On rising from supper, Miss Osborne again passed her arm under Emma's, and led her out of the room: complaining that she was tired and heated, she proposed adjourning to the conservatory, where, by the light of beautiful lamps amidst the murmur of a fountain, the delicious odour of flowers, and the chequered glimpses of a bright wintry moon playing on the blossoms and shrubs, they sauntered in silence. At the end of the conservatory was an alcove fitted up with sofas, and almost concealed from observation by a row of orange trees, whose beautiful blossoms perfumed the air. Into this recess Miss Osborne conducted her friend—and here they had been sitting only a few minutes when they heard voices approaching.

After reconnoitring through the boughs, Miss Osborne softly whispered, "It's only your sister and Mr. Musgrove—sit still, or we shall be plagued with his company."

Trusting that they would not loiter long, the two young ladies remained concealed; and, in another moment, the couple approached so close as to enable them distinctly to hear what they said.

Margaret was speaking.

"But you need not envy us, I assure you, Mr. Musgrove, we, poor, weak women, who have no defence from slander—no pity for the deep heart-wounds we are ever compelled to bear in silence; oh! I assure you, if, as you say, we are like angels, our lot is any thing but angelic."

"But women have so much more—I mean to say they are so much less—that is, you know, they have not any thing at all?"

He did not seem quite aware of what he did mean; and Miss Osborne's looks expressed a degree of amusement that threatened the security of their concealment. She succeeded, however, in stifling her laughter, and catching up his words—

Margaret began again.

"So they have—you say very true—you mean, no doubt, they have more tenderness and less thought than you—but that increases our evils. We love and dare not shew it—and we smile whilst a dagger is placed in our hearts—and die happy, if, in dying, we can secure the peace of some beloved object."

"What are these flowers, Miss Margaret?" said Tom, who evidently found it difficult to sustain his part in this very pathetic conversation.

"Do you not know they are orange blossoms—bridal ornaments?"

"Are they indeed?—and when do you, mean to wear them?"

"How can you ask—is such an event in the disposal of woman?"

"Do you wish to wear them?"

"I shall not tell you—fie! how can you ask?"

"Nay, do not scold me for the deep interest I take in you."

"You take an interest, indeed!" cried Margaret, laughing affectedly; "ah! I know you better."

"If you doubt my word, you don't know me at all—tell me, is there one of all those men in that bright assembly, for whom you would put on those mystic blossoms?"

"None, upon my word," cried she, again; "none for whom I would consent to deck myself—none who could tempt me to such a sacrifice of life and liberty."

"Is that possible?" exclaimed he, in an incredulous tone.

"True, indeed; but why should you ask; you care not for me—you take no interest in me—you profess much indeed—but you are a man of professions."

"Cruel assertion—you cannot believe it possible. I assure you I have the most feeling heart in the world."

"I am incredulous."

"You are unkind."

"What motive have I to be otherwise to you."

"My deep and earnest devotion to you, fair Margaret."

"Now you are jesting, Mr. Musgrove."

"In professing my admiration—my attachment—impossible—by this fair hand, I swear I love you beyond expression. Will you wear the orange blossoms for me?"

"Will I? ah! dearest Tom—you little know my heart if you doubt the willingness—but may I trust you?"

"I vow to you by the bright moon above us—by all the honor of my ancestors; by every thing that is dear to me, that you are the fairest, best, most amiable, lovely, perfect woman of my acquaintance."

"Ah! dearest Tom. I sadly fear you flatter me with your sweet words."

"Flatter you! you indulge in an idea derogatory to yourself, to me—some women I might flatter—some I have flattered—but not you—that is impossible—tell me, Margaret, do you love me."

"Doubt you my love? Can you question my feelings—would you probe my heart—ecstatic moment—bliss beyond conception. Tom, I am yours in life and death."

"You are mine and I am yours—but hush, there are voices coming—let us return to the dancing—"

With slow, and apparently, reluctant step, Margaret was drawn away; and, the moment they were out of hearing, Miss Osborne turned to her companion and aroused her from the state of almost stupid astonishment, in which she was plunged, by commencing a rapid, but whispered apology, for having become unintentionally the confidante of her sister's happy prospects. She assured her it was entirely from a friendly feeling towards her, that she had sat silent—for she felt had they started out and put the lovers out of countenance by their appearance, the declaration would have been interrupted, the whole affair disarranged—and more mischief might have been perpetrated, than they would ever have hoped to repair.

