himself," observed Lady Kerrison, in raised tones; "no words of mine can exalt him higher among the brute creation, than he stands by nature."

Mrs. Tom Pynsent became alarmed at her sister's audacity, and she signed to her husband, who was seated by Mrs. Tyndal, to join the little circle. He advanced immediately.

"Well, my little wife, what are you wishing? The dear Count is not here, is he? therefore you want me among you."

"Now, be quiet, Tom." Mrs. Tom Pynsent looked round to discover a disengaged chair: her husband saw the inquiring look, and he seated himself upon the carpet.

"Well, now, what was I summoned for?"

"My dear Tom," replied his lady, smiling, "I particularly wish you to give me your opinion upon matrimony before the young ladies here assembled."

"My matrimony, if you please," observed Lady Kerrison—"you are requested to take a comprehensive view of my matrimony." She looked haughtily towards Sir Foster, who sat within hearing. "There sits my animal: shall we decide upon the species?"

"Hush, Clara, hush!" softly whispered Mrs. Tom Pynsent.

"My dear Lady Kerrison!" burst from the lips of Miss Wycherly.

"Every one has a name and a place," continued Lady Kerrison, heedless of all caution and counsel. "Pray, Tom Pynsent, assert your opinions as plainly as I do mine, and tell me what a mother deserves, who weds her young and unsuspecting child to a brute, without contemplating her fate in prospect? Pray, Tom Pynsent, what is the conclusion of that fate? Will it rest in dull misery, or will the indignant spirit burst its fetters?"

Tom Pynsent affected ignorance of Lady Kerrison's meaning: he saw Miss Wycherly and Lucy Kerrison cast looks of alarm at Sir Foster, who was winking very rapidly; he saw, also, tears springing to the eyes of his wife—something must be done: he rose hastily.

"Anna Maria, this is a very English party, to your little trumpery, new-set taste! Your French Count would have lectured you for sitting so long in one spot. Come, Chrystal, and Lucy, let us have a round game or a country-dance. Who will play us a country-dance? Pen, rattle the keys for us."

Miss Wycherly was eager to break up the conference, and she played country-dances with great spirit: five couple were therefore soon arranged, and Christobelle was led forth by Charles Spottiswoode. When they reached the termination of the set, Mr. Spottiswoode addressed his partner with an air of mystery, and inquired, in low tones, if she had lately heard of or from Bedinfield. Christobelle could give no satisfactory intelligence. A letter had certainly been received at Wetheral lately, but she had not been made acquainted with its contents. Mr. Spottiswoode's reply was very complimentary to Christobelle: she felt it exquisitely.

"Miss Wetheral, I address you as no common person; and I feel assured a young lady, who has been the companion of Sir John Wetheral, must be prudent beyond her years. Penelope has never received any reply to several letters addressed to Lady Ennismore, and I am anxious to understand the cause. Your sister is not ill, I hope?"

Christobelle was unable to answer even that simple question; she knew nothing, and had heard nothing with reference to the Ennismores.

"It is very extraordinary!" was Mr. Spottiswoode's quick reply, but nothing more was said, for they were again indefatigably engaged in dancing, till eleven o'clock, when Sir John Wetheral approached his daughter, and advised her to rest till the carriage was announced. As she seated herself, according to his wish, Christobelle heard Mrs. Pynsent speaking to Mrs. Tyndal with some vehemence.

"Upon my word, there will be a dreadful blow-up soon: I went to see Sally Hancock into the pony-carriage, and who should be in the hall but those two people abusing each other. That matchmaking woman has a thousand sins to answer for: she will pay for all this, Jane Tyndal, in the next world!"

Christobelle felt assured the Kerrisons were the party in question. Her eyes sought them, but they were not in either of the drawing-rooms. She turned to Mrs. Pynsent in terror, and inquired for Clara.

"Oh! my dear, they have killed each other by this time, as far as intentions can go. They were fighting in the hall half an hour ago."

Christobelle turned pale with distress, and Mrs. Pynsent, whose heart was as kind as her manners and address were abrupt, pitied her sufferings. She put her hand gently upon Christobelle's shoulder, and spoke with emphasis.

