The aspect of the next morning did not promise any additional facility for returning home; more snow had fallen during the night, and the cutting wind which had accompanied it assured them that the lanes would be still less practicable than before. Emma, assured by the parting words of Lord Osborne that she was doomed to see and be seen by him again, tried to compose her mind and features to bear the threatened inspection. Instead of a visit from him, however, noon brought down a little note from Miss Osborne, reminding her of a wish expressed the night before to see the picture-gallery at the Castle, and offering, if Mr. Howard would escort her up in time for luncheon, to go round with her afterwards.

"Do you think your brother could spare the time to accompany me?" said she to Mrs. Willis, after communicating to her the contents of the note. "I should be so much obliged if he would—because—" she added rather hesitating, "I do not like to go alone, lest I should encounter the young lord."

"And you do not like him, my dear?" said Mrs. Willis with a bright look.

"I do not mind him much," replied Emma; "but I think I would rather not throw myself in his way: going alone would be almost like inviting his escort. Will you ask your brother?"

"I will go to him immediately—but I have no doubt of his acquiescence, and I can assure you in promising you Edward's company through the picture-gallery Miss Osborne is securing you a very great pleasure."

"It would I am afraid be encroaching too much on Mr. Howard's time," replied Emma, "to exact his attentions as a cicerone. Miss Osborne has promised to go round with me herself."

"Miss Osborne sometimes breaks her word," said Mrs. Willis coolly; "and as she has usually a good many engagements, perhaps you had better trust to my brother since you seem determined to shun hers."

"I should not expect much intellectual gratification from Lord Osborne's company, or his remarks on painting," replied Emma, almost laughing at the idea.

Mrs. Willis left the room, to speak to her brother. She found him of course in his study, from whence Charles had just been dismissed.

"Edward, are you busy?" said she.

"No; what do you want, Clara?" looking up for a moment and then returning to his papers. "I was just coming to the parlour."

"It is not I, but Emma Watson who wants you."

Mr. Howard turned round to look at his sister with an expression half pleased, half incredulous.

"Yes indeed, so you need not stare so; Miss Osborne has sent down to ask you to bring her to lunch at the Castle, and go through the picture-gallery afterwards—that is to say, she has promised to go through the gallery, but you must be sure to accompany them."

Mr. Howard bent over his papers again for a moment in silence.

"Why do not you answer, Edward? There is nothing to prevent your going, is there?—and I am sure you cannot dislike it."

"Oh, no—but Emma—what did she say to it?"

"She begged me to come and engage you as her escort, that she might avoid falling into the company of Lord Osborne, who she seemed to apprehend might be lying in wait for her. Elizabeth Watson does not care for paintings, and means to remain with me."

"It will give me the greatest pleasure," said Mr. Howard, starting up, and beginning to put away his books and papers. "Now, or at any time she will name, I am quite at her service. When does she wish to go?"

"Immediately, I should think, as they lunch at one—that is, as soon as she can get herself ready. I will go back and give her your message at once."

They were soon on their way. The air was bright and exhilarating—and it would have been very pleasant walking but for the ground being exceedingly slippery. It may be doubtful whether Mr. Howard thought this an evil, since it compelled his companion to lean on him for support, up the steep ascent which conducted them to the castle. Even with the assistance of his arm, she was obliged to pause and take breath, before they had accomplished more than half the ascent. From the point where they stood, they commanded a beautiful view—the parsonage and the church lying snugly at their feet, and the snow-clad country stretching out beyond, chequered with rich hanging woods of beech on the sides of the hills, and thick coppices of underwood down in the valley. Emma expressed her admiration with enthusiasm. Mr. Howard assured her that if she would move a short distance along a path to the left, she would enjoy a still more splendid panorama. The snow had been swept from off the gravel, and Emma could not resist the temptation, though it was diverging from their object. There was plenty of time,—since they need not be at the castle till one—and it was now little more than half past twelve. They turned into the path accordingly, and soon reached the spot he had mentioned: from this point they likewise had a peep at the castle, situated some way above them; and whilst they were standing there, Mr. Howard observed:

"There is Lord Osborne just coming out at the side door, near his own rooms—do you see him."

Emma perceived and watched him.

"I think he is taking the path to your house—is he not?"

"Yes, we shall meet him presently, if we turn and pursue our walk upwards."

"Oh! then, pray let us stay here till he is gone past," said Emma, hastily. "I do not wish to meet him in the least."