At the same time she promised honorably to conceal the secret thus unintentionally come to her knowledge, until it was generally published, and she was able to present her congratulations to Miss Margaret. She did not think it necessary to add how singularly absurd she had thought both gentleman and lady on the occasion, or with how great a risk of choking her effort to suppress her laughter had been.

To Emma the sentences overheard had conveyed a sensation of illimitable wonder. That Tom Musgrove should have thought of marrying any woman, and especially Margaret, a girl with whom he had formerly flirted till he was tired, that he should really be enough in love to marry her without money or connexions appeared almost miraculous. She was vexed that Miss Osborne should have overheard all the nonsense passing between them, for she could not help fearing, from the glance of her eye, that she would ridicule such affection and folly.

Then too she felt very doubtful as to her sister's happiness with a man whose present levity and idleness promised but ill for the future. Certainly Margaret loved him, but hers was a love which doubtless might have been transferred to some other object, and was but little likely to make her seriously unhappy.

All these thoughts passed through her mind whilst slowly accompanying her companion to the ball-room, where they neither sought nor saw the two whose conversation had so much interested her.

The evening to Emma had decidedly been one of more pain than pleasure; she was bitterly disappointed by the conduct and manners of Mr. Howard, and this interview, instead of increasing their acquaintance, or promoting their friendship, seemed to have ended only in finishing and strengthening that incomprehensible division between them which had once or twice before this surprised or alarmed her.

Regret at this circumstance combined with a feeling of lassitude and weariness, from not being accustomed to such late hours, sufficed to rob her movements, at first, of all spirit and grace during the next dance, and to take away all sprightliness from her conversation. Her partner, the lively Sir William Gordon, expressed a fear that she was ill, and proposed sitting down, but desirous not to attract attention, she asserted herself perfectly competent to continue the figure, and exerted herself more effectually to dispel his ideas, lest he should succeed in guessing the origin of her want of spirits. The effort was perfectly successful, and carefully smothering her own feelings, she allowed her partner to talk in his usual gay and careless style, and rewarded his conversation with smiles which encouraged him to proceed.

He ascertained that she was to remain at the Castle that night, and informed her that he was also to be an inmate for a few days, so that he had the satisfaction of knowing that he should have the opportunity of following up the acquaintance so happily begun, and that her appearance was not only that of a dazzling meteor to shine across his path with rare brilliancy for a few minutes, and then leave him to darkness and despair for the future.

"No," said Emma; "I trust I have an orbit, though a small one, but too distant and remote a one from yours, Sir William, for it ever to be likely that our paths should cross again."

"You don't say so, Miss Watson; surely if Miss Osborne has discovered and learnt to appreciate your worth—your brilliancy—it is very possible for an inferior individual like me equally to keep you in sight."

"No," said Emma; "it requires Miss Osborne's abilities for that, and I am sure you cannot pretend to vie with her in that respect."

"Beyond all question, no," cried Sir William; "I have not such vanity or impertinence; have I not already informed you I am the most modest creature breathing?"

"Oh, yes," replied Emma smiling; "we settled that point so long ago that it had almost escaped my memory in the interval; but now you mention it, I do recollect that you said so before."

"You are too bad, Miss Watson," replied he laughing.

"I think you wrong me—you should say too good, in thus readily allowing your claim to superior merit."

"Well, but now tell me, do you think Miss Osborne so very clever?"

"I must decline discussing that point, being incapable of forming a judgment on the subject."

"Am I to infer that you do not like me?" enquired he doubtfully.

"By no means—all I can allow you to infer from my silence is, that Miss Osborne has been, voluntarily, so very kind to me, that she deserves my gratitude, but that I have seen too little of her to warrant my forming an opinion as to her talents or abilities."

"Do you think her pretty?"

"Exceedingly so," replied Emma warmly; "it is a countenance that improves on one so very much—surely you must admire her."

