The morning opened in a way as promising to Lady Gordon's plans as could be desired; bright and serene; a gentle air, not strong enough to wave the flag upon the Castle turrets, rustled amongst the forest trees; a deep blue sky, a cloudless sun, and the mist upon distant objects which accompanies heat in this country, all promised everything most charming.

The whole party were in high spirits, and when, after their breakfast, the ladies had put the finishing stroke to their toilettes, any unprejudiced observer must have admitted that they all three looked very captivating in their several ways.

Lady Gordon anxious to be on the appointed spot previous to the arrival of any of the guests, soon started from the Castle, and the two young ladies accompanied her.

The scene which had been chosen looked very lovely certainly, and the marquees and trees in its vicinity, festooned with flowers, and ornamented in many dainty devices, had a most tasteful air; but Emma could not help thinking that the forest glade in its natural state would have been more taste picturesque, and to her far more enchanting, than with the gay flags and ornaments which now decked it. She thought of the ages which had passed over those lordly trees; the generations of fair faces, which had perhaps strolled beneath them; the histories of happy or of broken hearts, which, could they but be known, would read so many a moral lesson to herself. They looked so very old, those huge spreading trees, with their giant trunks and wide extending branches; she quite felt respect for such stability and strength. Their boughs had probably waved

and now another generation was to meet beneath them, and how many gay, thoughtless hearts, would they this day shade.

They had not been long enough there for Miss Carr to be very tired of waiting, nor for Emma to be at all anxious for a change of scene, when the company began to arrive, and she had other amusement and occupation. It was a very large assembly, and every one came prepared to enjoy themselves, convinced that what Lady Gordon did must be wittiest and most fashionable, if not

The band played, the sun shone, the green trees waved in the breeze, the silks and muslins fluttered, fair checks reddened, bright eyes glanced, sweet lips smiled, fairy forms flitted about, everything was elegant, lively, agreeable—any thing but pastoral, not at all in the fashion of an old French print of a Louis Quartorze fÊte champÊtre. There were no mock shepherdesses, with powdered heads and crooks in their hands; no badly supported and out of character costumes; people came to act no part but that of lively, and if they could be, lovely English ladies, in the most fashionable gowns, meeting well-bred, well-dressed, well-intentioned English gentlemen. There were smiles, and flattery, and flirtations, and a little affectation, and some small share of folly; but on the whole, it was an extremely elegant and well-satisfied party, and every one was ready to tell every one else how excessively pleasant it was, and how much more they preferred these delightful, unformal parties, to the more usual, but less exciting, in-door assemblies.

To those who loved good eating and drinking, it could not fail of being an agreeable re-union, for "the feast provided, combined," the newspapers said on the occasion, "every delicacy of the season, which an out door repast would admit of, in profusion, and the hospitable and liberal-minded hosts were truly delighted to press on their nowise reluctant guests, the choicest viands and the most refreshing products of the vineyards."

In reallity, there was a great deal of pleasure afforded on the occasion, and if there were some dissatisfied minds, it may be concluded that they were those, who under no circumstances were likely to be pleased.

Among the discontented was Margaret Musgrove, who came over with a friend, in that friend's carriage, her husband driving the brother of this lady, as he preferred anything to accompanying his wife. After their arrival, he attached himself to this friend, and carried on with her a very tender flirtation. Mrs. Harding Russell was a fine, dashing woman, who very much enjoyed a flirtation with her friend's husband, and was delighted to make herself conspicuous, and the wife uncomfortable. Margaret would not have minded, had the brother been inclined to assist her in paying her husband off—but this was not the case, he was a man's companion, not a woman's, and never troubled himself to flirt at all. Margaret for some time formed a very inharmonious third to the otherwise lively duet which was performing between Tom and Mrs. Harding Russell, whose company made her perfectly miserable; but at length she succeeded in securing as a companion one of her former acquaintances, who though he had long ago ceased to care for Margaret Watson, had no objection, faute de mieux, to make himself agreeable to Mrs. Tom Musgrove.