Mr. Howard looked so excessively pleased that Emma deeply coloured, and was nearly thinking his eyes as troublesome as those of his former pupil.

It will easily be believed that he did not press the proposition to meet Lord Osborne,—on the contrary, he acquiesced with very good grace in her wish to remain concealed till all danger of encountering him was passed away. As soon as the winding of the path hid him entirely from sight, they proceeded upwards and reached the castle without further incident, having only consumed half an hour in a walk which might have been easily accomplished in a third of that time. Yet Emma did not find the walk tedious, and Mr. Howard never discovered the period it had occupied.

They were shewn to Miss Osborne's own sitting room, where they found her practising on the harp. Miss Carr was lounging amongst the soft pillows of a comfortable chair—from which she hardly raised herself to address the visitors. Her friend was extremely good-humoured and civil. She pressed Emma's hand affectionately—enquired tenderly after her health, and expressed herself excessively obliged by her coming.

"Luncheon is waiting," added she, "you will not see mama, she is never visible of a morning—but did you not meet my brother?"

Emma coloured, and as she did not answer immediately, Mr. Howard replied—

"We saw him at a distance—but he did not join us."

"I am surprised," said Miss Carr, "for I know he set off on purpose to escort Miss Emma Watson up here. Which way did you come, to pass him?"

"It is easily accounted for," replied Emma, calmly, "Mr. Howard had taken me out of the direct road to shew me a good view of the castle—and Lord Osborne passed whilst we were looking at it."

"It is a pity you did not stop him," pursued Miss Carr, "he would not then have had his walk for nothing."

Emma made no answer. She did not think it necessary to inform Miss Carr that the honor of Lord Osborne's company was not a thing that she coveted.

When their luncheon was over, Miss Osborne renewed her offer of guiding Emma through the picture gallery—observing that they had better not lose time, as there was no light to spare in a winter's afternoon.

"But you must come too," continued she, addressing Mr. Howard. "I am sure you know more about the pictures than I do—and are much better worth listening to on that subject, at least."

"Your humility, Miss Osborne, is most commendable," said he, with a playful bow.

"Oh, yes, I am the humblest creature in the world—there are some things in which I believe you and a few others are wiser than myself—Greek and mathematics for instance."

"Your learning in those two branches did not use to be remarkable."

"Oh, I dare say I know as much as half those who have passed through Eton—they learnt to forget—I forgot to learn—there is not much difference."

"Not as you state it, certainly; apparently, you hold the learning of your acquaintance rather cheaply."

"Well, perhaps I do—but, really, one seldom meets with very wise men in these days: one hears such prodigies have existed in former times—but, I dare say they were not at all like the generality of our gentlemen companions, and would be sadly at a loss to comprehend our amusements, could they re-appear on the scene."

"You know scholars are proverbially awkward, bashful and absent—and, unless you would tolerate all those capital crimes, you need not wish for them in your company."

"I look upon you as a scholar, Mr. Howard," said the young lady, laughing.

"I cannot plead guilty to the impeachment, Miss Osborne."

"But I do not consider you particularly awkward nor intolerably bashful—and—what was the third crime you laid to the charge of scholars?"

"I forget."

"What intolerable affectation," cried Miss Osborne, "you want to be accused of absence of mind. But here we are at the gallery. Now, Miss Watson, make Mr. Howard tell you all about them."

The collection was really a very good one, and Emma was delighted. Miss Osborne looked at two or three, then sauntered about the room—looked out of the window—and, at length, returning to her companions, said:

"I have just recollected an engagement, for which I must leave you—I will be back as soon as I can; but don't hurry, and don't wait for me. You may be quite comfortable here, nobody will disturb you."

She then left them to another protracted tÊte-À-tÊte; a particularly pleasant circumstance to Mr. Howard, who found an increasing charm in Emma's conversation.

When tired of walking about and straining their eyes upwards, they sat down on a comfortable sofa in a recess, where they could at once enjoy the view of a beautiful landscape, and converse comfortably.

"You surely must have been used to look at good paintings," said Mr. Howard, "It is a taste that requires as much cultivation as any other art. You evidently know how to look at a picture, and how to appreciate its merit."

"I do not pretend to be a connoisseur, I assure you," said Emma.

"There is no occasion that you should—you have an eye and a taste, which, lead your judgment right, and I can perceive that you are well acquainted with the styles as well as the names of great artists."

"I almost suspect you of quizzing me," replied Emma, blushing, "have I been saying or affecting more than you think I felt."

