Had Margaret Watson possessed one particle of proper spirit, the tone and manner in which Tom Musgrove fulfilled his part of the bargain would have been sufficient to cause a total rupture between them; but far from this was the case with her. The fact of being now believed in her declaration, of being known as an engaged young lady, of having a right to talk about wedding-clothes, and sigh sentimentally at the prospect before her; the distinction which all this would give her in a small country town, where every occurrence, from a proposal of marriage down to the purchase of a new pair of shoes, was immediately known to all the neighbours—this delighted Margaret's weak mind, and set her heart in a flutter of gratified vanity.

To be able to inform all the morning visitors at her brother's house that indeed she was contemplating this important change, that she was yielding to a long and well placed affection, that she had known her dear Tom all her life, and that their mutual attachment had been of many years' standing—to sigh over the prospect of soon leaving her sisters, and trying a new situation, seeking a new home, entering on new duties—all this was perfect ecstasy to her, and on the strength of her engagement she became more than ever peevish and disagreeable to her sisters in private, and more affable and smiling to her associates in public.

Her dear Tom—her absent friend—was introduced on all occasions in her speeches, and most happy would she have been had she been able to introduce him personally to the admiring young ladies of Croydon. Miss Jenkins was dying to see him; Miss Lamb was certain he must be a charming beau; Miss Morgan and her sister were never weary of hearing the colour of his hair, and the style of his equipage.

This was highly gratifying to Margaret, but she had her little discomforts too. There were some young ladies who shrugged their shoulders and wished Mr. and Mrs. Tom Musgrove might have a quiet house of it—there were others who whispered strange things about the courtship. Miss Lascomb thought it very odd indeed Mr. Musgrove did not come to see his betrothed—of course they knew their own affairs best, but she hoped if ever she were in such a situation, to see a little more devotion and warmth in her swain. Miss Johnston said she knew how young men were sometimes caught, that she did, and till she heard the gentleman declare his engagement with a smile, she should not be persuaded that it did not cost him a sigh.

These speeches, though not made to Margaret, were all carefully repeated to her, by some of her many kind friends, who delighted in retailing small ware of the kind. She coloured and pouted, tossed her head, and recommended people to leave affairs alone which did not belong to them, and wondered any people could take such pleasure in interfering in other people's concerns. But she knew what it came from, that she did, it was all envy and spite, because she was going to marry a real gentleman, who had nothing to do, and Mr. Johnston was only an apothecary, and all the world knew that Miss Lascomb had been setting her cap at the writing master for the last three years, and all to no purpose. In her heart, she was really troubled with some misgivings on account of not receiving any communication from Tom—she would have delighted to parade his letters before her admiring confidantes, and her envying female friends, but this pleasure was denied her. All she could do, was to write very often herself, and take care to have a letter directed to him beside her, whenever any of her gossipping acquaintance came to pay her a visit of inspection.

The news from Chichester which about this time arrived gave a very flourishing account of Penelope's affairs. Her lover, notwithstanding his advanced age, appeared far more ardent and energetic than the youthful Tom Musgrove.

In accordance, it was said, with his earnest solicitations, their union was to take place very speedily, and Penelope hoped that the next time she had occasion to write to her sisters, it would be to inform them that she no longer bore the same name as themselves. In the prospects of her two sisters, Emma saw little to console her for the blight which had fallen on her own; she would have rejoiced with all her heart had she been able to suppose they would be happy, but she could not reconcile herself to the proceedings of either, nor persuade herself, try as she would, that in either case, the motives which led them to engage in a connection so important as matrimony were such as could ensure a blessing with them. In Penelope's case especially, she could view it as nothing but a sale of herself for a certain amount of settlements; she knew there was neither love nor esteem on her side, for she had heard her, in unguarded moments, express sentiments quite the reverse, speaking of her future husband in a slighting tone, and with a contemptuous accent, as if she held him little better than an idiot for the very act of marrying her. As to Margaret, though she really seemed in love, after a fashion, with Mr. Musgrove, there was too evident a reluctance on his part, and too much want of delicacy on hers, to leave, as Emma imagined, the least chance of anything happier than a total rupture between them; and taking everything into consideration it seemed to her that such an event would be by much the most desirable circumstance that could occur.

Emma herself was, for some time, a close prisoner. Mrs. Watson found so much for her to do, that she had scarcely time to stir from the nursery, except when she took a walk with Janetta, who was now almost entirely confided to her care. The child loved her dearly; and had her exertions as nursery governess given the smallest satisfaction to her sister-in-law, had they even been treated by her as an equivalent for board and maintenance, she would have been less uncomfortable.