Sir William did not return a direct answer, and Emma suspected that he would have been more ready with a reply, had his admiration been merely superficial. Yet it had struck her that Miss Osborne's manner to him was uncertain and capricious, as if she did not wish to give him encouragement, or was trying to play with his feelings, whilst Sir William, instead of seeking to overcome this, appeared rather desirous of amusing himself with some other objects.

She began to think she was the subject of some spell, destined to be the puppet of one or other of her companions, who seemed continually acting towards her some part which she could not understand. Perhaps they were all trifling with her feelings, or amusing themselves at her expense by giving her encouragement which induced her to enter society decidedly above what was her proper situation.

She tried to shake off this very uncomfortable feeling, but it seemed to have taken fast hold of her mind, and her hitherto animated countenance became again clouded, her steps were dull, and her whole air exhibited fatigue and depression.

Sir William was evidently watching her closely, and this annoyed her; presently he said again,

"Then after all, she is not so much your friend as I fancied."

Totally forgetful, at the moment, of the subject on which they had just been conversing, Emma started at this address, and looked puzzled without replying.

"I mean," continued he, answering her look, "that I had fancied you were particular friends, and I wished to hear your opinion of her—of Miss Osborne."

"My opinion, I assure you, would not be worth giving, Sir William; but I will inform you though I cannot presume to call myself her friend, I have received very great attention from Miss Osborne, which has naturally prepossessed me in her favor; and what I have seen of her gives me such an opinion of her, that if our situations in life had made us equal, I dare say our acquaintance might have grown into friendship."

This assurance apparently satisfied Sir William, as he dropped the subject of Miss Osborne, and started off on a lively dissertation on the nature of friendship, which amused Emma as long as she had strength for the dance or attention to bestow on him. Her weariness however had increased so much that she at last gave up, and was glad to rest in a corner, before she had completed the allotted two dances. Here she was discovered by Miss Osborne, who moved to compassion by her weary looks, or influenced perhaps by some other unacknowledged motive, was persuaded, after a faint opposition, to allow her to retire to rest.

And so ended Emma's enjoyments of the ball at Osborne Castle; it had certainly been productive of little pleasure, and had cost her a handsome dress; yet upon the whole she found herself regretting less the actual injury inflicted on her than the unrealized pleasure which her imagination had promised.

She was convinced, on reflection, that this dissatisfaction must spring from some fault in her own mind; had her feelings been under proper regulation, she would have entered with contentment or satisfaction into the amusement before her, instead of worrying and wearying her spirit in wishes for what was withheld. Her partiality for Mr. Howard was the origin of all this; and if this incipient partiality already produced her so much discontent and evil feeling, it became her to check it at once, and vigorously, lest she should find herself deprived of her peace of mind, before she was aware that she had gone astray.

The conjoined effects of excitement of mind, and unusual dissipation tended naturally to produce a restless and sleepless night, and finding early the next morning that her head would be the better for fresh air, she resolved to try and find her way out of doors before the breakfast which would probably be at a very late hour.

The wintry sun-beams were sparkling on the hoar frost, and glancing red upon the naked boughs of the trees around, as she quitted the porch; the air was brisk and enlivening—the sky free from clouds—and promising herself a pleasant ramble, she walked into the park. The path she chose lay along the side of beautiful hanging wood of beech, and she pursued it in profound solitude for some time, hearing no other sound than the echo of her own footsteps on the hard ringing gravel; but after walking a considerable distance, it struck her that there was a sound of other feet in her vicinity which seemed to be keeping parallel with herself, but farther in the wood. Supposing it might be some labourer or gamekeeper, she paused to listen, and allow them to pass on; but the steps likewise ceased when she did, and that so immediately as to make her doubt if it were not fancy altogether.

Again resuming her walk, she immediately heard the accompanying sound, and this time being convinced it was no delusion, she tried to see through the wood, and ascertain who was thus her silent companion, but the shrubs and underwood were too thick to allow her to see anything.

Not quite liking to be thus accompanied, she resolved to return home, and an opening which appeared to her to lead in the direction of the castle at that moment presenting itself, she, unhesitatingly, struck off in that direction. The footsteps no longer met her ear; but no sooner was her attention released from this object, than she saw with a different kind of alarm that the rapidly gathering clouds predicted rain. Not liking the prospect of a wetting, she became rather anxious about the direction of the path she was following—the turns and windings of which began to perplex her, and she soon came to the conclusion that she had quite lost her way. Certain, however, that the castle must be within a mile of her, though not visible from where she stood, she would have rambled on indifferent to this consideration, but for the state of the weather, which became every moment more threatening.