"You are unjust to us both in such an idea," cried he, "I should not take such a liberty; and you are in no danger of tempting me."

"My kind uncle was extremely fond of the art," said Emma, "and he took me to every good collection and exhibition within our reach. He likewise took great pains to form and correct my taste; so that I ought rather to blush at knowing so little, than receive compliments on the subject."

"I do not know of what uncle you are speaking," said Mr. Howard, in a manner that denoted his interest in her connections; "you forget that I know almost nothing of your family."

"The uncle who brought me up; Dr. Maitland."

"Then you were not educated at Winston?"

"I—oh no—my home was formerly in my uncle's house—I have not been more than two months resident in my father's family."

"I dare say you think me a very stupid fellow for not being aware of this—but though I saw you were different from your sisters, and indeed most of the young ladies of the neighbourhood, the reason never occurred to me."

"You thought, I suppose, I was a sort of Cinderella," said Emma laughing, "let out by some benevolent fairy on the occasion of one ball, and that having once escaped into public, I could not be repressed again."

"You know I had not been in your father's house, and had therefore no reason to assign you an imaginary abode in the kitchen, in preference to the parlour, where I had never been. But I own I was surprised by your sudden apparition, since I had neither in ball-room or street, town or country, seen or heard of more than three Miss Watsons."

"I can easily believe it—so protracted an absence will naturally sink one's name in oblivion."

"May I ask if you are to return to your uncle's house?"

"Alas! no—my dear, kind uncle died not quite a twelvemonth ago—my aunt has left England to settle in Ireland—and my home is now at my father's."

"Is it not with rather a strange sensation that you meet your nearest relations; they must be almost unknown to you."

"I have made acquaintance with one brother and two sisters," replied Emma with something like a sigh; "But I have yet to meet another brother and sister."

"It seems almost a pity," said Mr. Howard thoughtfully, "to bring up one child apart and differently from the other members of a family, if they are ultimately to be rejoined. At least I feel in my own case how much I should have lost, had Clara been separated from me in childhood. I suppose it rarely happens that a brother and sister are so much together as we were—but we were orphans, and everything to each other till her marriage."

"It does not do, Mr. Howard, to indulge in retrospective considerations, if they tend to make one dissatisfied," said Emma, with an attempt to check a tear or hide it by a smile; "my friends wished to do everything for the best, and if the result has been different from their intentions, they are not to blame. But I do not know that I should choose to repeat the experiment for one under my care."

"Do you like the neighbourhood?" enquired he, feeling that he had no right to press the last subject further.

"I have seen so little; the weather has been so unfavourable, but it does not strike me as being very beautiful about Winston. I was used to fine scenery in the west of England."

"Then you will naturally think Winston flat and uninteresting.—Osborne Castle and its park have beauties, however, which you cannot despise—but in my enquiry I rather referred to the inhabitants—have you pleasant neighbours about your father's house—I do not visit in the village."

"We live so very quietly," replied Emma, who had no intention of satisfying his curiosity as to their acquaintance, "that I have had no opportunity of judging. I saw a great many people at the ball, but as you must have seen them too, you are as equal to decide on their appearance as I am."

"You know Mr. Tom Musgrove of course?"

"A little."

"He is not a person of whom most young ladies answer so coolly; if I put the same question to five out of six of my acquaintance, they would reply with rapture—he is charming—divine—a perfect pattern for all gentlemen."

"I understood he was a great favorite," observed Emma, still in the same composed voice.

"I have been used to consider him such a perfect example in everything relative to the important concerns of fashion and the toilette," said Mr. Howard, gravely, "things which I know are of the first importance in the eyes of ladies, that I have seriously proposed when I wish to be particularly charming to copy him in the tying of his cravat."

"I am not quite sure whether I should think any one improved by copying Mr. Tom Musgrove, from his cravat to his shoe-buckles: but I have, I am afraid, a wicked prejudice, against any individual who is considered universally agreeable."

"Alas you discourage my young ambition; if to be universally agreeable is to be hated by you, I shall leave forthwith my attempts at pleasing. To how many individuals is it allowable to be friendly? to how many cold? to how many repulsive in order to win your good opinion."

"Impossible for me to answer without more data for my calculations. You must tell me, to begin with, how many you have been in the habit of flattering daily!"

"None, I assure you—there is not a more sincere creature under the sun."

"I do not quite believe you—but if you will not own to that—with how many do you consider yourself a particular favorite."