When the greatest portion of the visitors was assembled, at a given signal, the sides of the largest marquee were opened, and every one was invited to the collation. Amidst the throng and pressure of this occasion, Emma found herself within a a short distance of her brother-in-law and his friend, and an unavoidable hearer of their conversation. Mr. Corbet was enquiring—

"What has come over Lord Osborne to make him such a different fellow from what he used to be? Why when I was here before, he was a fine, dashing lad, quite ready to join in any sort of sensible fun; and now he seems all taken up with women and girls. I remember when he would have scorned to join in such trumpery nonsense as this; but when I proposed just now that we should slip away to have a cigar and a little brandy and water, hot and comfortable, he told me he must attend to his sister's guests. Such a precious notion, 'pon my soul, I could not help laughing to think of a fellow like him turned into a lady's companion; a pretty thing indeed. If I were a peer of the realm, catch me troubling my head about any sisters or mother of mine."

"'Pon my honour, I think," said Tom, "it's a monstrous pity he is so altered, for I am sure he's not the same person to me that he was; I really think it is all for the sake of my sister-in-law, that pretty girl who is here now, you noticed her I dare say."

"Not I, I never look after pretty girls of that class—those I can have nothing to say to; there's an uncommon pretty girl at the lodge-gate, who stared at me as I came in, I noticed her there, and winked at her as hard as I could; and I intend to notice her again before I've done with her; but what are other pretty girls to me—not my sort, eh Tom?"

Tom laughed so much, Emma did not hear what followed, but it ended with a proposal that when they had had enough grub, they should adjourn to the lodge to look after the rustic beauty.

By this time Emma had been borne by the throng into the interior, and unluckily the place she found for herself, was close to Mrs. Harding Russell and her brother-in-law. She did not expect much pleasure from this vicinity, and could not, therefore, complain of disappointment, as well as disagreeables during this part of the entertainment.

Mrs. Harding Russell for some minutes would not turn her head towards Tom, and when he claimed her attention, she turned towards him with a scornful smile and exclaimed:

"Oh, you are come, are you? I hope you did not hurry yourself on my account, Mr. Musgrove. I should be sorry if you had put yourself to any inconvenience."

"Indeed I have though. I have been making frantic exertions, and trodden on at least a dozen toes to secure a place near you, convinced you would enjoy nothing unless I were here to help you."

"Upon my word, a very pretty speech—just like a man though—quite what one might expect from the vain sex. Pray do not take a seat, which I have no doubt must be very disagreeable to you. I dare say somebody else would change places with you: the young fellow talking to your wife—Baker—Butcher—Barber—what's his name—I shall call him, he would do just as well—he could hardly say less civil things."

"What did I say, anything rude? do you not know you were to take my speeches by contraries—did we not agree so—it is so much safer: but you know your power—your delight in tormenting me—caprice is so charming in women—and you know how to make it positively bewitching."

"Really I have not the slightest wish to bewitch you, nor can I believe that I do so—I have no power over any one, least of all you—I who have no charms, no graces—oh, no indeed, I do not expect civility, much less attention from men."

"Fie, you slander yourself and me, and the whole race of men in such assertions; you no charms—no graces—I should like to know where they are to be seen, that is all, if you do not exhibit them. I am sure Mr. Harding Russell would not say so, happy man!"

"What do you know of Mr. Harding Russell?" enquired the lady turning abruptly round to him.

"Nothing at all, except that like Roy's,

shall I go on?"

"Say what you please, it is better to be an old man's pet than a young man's slave," retorted she.

"Possibly, but you may reverse that saying—a young man would infallibly become your slave, fairest."

The rest of the conversation need not be detailed, it was too common-place, and trivial to deserve further notice; every one has heard two under-bred and over-pretending individuals making fools of themselves and each other, by their compliments and self-flatteries.

