"A very pretty thing indeed," exclaimed Mrs. Watson the moment the door closed on them, "a very pretty and reasonable thing for a girl like you, Miss Emma, coming into this house as a dependent, without a farthing in your pocket, or an expectation of any kind, a very pretty thing I say for you to go flaunting and jaunting about with all the best company in the town; I can tell you if this is the way you go on, I shall take care and keep you up stairs when I have visitors. I suppose you hope for an opportunity for carrying on your acquaintance with Alfred Freemantle, or perhaps you are looking out for George Millar himself. I see I must keep a firm hand over you, or I shall have some disgraceful proceedings no doubt—a girl of your age to be so given up to flirtation; it is quite shocking."

"I do not know what I have done," replied Emma, struggling with her feelings, "to deserve your reproaches; Miss Millar asked me to walk with her, but how am I to blame for that?"

"Don't answer me, Miss, it is exceedingly impertinent and disrespectful, and I will not put up with it from you. If you imagine because you have been acquainted with the Osbornes and those grand folks, that you are to be mistress here, and do as you like, you will find yourself excessively mistaken. I shall allow nothing of the kind I assure you. Go to the nursery and take care of the little girl, and tell the nurse-maid I want her to go on an errand for me. Try and make yourself useful if you can, and show some gratitude for the extraordinary liberality of your brother, in receiving a beggar like you into his house."

Emma's spirit rose and tempted her strongly to rebel; her first impulse was to go to her own room, and shut herself in there; but she remembered that she was powerless, and totally without effectual support in the house. Elizabeth, it was true, would take her part, but she could only talk, not act, and as any contention must be fruitless, ending inevitably in her own defeat, she wisely determined to submit as quietly as possible, endeavouring to suppress her unavoidable feelings of repugnance and mortification, and trying to remember that since she was actually indebted to her brother for food and shelter, it became her to try by every means in her power to lessen the unwelcome burden. She went accordingly as she was desired to the nursery, and remained the rest of the morning in charge of Janetta, whose encreasing attachment towards her kind, new aunt, really gave her satisfaction, and made the time pass as pleasantly as was possible under such circumstances.

It distressed Elizabeth a good deal that Emma was not allowed to walk with her, and as she could never disguise her feelings, she immediately expressed this to her companion, adding that she was afraid Emma could never be happy at Robert's house, as Jane seemed to have taken a decided dislike to her.

Annie exclaimed at the idea; she could not conceive it possible that any one could dislike Emma; those delightful dark eyes, those elegant ringlets, and the general grace of her appearance were in her opinion, so strongly indicative of an amiable, lively and ingenuous mind, that nobody could take offence at her. She was most enthusiastic in her praises, and Elizabeth felt gratified. This conversation passed on their way to Miss Millar's home, where she wished to call before starting for a country walk. She led her companion up at once to her own apartments, and whilst she left her for a moment in her dressing-room, to make some arrangements in private, Elizabeth, who to pass the time was looking at some books on the table, was suddenly interrupted by the entrance of George Millar. Her back being turned towards the door, the disguise of her bonnet and cloak prevented his recognising her, and concluding it to be his sister, he advanced hastily, and laying his hand on her shoulder he said:

"My dear Annie," when on her turning her face towards him, he of course discovered his mistake.

He looked excessively confused for a moment, but Elizabeth laughed and took it so easily, that he soon recovered himself; she explained to him why she was waiting there, and on hearing that they were preparing to take a country walk, he declared that it was a holiday with him to-day, and if they would not object he would accompany them.

"Indeed," he added, "I think it my duty to go with you, or that wicked sister of mine would infallibly walk too far, and make herself ill. She is not to be trusted in the country I assure you."

Elizabeth did not feel inclined to raise any objection to this arrangement, as she was quite as well satisfied with what she saw, as with what she had heard of Mr. Millar, and did not feel disposed to retract her previous declaration in his favor. Their walk proved as agreeable as she could desire, and only left her the wish that she could have such another, and Emma with her.

They were out a considerable time, as George Millar proposed visiting a small farm in which he took much pride, and which particularly delighted Elizabeth. The arrangement of his dairy, the welfare of his lambs, the progress of his poultry, were all subjects exactly to her taste, and she entered heart and soul into the matter: her interest was far too sincere for him to be otherwise than flattered by it, and he came to the conclusion that she was a very delightful young woman, with more intelligence and a clearer head than any town-bred young lady of his acquaintance. He determined to take her opinion and advice on the subject of making cream cheeses, and resolved to rear a calf which she had admired, instead of sending it to the butcher's the following week. They were left a good deal to entertain each other, as Annie had chosen to unchain a large Newfoundland dog kept at the farm, and gone off in company with it for a gambol in the meadows.

When every part of the establishment had been carefully visited, and some of the hops in the nearest fields inspected, Elizabeth began to think it was time for her to go home; but Annie had not yet rejoined them, and having quite lost sight of her during the last hour, they had nothing to do but to sit down, and wait patiently, if they could, for her appearance. The house, which was only inhabited by a bailiff and his wife, was small but pretty, and Elizabeth was eloquent in her praise of everything she saw, declaring with perfect unreserve how very much she should prefer living in that charming little house, to inhabiting the best mansion in the town.

However, as time passed on, and she remembered the distance she had to walk before reaching home, she began to be rather uneasy, well knowing how extremely displeased Robert would be, if they were late for dinner, as seemed probable. She confided her fears to George Millar, confessing, with perfect candour, that she was very much afraid of her brother's displeasure. He immediately suggested, as a remedy, that if their return to Croydon was deferred later than she liked, she should give them the pleasure of her company at their own family meal; assuring her that there was not the smallest risk of Mrs. Turner's being angry, even if they kept her waiting an hour. At the same time, he said that, for that very reason, he should be sorry to do so, and he, therefore, hoped his sister would soon join them.