But whilst she was spending her whole time in unremunerated, and indeed unacknowledged services, she was perpetually reminded of her entire dependence on Robert, and taunted with her uselessness, her idle habits, and her fine lady manners. The numerous visitors, who dawdled away a morning hour in Mrs. Watson's parlour, were apt to expatiate on her extraordinary liberality and kindness in receiving her three sisters as her guests, little imagining that the two elder paid for their board out of their scanty incomes, and that the younger compensated for the misery she endured, under the show of patronage, in a way yet more advantageous to her grudging but ostentatious relatives.

At length, a grand event occurred. Mr. Millar invited them all to a dinner party, and Annie hinted that it was to be followed by a dance and a supper. They were all asked, and though Jane demurred about Emma, Robert overruled her.

"We must let the girl have a chance," said he; "if she is never seen, there's no chance of any of those young fellows proposing for her."

Jane had no wish that they should. She felt Emma's value far too strongly to be at all inclined to part with her. Her caps had never been so nicely made—her stockings so carefully darned—or Janetta's wardrobe so well attended to, as since she had turned over every trouble of the kind to Emma. But as she did not choose to own these considerations, she was obliged to assent to Robert's proposal, and Emma was to go to the Millars'. In spite of their mutual wishes, she had seen very little of Annie Millar; their meetings had been hindered in every possible way by Mrs. Watson, who was always apprehensive that Emma would complain, aware, as she was, that she had real reason to do so; but Mrs. Watson had skilfully contrived that the drawing back from her acquaintance should appear the voluntary act of Emma, a notion which cooled Annie's friendship towards her, until Elizabeth, with her usual frankness, had on one occasion afforded an explanation of the matter. The result of this was an energetic attempt, on Miss Millar's side, to secure her society for the evening in question, and as she had appealed to Robert as well as Jane, she was successful.

They went accordingly, and Emma's quick eyes were immediately caught by the difference of manner which George Millar displayed towards Elizabeth, compared with the rest of the party. To the others he was open, cordial, and kind, with an address which if not exactly polished, was at least far removed from vulgarity; but to Miss Watson he was hurried and awkward, apparently eager to please to a degree which deprived him of the self-possession necessary for that end. Elizabeth too, looked shy and conscious when their eyes met, though evidently expecting and wishing that he should take his stand beside her chair, which she had fortunately secured in such a position, that after walking forward to receive his visitors, he was able to fall back again, and resume his conversation with her. Emma saw this with satisfaction, and venturing, in spite of her own disappointments, to speculate on the future, she fancied that at least her dear sister Elizabeth would secure a happy home for herself.

Annie Millar seated herself by Emma's side soon after the Watson party entered the room, and began warmly expressing her pleasure in at length seeing her in her brother's house. Emma assured her in reply, that it was not want of inclination that had kept her away, but want of leisure, for she added quite simply:

"I am governess to my little niece, and have not, therefore, much time to spare for any other purpose. I dare say my sister-in-law told you so."

"No indeed," said Annie warmly, and colouring with indignation, "she never said anything of the kind; she always excused you on the plea of studies or occupations for your good which you had to pursue, and boasted of her kind and attentive care for your benefit, without once hinting that she was under obligations to you, which the hospitality of which she boasts so much can ill-repay."

"Oh hush, Miss Millar," replied Emma blushing deeply, "you must not indeed talk so: if my brother receives me into his house, the least I can do is to take care of his child in return, and so lighten the trouble which I cannot help giving."

"But, my dear Miss Emma, excuse my taking the liberty of saying that if you were governess to any other lady's child, you would not only be supposed to earn your board and lodging, but some fifty or sixty pounds in addition, so that in fact Mrs. Watson is the obliged party in this concern."

Miss Millar was called away at the moment to receive some other visitor, and when able again to return to her seat, she observed:

"That was a most fortunate interruption, for it certainly saved me from saying something unpardonably impertinent. I am, I have been told, much too apt to speak my feelings on all subjects, without sufficiently considering, times, places, and persons. How well your sister looks to-night."

"Which sister?" enquired Emma.

"Oh Miss Watson; I never could admire your sister Margaret, though I know many people who do; neither she nor Mrs. Watson, who is rather in the other extreme, are at all to my taste."

"Elizabeth looks very happy," observed Emma.

"I am sure she deserves to be so," replied Annie with enthusiasm, "she is such a very amiable person, I know few with whom I more enjoy a day's intercourse. It always seems to do me good to hear her talk, she makes so light of difficulties, and is so cheerful. To me, who I believe am rather too apt to grumble, she is quite a lesson I assure you."

"I am delighted to hear you say so," replied Emma, with a look that shewed how perfectly sincere was the expression she used.