Very much rejoiced was Emma when the conclusion of the banquet at last allowed her the relief of a change of neighbours and conversation. As she was looking about for some one whom she could join, standing back a little to allow the tide of finery and flutter to roll past, she suddenly found Lord Osborne at her side.

"How came you to go all wrong, Miss Watson, at dinner?" enquired he abruptly.

"I, my lord—how!" was her answer, rather puzzled.

"Getting down quite with the wrong set—you belonged to us, and had no business at all with Mrs. Harding Russell, or women of that kind; I looked for you, but you had given me the slip."

"Oh, is that all?" replied she, "I was really afraid I had committed some glaring crime, from your lordship's reproaches, but if it was only sitting near the wrong persons, I assure you I have done penance enough already for that—I cannot say that I thought them very pleasant."

"I am glad of it," he replied with much animation, "you would have been very different from what I fancied, if you had found any pleasure in Mrs. Harding Russell."

Emma made no answer, and he immediately afterwards proposed her joining Lady Gordon, to which she assented. They found, on joining the circle round the hostess, that she was proposing for them a ramble through the prettiest parts of the park, to see the waterfall and the fairy fountain, and hear the echo, which was famous in the glen; there were a number of young people round her, and they seemed just in a humour for such an expedition. Some were to take carriages, some to go on foot, and amongst this latter group were included Emma and also Miss Carr, who seemed suddenly seized with a very decided partiality for Miss Watson, which grew particularly strong whenever Lord Osborne approached.

Quite uninvited she linked her arm in Emma's, and would be her inseparable companion in the walk. It was very pretty scenery through which they had to pass, and the lively party with their gay dresses gave it quite a novel effect. There was nothing like connected conversation carried on, only lively remarks, and quick repartees, with quaint observations from Sir William Gordon, who formed one of the party, and matter-of-fact assertions from his brother-in-law, who was, however, remarkably talkative for him.

In passing through one portion of the park under a sunny bank, they startled some of the harmless speckled snakes which writhed themselves away in haste, but not without causing much alarm and trepidation on the part of some of the young ladies, who protested they had a natural horror of such reptiles. This led the conversation into a new train, a long discussion on natural antipathies, when all the young ladies were called on by Sir William to declare what were their pet antipathies, presuming that they all cherished some such amiable weakness. He in return was immediately assaulted by an accusation of thinking ill of young women—entertaining satirical ideas about them, and making ill-natured speeches to them; which of course he denied, and the dispute which this accusation brought on lasted till they reached the fairy fountain.

Seated by the side of the spring was a brilliant, dark-eyed, beauty of a gipsy, who seemed to be waiting their approach.

"Here's a part of the masque for which I was not prepared," cried Sir William; "I wonder whether my wife sent this woman here."

Then advancing, he enquired what she wanted.

"I am waiting," she exclaimed with a smile, "to meet you all—not you, Sir William," putting him back with her hand. "It is not you I wish to see, but the young lord. Stand forth, Lord Osborne."

"Holloa! what now," cried he advancing—but another gentleman put him back, and placing himself before the gipsy enquired why she called him forth.

"I never called you, Arthur Brooke—who named your name?—keep in your proper place, and be not hurried to assume that of others." Then rising, she pointed to the spring and exclaimed, "Are you all come to drink at the fairy spring? How will you do it—where are your glasses or your pitchers?"

It was perfectly true they had all come to drink, but had forgotten or neglected to bring any vessel with which to draw the water. After looking at them for a moment, with triumph she exclaimed,

"You must then condescend to be beholden to the gipsy for your draught—see here," and she produced, as she spoke, a small silver cup: "Lord Osborne, take this cup and fill it for your guests."

Lord Osborne advanced and prepared to obey her. Sir William stopped him by suggesting perhaps it was a magic cup which might work them harm and woe.

"Scoffer!" said the woman. "It is a magic cup. Carry that cup steadily to your lips, full to the brim, without losing a drop, and it betides you success in your life's undertakings."

"Who will try the omen?" cried Lord Osborne. "For whom shall I dip?"

"Not me! not me!" exclaimed several of the young ladies addressed.