"That is an artful question—you wish to prove me guilty of general agreeableness—but my native modesty stands my friend there: I do not think more than two thirds of my acquaintance consider me a very charming fellow—amongst ladies, I mean—of course, a man's opinion goes for nothing."

"Ah, that is too many by half to please me—if you had always spoken with sincerity, depend upon it your particular admirers would be less numerous."

"But seriously, Miss Watson, why do you feel a particular enmity to the general favorites of your sex!"

"Seriously then, because I mistrust them."

"You think then truth must be sacrificed to popularity? Is not that rather a severe reflection on the taste of other women."

"I did not mean it as such."

"I never knew any one who did not profess to hate flattery."

"Very likely—but I go a step farther—I dislike the flatterer."

"And by what scale do you measure, so as to form a correct decision—is your standard of your own merit so accurately settled, that you can instantly perceive truth from flattery, appropriating just so much of a compliment as you deserve, and rejecting the rest."

"I think, Mr. Howard, I am more inclined to decide on the value of compliments from the character of the giver, than from my own. If an individual either man or woman dares to say a disagreeable truth, I cannot suspect them of an agreeable falsehood. Or if they are as ready to praise the absent, as to compliment the present, then I listen with more complaisance."

"It is fortunate for some men that all young ladies are not like you; their stock of conversation would be reduced very low, if neither praises of the present nor abuse of the absent were tolerated."

"I differ from you, Mr. Howard. If no one would listen to slander much less evil would happen in the world; much unhappiness would be saved—much moral guilt would be avoided."

"True: call it by its right name—slander—and every one shrinks from it; the habit of softening down our expressions leads to much evil—a little scandal, nobody minds that."

"Most detestable of all is the flattery from mercenary motives. To see a man—a young man courting, flattering, cajoling a woman for her money—one to whom he would, were she poor, hardly deign to address a word—selling himself body and soul for gold—oh, it makes one shudder—it tempts me to unjust, harsh thoughts of the whole species. Hateful!"

Mr. Howard looked at his companion with considerable surprise. She certainly was using rather strong expressions, and evidently felt acutely what she was saying. As he, however, was perfectly ignorant of the circumstances of her aunt's marriage, and never for a moment thought of anything of the sort, an idea passed through his mind that she might allude to himself and Lady Osborne, for though he could not plead guilty to anything on his own part which deserved such condemnation, it was possible his conduct might appear in this light to her eyes. He did not stop to consider whether it was probable, or in accordance with her character to make such personal reflections, but fell into a reverie on the subject of his own manners, from which he was roused by her addressing him again.

"I am quite ashamed, Mr. Howard, of having spoken so bitterly just now—pray forget what I said if possible—at least do not decide on my being a very ill-natured person because I spoke harshly—there are sometimes circumstances on which to reflect invariably creates unpleasant sensations—but the past is passed, and should not be allowed to awaken angry feelings."

"I fancy we have strayed a long way from the point which awakened these reflections," said Mr. Howard trying to recover himself likewise. "Tom Musgrove was the commencement of our dissertation on flattery."

"Mr. Musgrove—yes, so he was, but I had indeed forgotten it; my thoughts were many miles off—they had gone back many months."

"Your opinion of him does not seem very high," observed he, much relieved at the termination of her sentence.

"My opinion of him is of too little consequence to be worth discussing," replied Emma: "I have not seen a great deal of him, but I fancy my father does not estimate him very highly."

"But you cannot deny him the advantage of having plenty to say for himself."

"Plenty indeed—sufficient to make any discussion amongst others on that subject unnecessary."

"He is handsome too, in the opinion of most women."

"I do not deny it."

"And you know he has a very comfortable independence."

"On that point, Mr. Howard, I feel incredulous: independence is the very thing he wants. His principal object seems to be to follow another."

"I see you are hardened against him."

"You think me prejudiced, no doubt."

"I have no wish to combat your prejudice, or persuade you into liking him against your will."

A pause ensued, when Emma suddenly starting from her reverie, exclaimed,

"It is almost dusk—we must really return home."

"True, we can come again another day; I am sure you may come whenever you feel disposed—I shall be most happy to escort you."

At this moment the door was thrown back, and Lord Osborne himself appeared. After paying his compliments, he paused a moment, and then observed,

"You must have a precious strong taste for pictures, Miss Watson, to like to remain in the gallery even when it is too dark to see. I suppose breathing the same air is pleasant to those who value the art."