Though Annie was frequently called away by the necessity of receiving other visitors, she took every opportunity she could command of returning to Emma's side, and conversing with her in the most friendly way. During the intervals when she was obliged to withdraw, Emma looked round the room, to see how the others were employed or amused. Mrs. Turner was discoursing eloquently with Mrs. Watson, who was evidently bored exceedingly, and hardly listening at all; her thoughts as well as her eyes seemed to turn constantly to an individual of the party unknown to Emma, a tall and pleasant looking man, who stood by a nice looking elderly lady, and seemed to be making himself very agreeable to her. Margaret had no one to talk to, and was busy in arranging her tucker in a satisfactory way, and smoothing her gloves from the tips of the fingers upwards. Robert was hungry, and consequently quite unable to enter into conversation with any one. He was faintly trying to hide the violent yawns which were produced by the suspension of feeling—the uneasy state of expectancy in which he was kept. Emma could read his impatience in the peculiar twitching about his eyes, and the spasmodic way in which his hands closed at intervals, as if grasping some imaginary knife and fork. There were two other gentlemen of the party whose names she ascertained from her young friend; one a tall, stiff, elderly man, with an erect carriage, and rather disappointed expression of countenance, she learnt was a Captain Tomlins, an old soldier, who played a remarkably good rubber at whist; the other was the clergyman of the parish, who had but just returned from Bath, and consequently was unknown to Emma. He was a mild-looking, middle-aged man, with a very bald head, and a small quantity of silver hair; his countenance was singularly pleasing and inviting, and there was an earnest kindness in his manner which charmed her. He stooped and was very round shouldered, whilst a slight appearance of lameness arising from the gout which had driven him to Bath, interested Emma peculiarly in him, because it reminded her of her father. The other individual who occupied so much of Jane's attention, Emma was likewise informed was the doctor of the parish, and one of the principal objects of interest to half the ladies of the town. Annie assured her his reputation as a doctor was wonderful; he made all his patients pleased with themselves, and consequently pleased with him likewise; indeed he had a sort of harmless way of making love to the ladies under his care, which was very captivating to most people.

"And are you one of his patients?" enquired Emma, "or only an amateur admirer of his?"

"Oh, I was never any one's patient," replied Annie; "I am never ill; and as to being an admirer of his, indeed I do not think I ever could admire a doctor—I have a decided aversion to the profession altogether."

"I never liked it," observed Emma, "until I became acquainted with my brother Sam, and for his sake I have been quite reconciled to it."

"Yes I can understand that, I think George could reconcile me to anything," replied Miss Millar with an expression of feeling resting on her open countenance, which Emma thought quite bewitching; "but after all a doctor's is an odious profession: to be eternally dinned with complaints and pains, and always administering drugs and mixtures in which I dare say they have no faith all the time, must require a stock of extraordinary patience. I wonder how that man can go smiling and complimenting through the world as he does."

"But you look only at the disagreeable side of the profession," returned Emma; "you should consider it as the means of alleviating suffering, relieving distress—perhaps prolonging the most valuable life; if you think of the good a doctor can do, you will form a higher estimate of the profession."

"Yes, but then all those wise thoughts do not come of themselves into my poor brain; it is only those as clever and sedate as you who can suggest them, and in spite of it all, I am afraid I shall go on always hating the profession all my life."

Their conversation was cut short by a summons to dinner, when owing to there being a preponderance of ladies in the party, Annie and Emma walked in together. At the table, however, they were separated, and Emma's ill-luck placed her between her sister-in-law and her brother, a mis-arrangement which was not perceived until every one was seated, and which Mrs. Watson then insisted should not be changed.

Jane was particularly cross; she had expected the distinction of leading the way to the dining-room in company with the master of the house, and she saw instead a quiet-looking, plainly-dressed lady precede her. Not knowing who the stranger was, and feeling all the right of being first, which as niece to Sir Thomas she invariably claimed, the indignant blood mounted to her cheeks. The hope, however, that Mr. Morgan the doctor would take care of her instead for a moment tranquillized her mind; but when the place he should have occupied was officiously filled by the whist-playing Captain Tomlins, who cared nothing for the right of precedence and only desired to reach the dining-room quickly, her indignation was with difficulty repressed; and as she looked over her shoulder in leaving the room, and saw Elizabeth following with Mr. Morgan, her anger rose to a climax.

"I wonder who that is walking just in front of me," said she to her companion.

"I am sure I don't know, ma'am—I was thinking she must be a stranger;" replied Captain Tomlins anxiously snuffing up the scent of dinner ascending from the lower regions of the house. "The Millars always give such good dinners."