Hoping to discover the turrets of the castle amidst the trees, she climbed up a small eminence, in order to obtain a more extensive prospect, and from this spot, though no view of Osborne Castle met her eyes, she saw in a little glen beneath a cottage, apparently belonging to a keeper or gardener, and there she determined to apply for directions as to the shortest way home.

During the momentary pause, whilst taking this survey of the landscape, her quick ear again caught the sound of the footsteps which had before seemed to follow her. Well aware that there could in reality be no cause for alarm, she overcame, as well as she could, the sort of nervous excitement which had increased upon her feelings, and listened attentively.

Her nerves were naturally firm, though her fancy was lively, and she, under ordinary circumstances, would have cared little for her invisible companion, but the excitement of last night's dissipation, probably, affected her in some degree, as it was with a sensible palpitation of her heart that she awaited the appearance of the intruder, as she thought he must immediately be visible between the open trees near her. The tread was light and steady, evidently that of a gentleman, too light, she thought, for Lord Osborne, who was not remarkable for his grace in walking; and her heart suggested the idea that it might be Mr. Howard.

She would not speak to him, if it were, that she was resolved on; she would not allow him to be friendly only in private, whilst he was cold and distant before witnesses; but she thought she should like to ascertain if it was he, and like to see how he would be disposed to behave.

The steps were now so close, another moment must reveal the figure; she would not seem to be waiting for him, and turned once more to look at the lodge below, to which a few large heavy drops of rain made it advisable she should speedily retreat; and whilst her head was thus averted a few rapid bounds brought to her side Sir William Gordon.

The young man would in all probability have felt but little gratified had he known that the flush on her cheek at his sight was entirely one of mortification and disappointment, for whatever she might try to persuade herself, she was really quite disappointed that the intruder was not Mr. Howard, as she had fancied.

She gave him as friendly a return to his salutation as she could force from her lips—far more than she felt from the fear of betraying her feelings; whilst he professed most unbounded satisfaction at his good luck in thus overtaking her.

On his enquiring where she was going, she owned she had lost her way, and was thinking of taking shelter in the cottage before them from the rapidly encreasing rain.

"Do you require shelter?" cried he; "then let us hasten there at once; but I thought you must be a fairy or a sprite, no mortal maiden could be walking at this hour after dancing all night as you did. Seeing you could go without rest, I naturally concluded you would be alike indifferent to the variations of the elements—proof to the storm—impervious to the rain."

Emma smilingly assured him she was very far from this; and that she must now condescend to make haste to avoid a thorough wetting. He begged to be allowed to show her the way, and as they descended the steep side of the glen together, she felt that she ought to be thankful for his arrival, as the path was so abrupt, and in some places almost precipitous that his support was, if not absolutely necessary, at least very convenient, when in a hurry, as she was at present.

With all their haste, however, she was not a little wet, by the time they stood in the porch of the lodge, and were right glad when, on the door unclosing, in answer to their knock, they saw a bright fire burning on the hearth.

The keeper's wife, a pretty and neat-looking young woman, very hospitably pressed them to enter, exerted herself to dry Emma's cloak and hat, and then asking if they had breakfasted, set about preparing them a meal with all expedition, probably pitying the uncomfortable lot of those who were obliged by fashion to defer their morning meal so long. The keen appetite which a walk on a winter's morning would produce was sufficient to have made welcome even inferior fare to that which she displayed. The excellent bread and butter, the eggs, the apples, the raspberry jam, were all tempting in themselves, and the jug of home-brewed ale which she placed for Sir William was declared by him to be an excellent substitute for chocolate after a late supper and an early walk.

Whilst she was preparing these things, her child, an infant of a few months old, awoke in its cradle near the chimney corner. Perceiving that the mother was too busy to attend to him, Emma volunteered to act the part of nurse; and, being really fond of children, took much pleasure in the occupation. Sir William looked at her with admiration—he had been struck with her when dressed for the ball, and surrounded by a crowd of other elegant women, but here the effect was doubled by the accompaniments. The small and plainly furnished room, was brightly illumined by the blazing fire—which, in spite of the gloom without, threw a ruddy glow over every thing beside it.