"You can't help it, my poor girl; you need not vex yourself: it will all come home to the right person, but that won't be you. Only take care you are not the next sacrifice, and sell yourself for money at people's bidding."

"Oh! Mrs. Pynsent," cried Christobelle, "Where is papa?"

"Here, come with me, young lady, and I'll take you to your father. Remember every word in your heart of hearts which he utters." Mrs. Pynsent put Christobelle's arm within her own, and continued, as they quitted the room, "Some of her young ones have turned out well, in spite of her. I hope that will tell for her hereafter. Don't fret, now, and make your poor father wish himself at Old Nick: he'll want comfort at Wetheral, and you must comfort him. Here, Sir John, I've brought your good girl to you: don't let her marry in a hurry—ware sheep! There, take her into your care, and hide her for the next seven years."

Sir John Wetheral received his daughter with smiling pleasure, and they proceeded to make their adieus to the remaining company. The Tom Pynsents were engaged to spend the following day at Wetheral, and Mrs. Pynsent invited herself to accompany them. She had no intention of leaving Tom, just as he was returned from outlandish places. It might disturb the family party at Wetheral, but she liked to watch him enjoying the good roast beef of Old England and home-brewed ale again, and she would follow him to Old Nick, to see him looking so jolly and happy. "Bobby might have Sally Hancock to keep him company; he did not object to her when he was alone."

Sir John Wetheral particularly requested the pleasure of Mr. Pynsent's company to complete the family circle.

"Oh! well, I'll tell him what you say," replied Mrs. Pynsent. "Bobby has been snoring these two hours: he can't bear late hours at all. We shall do very well without him to-morrow, for he only sits licking his lips. Bobby never shone much—but I'll give your message. Sally Hancock will take very good care of him: it's a treat to her, you know."

The Wetherals' farewells were rather lengthy, for they had many friends to hold converse with. Miss Wycherly hovered round them for some time, as if she had some disclosure to make which required effort. She suddenly caught Sir John's hand as he was quitting the room, and spoke quickly, "Have you heard from Bedinfield lately?"

"Not very lately; why do you appear so anxious, my dear Miss Wycherly?"

"I am very uncomfortable about Julia," she replied: "I have written three letters without receiving any reply. I am sure the Dowager is there; and I am equally sure she separates Julia from her friends. Julia always loved her friends, and there is something wrong when a woman is compelled to drop her old companions. It is not Julia's fault; I'll stake my existence upon Julia's true heart: there is double dealing somewhere, Sir John."

Sir John expressed his intention of visiting Bedinfield the following week, and Christobelle was to accompany him. He would be the bearer of a letter from Miss Wycherly with pleasure. Miss Wycherly's mind was greatly relieved.

"Oh! if you go, Sir John, all will be well. I shall hear the truth from you, and you will find how unchanged dear Julia is. Tell her, from me, that my love and gratitude is unchangeable, and that my home is her home for ever and ever. Tell her I care not for her silence, because it is not her doing; and though we may never more meet, she will be Julia Wetheral, as freshly and fondly my friend, as when she married a man who could not deserve her. Tell her this from me, Sir John."

Miss Wycherly passed on with her lover, and the Wetherals entered their carriage in silence. Sir John sighed heavily, and did not enter into any conversation with his daughter during their drive home: doubtless there was bitterness in his thoughts. Christobelle lost all painful recollections of the emotion caused by Mrs. Pynsent's conversation, in pleasing remembrance of the pleasures of the day. She had enjoyed herself with the pure, unalloyed happiness which attends youth, ere it is pursued by care, and before it endures disappointment. She considered that day as the very happiest portion of her life. She had been kindly and hospitably welcomed by every one, and not a word of reproach or disgust had been levelled at her. Every one seemed delighted to see her eat and dance, to her heart's content. Nothing could surpass the pleasure of that day—nothing had ever equalled it!

Sir John parted with his daughter in the hall. He kissed her, as usual, but his voice was melancholy, and the parting short.

"Good night, my love—I am going to my study."

"Good night, dear papa!"

Sir John turned away, and Christobelle listened to his step, as it echoed through the hall, till he closed the chapel-door behind him. She then retired to her own room, and slept soundly, in spite of anticipations of lectures from her mother upon supposed improprieties committed at Hatton.