"It's very odd," continued Mrs. Watson, "how little attention is paid to rank; it seems to be getting quite the fashion now to set aside all the old distinctions. Formerly neither men nor women thought of pushing themselves out of their places, but now all that is forgotten, and one may be obliged to walk in to dinner behind you don't know who, and often conducted by some one who has no right to put himself forward."

"Very true, ma'am, such things may happen—but you know at least who is leading you, and I conceive that as an officer in the service of his Majesty, I have a perfect right to walk before any of our present company, excepting always our host. I am sure you must agree with me."

"Upon my word," said Mrs. Watson, with an angry little laugh. "I was not at all aware of your rank being so very high, or entitling you to such very great distinction. However, I dare say it's all right, and I shall find myself, no doubt, soon walking in behind the old sexton's wife, or taking the hand of the parish clerk to the table."

As they had reached the table, by the time she had made this speech, Captain Tomlins did not trouble himself to answer her, being intently occupied in counting the dishes which stood before him, as resting his hands on the edge of the table, and firmly compressing his lips, he bent forward to take a survey of the shining covers, as if half-expecting to be able to penetrate their substance, and ascertain their contents. Mrs. Watson tossed her head in angry disdain, and was forced to soothe her agitated feelings by scrutinising the way in which the party on the opposite side disposed themselves. The doctor, whom she had vainly coveted as a companion, was seated between Elizabeth and Margaret, the former having a seat at the corner next her host's chair, so that Mr. Morgan was not likely to be much engrossed by her conversation. Mr. Bridge, the rector, and Annie Millar filled up the rest of that side, as Mrs. Turner took the head of the table.

These were well placed, as Mrs. Turner delighted in carving, and Annie being exceedingly attached to the old clergyman, whom she had known from childhood, amply compensated to him by her respectful attention for the total neglect with which he was treated by Margaret, and the rude repulsive stare with which she received his first attempt at conversation.

In consequence of her situation, Emma's dinner was exceedingly dull, and right glad was she when the time came for retiring to the drawing-room. Here there was a change of scene, and also a change of companions; for she was able to take a seat by Elizabeth, and learn from her, that she, at least, had found the party very agreeable. Meanwhile Mrs. Watson was venting her indignation against Captain Tomlins, in no very measured terms, for his love of eating, his indifference to good society, and his presumptuous and pushing manner.

The stranger lady, whose name had not yet been made known, enquired if it was her neighbour of whom she was speaking, and having received from Mrs. Watson an abrupt and haughty affirmation, she turned to Mrs. Turner, and informed her that she formerly knew him, and added, that they had enjoyed some agreeable conversation together about old times and former acquaintances. Mrs. Watson, on hearing this, eyed her with increased disdain and suspicion, and moving away to the other side of the fireplace, she flirted her handkerchief before her face, as if the very air were laden with impurity by her presence. With head thrown back, and lips closely pressed together, she seemed determined to prevent any more of her words being wasted in such a presence.

Their party was soon after joined and enlivened by a number of young ladies, and a fair proportion of young men. The Miss Morgans, sisters to the doctor, the Miss Jones and their brothers, children of a wealthy baker deceased; the owner of a flourishing paper mill in the neighbourhood, together with the whole of his large family, four sons and three daughters, rejoicing in the name of Lamb, the eldest daughter being an enthusiastic friend of Margaret's; and two or three families of great elegance and distinction in the neighbourhood; families who enjoyed the advantage of having houses quite in the country, surrounded with poplars and laurels, and no connection with any trade or business; these formed the Élite of the party. There were several unconnected young men, amongst whom Mr. Alfred Freemantle appeared conspicuous; and swaggering up to Emma's side, declared that he meant to make that the ne plus ultra of his hopes for the evening. Annie, who heard him, maliciously desired he would translate the Latin for the benefit of ignorant young ladies; but he pretended not to hear her request, and went on talking to Emma without pity or cessation.

Whilst Annie Millar was busy dispensing the tea and coffee to her guests, Mrs. Watson approached her, and enquired, who was that little old lady who walked into dinner before her. A wicked light danced in Annie's eyes, for she had noticed Jane's scornful manner, and was excessively pleased at the surprise in store for her.

"Do you not know her?" she replied; "she is my godmother, and is now staying with us on her road to London."

"And her name, tell me that—who is she—who was she—to have the precedence over me, Miss Millar?'

"She is the widow of Sir George Barry, a baronet—who died a year or two ago—there is no family, so the title becomes extinct—she is the kindest, quietest, best old lady in the world, I am sure."