Emma's simple dress shewing her figure unencumbered by ornament or superfluous clothing, her dark hair, now wetted by the rain carelessly pushed back from her glowing cheeks, highly coloured by the rapid exercise which she had just undergone; her graceful movements as she tossed and played with the infant in her arms, and the sweet smiles which she bestowed on the really pretty child, struck him as forming the prettiest picture he had ever seen. He drew back a little to contemplate it, and being an excellent artist, he could not resist the temptation of trying a sketch of her figure on a leaf in his pocket-book.

Engrossed with her charge, and not much caring for his company, she did not for some time notice his occupation, and he had made a very satisfactory though slight sketch of her, before she was in the least aware of it. But suddenly turning to him, and catching his eyes fixed on her, whilst the pencil was suspended under his fingers, the idea of what he was doing struck her at once. The perfect simplicity of her manner when charging him with it, the freedom from all affectation, and all appearance of gratified vanity, seemed to him no less remarkable than her grace and beauty, and he no longer wondered at the effect her presence had visibly exercised over both Lord Osborne and Mr. Howard, and only felt surprise that Miss Osborne herself should not feel uneasy at placing her brother in proximity to so captivating a girl. He was sure, had his heart been free, she would inevitably have conquered it, but his long standing partiality for Miss Osborne herself was not to be overthrown by the unconscious rivalry of Emma Watson.

"I was not aware you were an artist, Sir William," said she, quietly taking the paper from his hand and looking over it, "this indicates that you are a master of the pencil. You will allow me to keep it I hope, it can be of no use to you."

"Excuse me, the sketch I cannot part with, at least not at present, I wish to make a drawing of the subject; as the interior of a cottage it will be perfect; pray do not require me to give it up." As he spoke he took the sketch from her, as if afraid she might detain it against his wishes.

She said no more in opposition, but looking out of the window, began to wonder whether there was any prospect of the rain ceasing, so as to give them a chance of reaching the Castle in comfort.

"I assure you we shall not be missed these two hours," said he, "there is not the remotest chance of any one being up in the Castle before noon, after such a ball as that of last night."

"I should not like to spend many such nights," observed Emma, "one soon tires of pleasure or rather of dissipation."

"What sort of life would you have, Miss Watson, could you decide your lot with a wish—have you made up your mind?"

"Hardly, it is a point that requires reflection, and I cannot say that I have bestowed much on it," replied Emma.

"Indeed—you don't say so—I thought all young ladies settled that before hand—the situation, residence, fortune, even the name which the future was to bring them, do you not arrange that entirely."

"If that is the case I am sadly behind hand," replied she smiling.

"It is never too late to mend, that must be your comfort; begin now—do you prefer the country, or are you ambitious of a house in town?"

"Oh, the latter of course; a house in town and ten thousand a-year; you cannot imagine I should stop short if I once began wishing, what would be the good of that?"

"Bravo, I like to hear a lady speak her opinion boldly—so you are ambitious after all; I should not have thought that from your face, I am a great studier of countenance."

"But indeed you must blame yourself for my ambitious wishes," retorted Emma, "I am sure it was you who put them into my head, I told you I had never thought of anything of the kind."

"Very well, I see you are a promising pupil, I shall be proud of your progress, I have no doubt, but now to tell you the truth I should have assigned you a quiet cot in the country, a retired home, domestic cares and joys, a round of parochial duties, cheered by peace and content—a clever and well educated companion, not a dashing or ambitious one. I read your feelings as I thought in your face, and should have expected you to chose such a lot; you see how the best physiognomist may be mistaken—you blush for me I perceive."

Emma did blush more than she wished, and she felt too much to dare to answer for a moment, then recovering herself with an effort, she replied:

"Are you aware, Sir William, how nearly you have drawn my lot—did you know I was the daughter of a country parson, and am situated nearly as you describe?"

"No indeed," replied he with much animation, "I am after all then a better guesser than I took credit for, it is curious that I should have so closely described you. You live in the midst of content and peace do you!"