"Let me try first for myself," he said, and stooping filled the little goblet to the brim, raising it steadily and carefully.

"A toast," cried Sir William, "you must not drink without a toast."

"Success to our secret wishes," said he, and drained the cup to the bottom. "Will none follow my example," added he: then again filling the cup, he presented it to Emma; she took it and drank a part, then deliberately poured the remainder on the ground. The gipsy's eyes flashed.

"You defy me," she said, "dark-haired girl—but ere the sun stands again where it now does, your heart will be as heavy as your curls—your hopes as dark as your eyes—tremble—for the approaching news—you, who have dared to disregard my cautions."

"Whatever ill news may be in store for me," said Emma firmly, looking up; "it will come quite irrespective of the water I just poured upon the ground. I do not fear you. I have seen you before."

"Yes, we have met before; and I remember kindness with gratitude, and I grieve that young hearts should break—but it must be so—triumph and success to his lordship—but tinged with regret and sorrow—for he has drank from the gipsy's cup. Who will have their fortunes told."

"I don't believe a word of it," said Lord Osborne, "How should she know?"

"It is well to disbelieve, no doubt; but see now, you come to the fairy well for water; but, without my help, you would have come in vain. So it is with the future. You wish to draw knowledge from the dark bottomless well of destiny; you may seek in vain, unless you condescend to borrow of gipsy lore. Have courage and face the future."

"Oh! do not let us have any thing to do with her," cried one young lady.

"I am not afraid, I will have my fortune told," said Miss Carr, advancing; "tell me, if you can, what will be my fate?"

"No," replied the young woman, turning away, "I dare not predict for you—but one thing I foresee—disappointment and sorrow to you all—bright hopes faded—joyous faces clouded—smiles changed to tears for some, and the gayest hours cut short with grief and dismay. Farewell!"

She fled down the glen as she spoke, and a turn of the path hid her from sight. A something of fear and chill fell on the whole party. Sir William was the first to break the silence.

"Who is she, Miss Watson? she claims you as an acquaintance—where did you ever see her?"

Emma told him that it was a long time ago—before last Christmas—when out walking with one of her sisters. She did not explain that it was during that well-remembered walk, when she had met Mr. Howard for the first time after the ball, and he had accompanied them home. This young woman had followed them on that occasion, and Emma had persuaded Elizabeth to give her some relief from the kitchen, as she seemed almost famishing. Having been struck by her beauty, Emma had instantly recollected her.

The waterfall and the echo, combined with meeting those who had gone there in carriages, and detailing the adventure of the gipsy girl to them, sufficed to restore most of the spirits which had been damped by her predictions—and there was a great deal of merriment going on around her—but Emma remarked that Sir William looked particularly thoughtful and quite unlike his usual self.

"Are you brooding over the threatenings of the girl," enquired she, coming to his side, "you look so uncommonly grave, I really think they must have made an impression on you."

"I own they have," replied he.

"Oh! Sir William," exclaimed she, "I did not expect such superstition from you. I am surprised."

"Are you," said he, looking fixedly at her; "do you not know that those people seldom prophesy without some foundation to go on? They are quick at guessing feelings and wishes, and combining them with past and passing events; and extremely quick at learning any kind of news and turning it to their own advantage. Their knowledge in this way is astonishing; and I certainly feel afraid lest it may prove too true,—that something to us unknown, has occurred to grieve us."

"You almost frighten me, Sir William," replied Emma, turning pale. "Your attaching such consequence to words which appeared to me spoken at random, seems quite like a reproach to me for treating them so lightly."

"Perhaps her predictions, after all, may be the worst things that we shall hear," added Sir William, trying to shake off his gravity; "and they will be quite fulfilled, if I make you so pale. You are tired—take my arm!"

She could not deny it; and was glad to accept a seat in one of the carriages to return to the Castle: whither the most delicate of the guests now agreed to turn their steps, to rest and refresh themselves after their exertions, previous to the ball at night.