"Bless me," cried Mrs. Watson, growing very red in the face, "you don't say so, sure: a baronet's lady! well really—I never thought of that—I am sure I wish I had known it sooner. Why did you not introduce me."

"She did not think it necessary," replied Annie, quietly; "and we always let her have her own way—indeed, I believe I ought not to have told you who she is, only I saw you were annoyed at her having the precedence of you, and I thought it would comfort you to find it was not without reason and right."

"Well, I shall certainly go and talk to her now; but I am sure I don't know why you should suppose I was annoyed about anything of the sort; I declare I do not mind in the least what I do—or where I go—nobody can be more indifferent about their place than I am, though, of course, I do not like to see a mere nobody put over my head; but a baronet's lady is quite a different thing; I wonder whether she knows my uncle Sir Thomas—I dare say she does—people of rank usually know one another in London."

Miss Millar did not try to prevent her going to make the amende honorable to Lady Barry, whose quiet features expressed some surprise at the manner in which she was attacked by the hitherto scornful Mrs. Watson; and the repetition of the word "your ladyship" met Annie's ear as she contemplated them from the other side of the hearth rug.

Mr. Alfred Freemantle continued his battery of small talk in Emma's ear, and, at length, in spite of the cold ungraciousness of her manner, which was as far removed as possible from welcome or encouragement, the young gentleman ended his tirade by presenting her with a paper which he declared was a copy of verses in her honour. Emma coldly declined taking it, and his most urgent entreaties could not prevail on her to look at the verses—just at this juncture, Miss Millar joined them, and on understanding the subject in dispute she seized on the paper, and commenced reading the lines aloud. They consisted of the usual jumble about stars and flowers, streams and bowers, wings and other things, hearts, darts, flames and names, which might be expected in the valentine of a school-boy, and Annie read them in such an absurd, mock-heroic tone as made those within hearing laugh most naturally, really thinking, as they did, that it was intended altogether as a burlesque. Alfred Freemantle writhed under this laughter, which he could not take as a compliment, having intended the whole poem to be extremely sentimental: he tried to smile too, but really felt far more inclined to cry, and he shrank back into a corner, there to hide his confusion as well as he could. Annie did not pursue her triumph farther, but left the poor young man to the mortifying consideration of his own defeat.

When tea and coffee were dismissed, Annie declared it to be her intention to have a dance, which of course all the young people seconded with zeal. There was fortunately amongst the party one lady, who it was known excelled in playing country-dances on the harpsichord, which stood in the drawing-room, an heir loom from Annie's mother. The room was soon prepared, and the young ladies all drew up their heads, and began to look straight before them, as if they did not care the least in the world which of the gentlemen asked them to dance, or whether any did at all. Emma having no intention of standing up herself, drew farther back into a corner, without perceiving that it was the very one where young Freemantle had hidden his diminished head. He quite misinterpreted the action, and dropping down into an empty chair by her side, said with an air intended to be very arch,

"I hope, Miss Watson, you were coming to ask me to dance."

"Indeed I was not," replied Emma, "for I did not see you, but I shall be very happy to do so immediately. Pray, Mr. Freemantle, go and dance with any one but myself."

"Unparalleled cruelty," cried he clasping his hands, and throwing up his chin into the air. "To ask me to stand up with any other woman than the fair, the captivating, the charming object of all my vows, of all my wishes."

"If you mean me by those expressions," replied Emma quite calmly, "and that you wish to stand up with me, allow me to save you all further trouble, by the information that I do not intend to dance at all this evening."

"Impossible, you cannot be so hard-hearted—so cruel to your devoted slaves, as all the men in this room must be—you cannot be so unjust to your own charms, so unkind to your own attractions. That elastic figure, graceful as the weeping willow, was formed to float through the dance like the water lily on the surface of the stream. Those fairy feet—those—in short do you really mean not to dance?"

"Really so," replied Emma.

"Your reason—tell me your reason, I entreat you, why should you shrink from bewitching our eyes, and lapping our senses in Elysium."

"Excuse me, I think I have done enough in giving you one positive answer; you have no right to require any reason from a woman: or let this suffice you, I will not because I will not."

"Mr. Freemantle," said Annie, advancing towards them, and effecting an agreeable diversion in Emma's favour, "I must request you to stand up; we can harbour no idle young men in corners here; you are doomed to make yourself agreeable to one lady for the space of two dances, and only on this condition shall you remain in the room."

"Since then the beauteous Miss Emma will not do me the honor, will you permit me to solicit your hand, Miss Millar."

"No indeed, I am engaged for the whole evening, so you must find a partner somewhere else; go and ask Miss Morgan or Miss Lamb."

"I obey with the alacrity which your commands must always inspire," and he went accordingly.