"I always thought content was an internal, not an external blessing," replied Emma, again evading his question, "one which it became our duty to cultivate for ourselves, and I was blaming myself for enjoying so little of it at this moment, being sensible that I feel rather discontented at the detention in this cottage."

"Well, I am certainly more amiable than you, Miss Watson, for I am as happy as possible, or nearly so at least. But now you mention it, it occurs to me that perhaps the rain may continue all day, in which case we should be really confined in our present refuge. Suppose we were to consult with the hostess as to the means of escape."

"But what means can she suggest?" enquired Emma, "except walking home, and in that case we shall certainly get wet through."

"I do not see that that catastrophe is absolutely inevitable," replied he, "we might send to the Castle for a carriage; this seems to me the most simple remedy; do you object?"

Emma was rather startled at the idea of taking such a liberty, but she thought, perhaps, Sir William knew the ways of the family best, and she did not raise any objection. Mrs. Browning, the keeper's wife, when called into counsel, regretted extremely that she had no one about whom she could send on such an errand, her husband being out with the boy that helped; she would have gone herself but she had a cough, and was afraid of the wet. This was an unexpected dilemma. Sir William meditated in silence.

"You have no carriage, Mrs. Browning, I suppose?"

"Bless you, no, sir—only one little tilted cart, which my husband drives to church on Sunday."

"Well and is not that at home—can we not have that? it would do admirably if we could;" cried he, delighted at the idea.

"Certainly, sir, I think I could harness it for you, the horse is at home to-day unluckily—I will go and see about it."

"No, no, my good woman, let me go and see,—I dare say, I can manage the affair without troubling you," said Sir William.

But she assured him her presence was necessary to show him the way, at least; but, if the young lady would be so kind as again to hold the infant, they would soon have every thing right. To this, of course, Emma readily agreed, and she soon, from the thinness of the partition, heard Sir William's voice joking with their hostess about the horse and harness.

In about ten minutes he returned.

"Miss Watson," said he, "your carriage is waiting—are you ready to undertake the expedition under my escort?"

Emma assented; and, after thanking the mother, and kissing the child—a process which Sir William pretended likewise to imitate, she was conducted to the door, and assisted into the neat, little chay-cart by him—and, under his protection, commenced the journey.

"What a charming little scene," cried he, slackening the reins to allow the horse to walk up a long hill; "I wish you would write a pastoral poem descriptive of the little cottage and its inhabitants, Miss Watson."

"And make you the hero of it, of course," replied Emma, "I wish I could, the subject would be decidedly novel and amusing."

"Oh! by all means, make me the hero; introduce me in any way you like, you could not do wrong."

"I should particularly celebrate your great and glorious appetite, and the heroic way in which you attacked the bread and butter," said she.

"Miss Watson, you are growing satirical, I will not trust you; I know you will say something cruel of me, I see it in your eyes."

"Your dexterity in harnessing a horse, that shall likewise be commemorated—we will say nothing about your buckling the traces all wrong, or the assistance Mrs. Browning was compelled to give you."

"Are you a witch, Miss Watson?" cried he. "How came you to know of my little blunders; upon my word, I begin to suspect you of something strange."

"Likewise your extreme partiality for little babies, and your amiable caresses bestowed on them."

"Why, the baby was not exactly the thing I should have chosen to kiss," replied he, slyly, "but mothers and nurses seem to prefer it to having such fees paid to themselves; but, if you think I was wrong, we will go another day and I will make a more judicious selection."

"Far from it; I think you displayed peculiar judgment and taste—I am serious in commending it. On the whole, I think you have behaved nobly this morning, and posterity should learn your merits through my song, if it were only in my power to write verses."

"Nay, now, I trust you are not going to have the cruelty to retract; remember, whilst I celebrate the adventure with my pencil, I shall trust to you to do so with your pen," cried he.

She only smiled and shook her head in reply, then, after a moment's pause, she suggested that it might, perhaps, be in his power to quicken the pace of the horse.

He assured her he was in no hurry; and he feared it would jolt her inconveniently, if they drove very fast. She was obliged to submit, as she saw he was determined to have his own way—but she thought the drive rather tedious, and was quite relieved when they reached the porch.