At length, after trying their patience till Elizabeth was surprised it did not fail, the truant girl returned; and when her brother attempted to scold her, she laughingly placed her hand over his mouth, and desired him to behave well before her friends, at least; there would be time enough for him to find fault in the course of the evening—he could keep awake on purpose.

He called her, in reply, a saucy girl, and threatened that another time he would not take her out walking with him; whilst she persisted in asserting that it was she to whom he was obliged for his excursion, and that she and Miss Watson could have done perfectly well without him.

They then commenced their return homewards, and George told his sister to invite Miss Watson to dine with them on the plea of being too late for her own dinner. Elizabeth expressed herself exceedingly ready to comply, and it was so settled.

When within half a mile of the town, they met Alfred Freemantle, who was enjoying a stroll on his escape from the office. Uninvited, he joined them, and placed himself by the side of Miss Millar, who was leaning on her brother's arm. She put up her lip in a very contemptuous way, and a moment after, changed to the other side, and found a refuge for herself between Elizabeth and George, where she was safe from him. He saw the manoeuvre, and mortified at it, tried in his turn to mortify her, by enthusiastic praises of the absent Emma.

"What a sweet, charming girl she is—I don't know when I have seen anything which pleased me better—those sparkling black eyes, and the clear olive complexion, are perfection in my eyes; and her manners—so sweet—so ladylike, she is quite bewitching."

"You cannot praise her too much for me," replied Annie, quite sincerely; "I have been raving about her ever since last night, and so long as you make use of suitable and judicious terms, you may extol her beauty till you are worn out with fatigue."

"I intend to write an acrostic on her name," said he, in a most self-satisfied tone, "perhaps you did not know it; but I am considered rather to shine in that way; I have made capital verses."

"So you have told me, Mr. Freemantle, before; indeed, I remember, on one occasion, your presenting me with some lines which, from the style and manner, I should have judged impossible to be your own composition, but for your affirmation of that fact; of course, therefore, I am aware of your talents."

"I am only too much flattered by your remembering the circumstance at all, Miss Millar—you don't happen to recollect the lines, do you?"

"No, indeed: I remember the fact, because I know a cousin of mine who was staying with us at the time, amused himself with cutting the paper into the smallest possible morsels, and I only read the lines once in consequence."

The utter carelessness with which this assertion was made, would have been sufficient to overwhelm an ordinarily modest man, but he did not appear distressed, only interposing with a declaration that he thought he could remember the little poem—accordingly he commenced reciting—

"Pray spare me the rest," exclaimed Annie, almost suffocated with laughter, which she vainly tried to repress, "my modesty is too sensitive to stand such praises, so I entreat you to allow us to exercise our imaginations as to the remainder."

"Do you know when I began that I wanted to make every word in the line commence with the same letter, but I could not manage it; it was too much for me."

"I can easily believe that," replied Mr. Millar, gravely. "I think it was too much for my sister too; you should not indulge young girls with such flattery: depend upon it, it's very bad for them."

"Oh, dear no," replied he, "a little flattery delicately administered makes way amazingly amongst those whose hearts are soft and easily touched."

"Amongst which number I conclude you reckon me?" enquired Annie.

"No, indeed, you are hard-hearted and cruel to a degree to drive twenty such men as me to despair."

"I hope I shall never be reduced to do so desperate a deed; twenty such men would be a formidable phalanx—more than I could stand at all," said Miss Millar, arching her eye-brows and apparently looking on the point of laughing again.

He looked suspiciously at her, and said, after considering her countenance a moment,

"I have not made more than the first couplet of my address to Miss Emma Watson, do you think you can help me?"

"Let us hear your effusion—we will see what we can do," replied Annie.

"But, then, I don't know what to say next—what do you think is wanting?" said Mr. Alfred in the most earnest tone possible.

"I should finish it this way," suggested Annie.

"Thank you, indeed," cried he, "what condescending goodness on your part to stoop to such kindness as to assist me with such poetical rhymes. Do you ever compose yourself?"

"How can you ask—have you not read a small volume of poems entitled, 'Way-side Flowers?'—and did you not know they were mine?"

"No, indeed! How delighted I am to be acquainted with a real author! I shall never rest till I have procured and read your poems."

"I wish you success in the search then," replied Annie, "and repose and quiet when you have succeeded."

In those days, Authors and Authoresses were far less plentiful than now; when not to know, or be nearly related to one, is a more remarkable circumstance by far, than the contrary; and Alfred Freemantle really believing Annie's assertion, looked and felt most highly exalted at the supposed discovery.

He continued, during the rest of the walk, to plague her with questions as to what species of stanzas—what measure—what style of writing she preferred, until Annie on getting free from him at length, burst into a strong invective against his stupidity and want of common sense.

Her brother quietly told her she deserved it—she liked to play on his dullness of perception, and it served her right when it recoiled on her own head. Annie denied that there was any malice in what she said, it was only a little fun, and was not really, at all naughty.

They reached their house at last, and the two ladies, being both tired and hungry, were extremely glad of rest and dinner. Elizabeth could not help wondering at herself for what she was doing, and where she was; but the human mind soon gets accustomed to any circumstances, and she enjoyed herself too much to feel any regret at the change of scene. Their little quartette was extremely pleasant and good-humoured; she was introduced to Mr. Millar's children, and was much pleased with them; and the little things, with the intuitive perception peculiar to children, clung to her with great delight and affection.

After spending, by far the most cheerful evening which she could remember, since they were snowed up at Mr. Howard's she was escorted home by George Millar, and parted from him with so friendly a feeling, that she could hardly believe he was only a two days' acquaintance.