Miss Millar stayed a moment after him with Emma,

"I will not ask you to stand up," said she, "after the reason you gave me, but both Mrs. Watson and your youngest sister have joined the set you see. How shall you amuse yourself?"

"Oh, never mind me," replied Emma cheerfully, "where is Elizabeth—she does not dance surely?"

"No, she's playing cards with my brother and yours, I believe; they went into that little parlour on purpose. Will you join them and look on?"

Before Emma had time to answer, Annie was called away, and a moment after Mr. Morgan came, and taking a chair near her, entered into conversation with the ease of a man accustomed to see much of the world, and mix in good society. She was interested and amused by his conversation, and more especially so when she accidentally discovered that at college he had been well acquainted with Mr. Howard, had since been visiting occasionally in the neighbourhood of Osborne Castle, and knew the whole family. He was a good deal older than Howard he told her, but he had remained some time in the vicinity of Oxford after he began to practise; indeed he had adopted his profession rather late in life, and having a fellowship he had continued single.

All this he communicated to Emma, but he had tact soon enough to discover that his own history, unconnected with the family and neighbourhood of Osborne Castle, interested her but little. He soon therefore turned the conversation to that channel again, and discovered that her feelings were certainly deeply concerned in it. Yet he could not quite satisfy himself whether it was the young lord or his former tutor, whose name raised a tinge of blood to her cheek, which he saw to be very becoming. Indeed there were so many reminiscences and peculiar circumstances associated with her intimacy with Miss Osborne, and acquaintance with her brother, they were so strangely implicated in Margaret's affairs, and so much that Emma was ashamed of, was suggested by their names, that she was quite as ready to blush at the memory of them, as at the dearer and more tantalising recollections connected with Mrs. Willis and her brother. Well knowing the art of pleasing, Mr. Morgan allowed her to lead in the subject of the conversation, carefully following the turn which she chose to give it, and trying to read her feelings with his scrutinising eye, whilst he seemed to be all attention to her conversation at the moment. Annie's account of him had not prepossessed her in his favour, yet now she could not deny that he was on the whole an agreeable man. The interval of the two dances passed pleasantly away, but when they were concluded Mr. Morgan left her, and she soon afterwards stole away to the little room where the card-table was. For some reason, however, which she could not learn, the whist party had been broken up, and she only found sitting there George Millar and Elizabeth, apparently deeply engrossed in a game at chess. She seated herself near them; her sister looked up and smiled, and then resumed her game; no one spoke. Emma took up a folio of prints lying on the table, and amused herself with looking over them. At length her attention was arrested by the sound of her own name. By the voices she learnt the speakers were her sister-in-law and Mr. Morgan, and the first words she heard were, the gentleman saying:

"A very charming girl indeed, Mrs. Watson, that young sister-in-law of yours."

"You think so—do you admire her?" enquired the lady.

"Very much—she is very handsome, indeed!"

"I cannot agree with you," replied Mrs. Watson, rather tartly; "her features are too irregular to be called handsome; good eyes, perhaps, but her skin is coarse and her features insignificant. I cannot but wonder at your taste."

"Indeed, I must beg leave to differ from you, my dear Mrs. Watson; her features may, perhaps, be rather smaller than real beauty requires, but the dark glowing complexion—the brilliant eye—the redundant hair, and rich red lips, these reminded me so strongly of yourself, that I cannot give up admiring them, even though you will not agree with me."

"Well, I don't know, I never was told she was like me before," said Mrs. Watson, in a simpering tone, which seemed to speak her propitiated by the incense thus offered to her. "Do you know how she is situated?" added she, "It's a most unfortunate thing; she was brought up so very much above her situation, in the most foolish, ill-judging way, by an old uncle who died without leaving her farthing; and now she is a beggar, without a sixpence to bless herself with, entirely dependent on her brother's and my charity. I am sure I am sorry for the poor thing."

"Yes, indeed," replied Mr. Morgan, with a really feeling tone, "if that is the case, she is, indeed, to be pitied. Poor thing you may well say."

"The worst of it is, that both her education, and I must say, her temper, unfit her for her future situation; she must do something for herself—a situation as governess seems the only thing—but with her fine lady notions, I don't know what to do."

"If you are wanting to get her such a situation," replied Mr. Morgan, "I think I know of one which would probably suit her. Lady Fanny Allston is wanting a governess for her little girl. The child is extremely delicate. I am in almost daily attendance on it, and I know Lady Fanny always says, 'I don't care for accomplishments, Mr. Morgan; my child can have masters, but it's manners I want—mind and manners—the feelings—the look—and the behaviour of a gentlewoman.' Now would not this exactly suit your sister? The salary is most liberal; and, altogether, I think she might be very happy there."