"Holla, what have you got there?" cried a voice, which she had no difficulty in recognising. "Why, Gordon, when did you set up that handsome equipage?"

"I will tell you, presently, Osborne—but I must first assist Miss Watson out," replied Sir William, gravely.

"Miss Watson! why, in the name of all that's wonderful, what frolic is this? If you wanted to take a drive with Miss Watson, why did you not take her in your curricle, Gordon?"

"Because, my good fellow," replied the baronet; "the curricle being uncovered, would have exposed us to the rain; you had better trust to me, Miss Watson, and let me lift you out—the step is very awkward for a lady—gently, now, there, you are safe," as he set her down within the porch, "I hope you are none the worse for your expedition. Do you not see, Osborne, this, our coach, is weather proof—and, therefore, convenient in such a rainy day."

"But where have you been!"

"Only driving in the park—surely your lordship cannot object to so innocent a recreation."

"Why did you not ask for one of the carriages" said he reproachfully turning to Emma, who was trying not to laugh at his wondering look. "Then I could have accompanied you!"

"We are exceedingly obliged to you," replied Emma, "but—"

"But," interrupted Sir William, "we were quite content with each other's society—and, as to our equipage, I defy you to produce one from your coach-house, at all to be compared to this elegant vehicle. Miss Watson, were you ever in one you liked better?"

"Never in one, for the loan of which I felt more obliged, I admit," replied she.

"There, I knew it; only add you never had a better charioteer, and then I shall be satisfied. I want a little commendation myself," added Sir William.

"I do not think you do—you seem so uncommonly well satisfied with your own exploits," returned Emma, laughing.

"Do come and have something to eat," interposed Lord Osborne, "I've done mine, but my sister and Miss Carr are in the breakfast-room."

And he laid his hand on Emma's as he spoke, and led her away.

Sir William, after sending for his groom to take home the cart, ran after his companions and joined them at the door of the breakfast-room. Both the young ladies raised their eyes in astonishment and visible curiosity, at their entrance together.

"Been out walking, Miss Watson," cried Miss Carr, "there must be something superlatively delightful in such a morning as this—are you partial to rain?"

"Not at all," replied Emma, "but it did not rain when I left the castle, and I did not think it would."

"Did you walk far?—and are you not wet?" enquired Miss Osborne, rather coldly.

Emma assured her she was perfectly dry.

"Where do you think we breakfasted, Miss Osborne?" commenced Sir William, "for I beg to inform you, we, early risers, have had a walk, a breakfast and a drive, this morning, before your finished you first meal."

"Really, I cannot pretend to guess where so eccentric a person as Sir William Gordon takes his breakfast, or what his amusements are."

"Oh, do tell us," cried Miss Carr, "so you and Miss Watson have been visiting together, have you; in some gipsy-camp or where?"

"No, indeed, you must guess again."

"Not I," replied Miss Carr, pushing back her chair from the breakfast table, "I have no talents for divination. Rosa, I am going to your room to try your harp—will you come when you are at leisure?"

Miss Osborne assented.

Emma, who had not sat down, declined all breakfast, and proposed to go to her own room to remove her walking dress—enquiring of Miss Osborne where she should find her afterwards.

"I will shew you your way," cried that young lady—then leading her into the hall, "that flight of stairs leads to the gallery where your bed-room is. I will wait for you here, before this fire."

Emma walked slowly up-stairs, and turning her head, she saw Sir William join Miss Osborne and address her. His reception was any thing but gracious—the young lady seemed bitterly offended about something, drew up her head—pouted her under lip, and gave unmistakeable signs of being out of temper with him. Emma did not wait to see whether he succeeded in propitiating her anger, which she suspected arose from the supposition that they had been walking together; and, to allay which, she determined to give an accurate account of their adventure. On descending again to the hall, she found only her friend, the gentleman having disappeared, and with her she proceeded to the sitting room where Miss Osborne usually spent her mornings.

Here the three girls were sufficiently merry and talkative, but Emma could not find an opportunity of introducing the subject of her morning walk, which she could not help fancying was scrupulously avoided by her young hostess—a circumstance which rather annoyed her, as she particularly desired to explain the reason of her return with Sir William.