"Perhaps so, I don't know—you are very kind to think of her—but, indeed, I am not sure that she would be at all suited for the place—and how are we to get it for her. I am sure I don't know."

"Oh! I shall see her ladyship to-morrow, and can mention it to her; only give me authority to ask, and you shall see how soon it will be arranged."

"You are very kind—very obliging—but, indeed, I cannot answer at once; I must speak to my husband about it; but don't mention it to any one else, if you please—my intentions—my wishes with regard to her, are quite confidentially entrusted to you, and I wish you not to say any thing on the subject."

Mr. Morgan acquiesced, but Emma did not in this decision.

She had, at first, felt extremely hurt that Mrs. Watson should make her circumstances and situation the subject of unreserved discussion with a man totally unconnected with her family—and that in so loud a tone as to be perfectly audible to any one within a dozen yards of where she sat. But the accent of real interest in Mr. Morgan's voice—and above all, the prospect which he held up of a release from the galling thraldom of her present situation, served to compensate for the want of delicacy in her sister-in-law. She immediately formed a resolution to profit by the offer, if Mr. Morgan would really make good his word; whilst meditating on this plan, she heard her sister-in-law invited to dance again; and her quitting her seat, was immediately followed by Mr. Morgan's turning into the room where she was sitting.

She looked up at him as he entered, and fancied she perceived a slight shade of embarrassment on his countenance, as if he suspected she must have overheard his recent conversation. He drew a chair by her side immediately, and began complimenting her on her taste for silence and seclusion, as he could not imagine that the two chess players, at the other table, had proved very communicative companions. She readily admitted that they were too much engrossed by their game, to have bestowed a word or thought on her; and then added, that, in consequence of the quiet around her, she had discovered that others were thinking and talking of her in her absence. She colored a little as she added:

"My sister informed you so fully of my circumstances, that it is no use to affect reserve, and you mentioned a plan to her, which, it appears to me, would suit me perfectly well, if you really can make the arrangements you talk of."

"I am sorry you overheard what, I fear, may have appeared impertinent to you," replied he, with a grave and earnest kindness of manner, which would have suited a parent. "But Mrs. Watson is accustomed to speak confidentially to me of family matters; and though I certainly have no right to intermeddle in your concerns, yet permit me to say, no one could have the pleasure of conversing with you for even half an hour, without feeling a degree of interest which would certainly lead them to do every thing in their power to serve you."

Emma smiled and replied,

"If you really want to serve me, Mr. Morgan, the first step to it must be leaving off complimentary speeches; keep them for those whom you have no other means of serving, and speak to the point with me."

He smiled likewise, and rejoined,

"Well, I will keep them for Mrs. Watson, she will not reject them with so much scorn."

"Hush, I will allow nothing personal," said Emma, "I am Mrs. Watson's inmate, and must not listen to reflections upon her. But tell me, if you know, exactly what are the particular qualities required by Lady Fanny for the little girl's governess?"

"First youth, health, and good spirits—lady-like manners, a cultivated mind—a thorough acquaintance with English literature, a taste for the fine arts, and a love both of poetry and nature. Such, as well as I remember, was the catalogue she gave me, and to that she had no objection to add accomplishments, but on this subject she is not particular. She knows that though a woman may perform as well as an amateur musician, may draw or paint pleasingly, and may be tolerably well acquainted with modern languages, it is not more than one in ten who can be so thoroughly grounded in these accomplishments as to be really able to teach them with any effect—one subject of study is as much as most women can compass, and those who pretend to more are most likely to fail in all."

Emma listened in silence, and wondered mentally whether the entire oblivion of everything relative to principles—morals—and religion were the result of indifference to such subjects on the part of Lady Fanny, or Mr. Morgan.

"You are silent, Miss Watson," continued he, after surveying, for a moment, her downcast look and thoughtful expression. "Am I to suppose that my catalogue does not please you—or are you doubtful of my accuracy?"

"No, indeed, I was considering my own sufficiency for such a task."

"I do not imagine you need doubt that, so far as my judgment goes."

"But that must be a very little way, Mr. Morgan, the experience of this evening cannot be considered sufficient by those who will require information on the subject, however entirely it may satisfy yourself."

"You give me credit for less penetration than I would claim, if you suppose my experience is limited to this evening. You possibly have never seen me before, but we have often met, nevertheless—you did not know that I am a particular friend of your little niece, and deep in her confidence."

"Well, I will allow you as much penetration as you choose to claim on this subject—meantime, tell me when will the situation be vacant at Lady Fanny's?"

"In about two months, I believe; I do not know exactly, but if you will authorise me, I will make all necessary enquiries for you."

"You may do so, if you please, without absolutely committing me; and when I know all the particulars I can consult my brother, to whom I hold myself responsible, and whose approbation I must, of course, have."

At this juncture, the chess table was broken up, and Elizabeth joined Emma. Mr. Millar walked away to make the amende honorable to those ladies young and old, whom he had grievously neglected whilst devoting himself to Miss Watson. Elizabeth looked very well pleased with her game; but she did not seem disposed to talk; at this moment the noise in the dancing-room attracted their attention, and they moved to the door to look on. The party were going through Sir Roger de Coverley, in a high state of excitement, especially some of the young gentleman, of whom Mr. Alfred Freemantle was the most conspicuous. He rushed forwards with fury, and rather tore than ran round the figure; at length, when advancing to meet Margaret Watson, who was, like himself, dancing with more vigour than grace, they ran against each other, her foot slipt, and she fell completely into his arms. Not satisfied with this exploit, she made believe to faint, and he was forced to support her out of the circle: one or two people offered to assist, but he rejected their efforts, and half carried, half led her to the little drawing-room, near which her sisters were standing. Elizabeth and Emma tried to be of service, but, in fact, there was nothing to do; she would have been quite well would she only have held up her head, and sat upright; but whilst she chose to recline on Mr. Freemantle's shoulder—and allow him to keep his arms round her waist, they could do nothing but look on and feel very much ashamed of her.

Emma went to procure a glass of water from the side-board, and meeting Mr. Morgan, asked him to come and see if anything was the matter with her sister, as she hoped his presence would be an inducement to Margaret to resume the use of her senses, and leave off the hugging in which she was indulging Alfred.

Mr. Morgan accompanied Emma, and arrived just in time to see Margaret, after making a slight effort to sit up, sink again on her companion's breast in an attitude of the greatest exhaustion. Throwing an arch glance at Emma as he took the glass of water from her hand, Mr. Morgan said, in an extremely plaintive tone, "Poor thing—that is a complete faint—something must be done for her," and without the smallest warning, he dashed the cold water over her face and neck, plentifully bedewing the young gentleman's coat and embroidered waistcoat at the same time. Margaret started up instantly, and so did Alfred, each shaking off the water, and looking excessively annoyed. Margaret was as red as fire, and whilst dabbing up the drops from her neck and cheeks with her pocket-handkerchief, she exclaimed—

"Good gracious, doctor, is that the way you cure young ladies in a fainting fit."

"Precisely so, my dear Miss Margaret," returned he, laughing; "and you are a splendid example of the beneficial effects of my practice. What can be more different, from the languid state in which I found you, than the animation and colour which you now display."

"Upon my honour, Mr. Morgan," murmured Alfred, after he had done his best towards getting himself in good order again, after the share he had enjoyed of the sprinkling, "if that is the way you treat gentlemen, I must really call you to account, sir;" and in a lower tone, he murmured something further about "satisfaction and honour," which was quite indistinct.

"Oh, my dear sir," replied the doctor, quite blandly, "the libation was not intended for you; though your proximity to Miss Margaret made you come in for a portion of it, I assure you I did not mean to throw it away on you at all."

Annie now entered to enquire for Margaret's safety, and expressed herself rejoiced to find that she was apparently well, and without injury. She had feared, she said, from Mr. Morgan being called in, that something very serious had happened.

"Instead of which," whispered he to Miss Millar, "it was only something a little comic. I wish you had seen it, Miss Annie."

It was soon after this time for the party to separate, Alfred Freemantle insisting on seeing the fair Margaret home, after her accident, and tenderly supporting her through the street. They had not very far to go—but Emma, who was behind them, saw, if she was not very much mistaken, that he had his arm round her waist the whole way, and how Margaret, a woman engaged to another, could allow of such familiarity she could not understand.

She went to bed, firmly resolving if Mr. Morgan's report from Lady Fanny Allston was favorable, to speak immediately to her brother, and arrange everything for her removing there. She thought, for full five minutes, on what Miss Osborne would say, when she heard of her plans, whether she would renew her invitation for her to spend some time with her after Easter; and she spent double that time in considering whether, if she did, and she should again meet Mr. Howard, his manners would be warm or cold, how he would receive her, and what he would think of her undertaking such a situation.

The result of her meditations was that she would write to Miss Osborne, and explain to her, her plans and wishes, asking her, in case she failed in procuring this situation as governess to Miss Allston, to use her interest in finding her some other suitable to her abilities. This determination she put in practice the next day, and her mind felt relieved when it was done.