"We have stayed longer than we intended, my lord," said Emma; "and I really feel much obliged to your sister for allowing me such a pleasure; but we expected her to join us."

"It's a mighty fine thing to have such a lot of fine pictures, with all the fine names tacked on to them. One or two I really like myself—there's one of some horses, by somebody, excellent—and a Dutch painting of dead game, which is so like you would really think them all alive. Did you notice it?"

"Not particularly—I do not care much for still life."

"Howard there knows all about them: he has the names and dates and all on the tip of his tongue. Don't you find it a deuced bore to listen to it?"

"On the contrary, I am much obliged to Mr. Howard for the information."

"Well I should be glad, for my part, of a piece of information: how the—I beg pardon—I mean how the wonder did I contrive to miss you as I was going down the straight path to the Parsonage."

"Because we did not come up the straight path, my lord."

"Well, on my honour, I just was surprised when I got there to hear you were gone—stole away in fact. 'Holloa! how can that be!' said I, 'I did not meet them—no indeed.' 'Did you not!' cried Mrs. Willis. 'Well deuce take it, that is extraordinary!'"

"Did she say so indeed," said Emma with exemplary gravity.

"I don't mean to say she used those very words—she thought them, though, I'm sure, by her look."

"But now, my lord, we must wish you good evening, or Mrs. Willis will be waiting for dinner; and though I am not afraid of her swearing at us, I do not wish to annoy her."

"Ah, yes, Mrs. Willis is mistress—I know—the Parson there, like myself, is under petticoat government; nothing like a mother or sister to keep one in order. I'll be bound a wife is nothing to it. One cannot get away from a sister, and one can't make her quiet and obedient—you see she has never undertaken anything of the kind, as I understand wives do when one marries them."

"But I have heard, my lord, that they sometimes break their word and rebel," said Emma with mock solemnity.

"Ah, but that must be the husband's fault, he gives them too much rein—keep a strict hand on them, that's my maxim."

"I recommend you, however, to keep it a secret, if you wish to find a wife; I assure you no woman would marry you if she knew your opinion."

"Seriously—well but I am sorry I said so then."

"Oh, never mind—there is no harm done as yet—I promise not to betray you—but here we are at Miss Osborne's room, will she expect us to look in—or shall we go straight home, Mr. Howard?"

"We'll see if Rosa's here," said her brother, opening the door as he spoke. The room, however, was empty, and there was nothing to be done but return home. Emma was vexed to find the young peer persisted in escorting them. Though his conversation had been much shorter than Mr. Howard's, she was far more weary of it. To hurry her walk, was her only remedy, and the coldness of the air was a plausible excuse for this. The space which had occupied nearly half an hour in ascending, was now traversed in five minutes, and breathless but glowing, the party reached the door of the parsonage. Here Lord Osborne was really obliged to leave them, and Emma hastened to her room to prepare for dinner.

"Well, Emma," cried Elizabeth, "I should like to know what you have been doing all this time—what an age you have been gone!"

"Looking at pictures, Elizabeth—you know what I went for."

"I know what you went for indeed, but how do I know what you stayed for. Pictures indeed—looking at pictures for two hours and a half—and in the dark too!"

Emma laughed.

"Of what do you suspect me, Elizabeth?" cried she as her sister placed a candle so as to throw the light on her face.

"Which have you been flirting with?" said Elizabeth taking her sister's hand, and closely examining her countenance. "The peer or the parson, which of your two admirers do you prefer?"

"How can you ask such an unnecessary question?" returned Emma, blushing and laughing, yet struggling to disengage herself, "would you hesitate yourself—is not Lord Osborne the most captivating, elegant, lively, fascinating young nobleman who ever made rank gracious and desirable. Would you not certainly accept him?"

"Why yes, I think I should—it would be something to be Lady Osborne—mistress of all those rooms and servants, carriages and horses. I think I should like it, but then I shall never have the choice!"

"So far as I am concerned, I do not think I shall interfere with your power of accepting him—if he makes you an offer, do not refuse it on my account."

"Very well—and when I am Lady Osborne, I will be very kind to Mrs. Howard—I will send and ask her to dine with me most Sundays, and some week days too."

"I hope she will like it."

"I will give her a new gown at Easter, and a pelisse or bonnet at Christmas!"

"Your liberality is most exemplary, but in the midst of your kind intentions to Mrs. Howard, I fear you are forgetting Mrs. Willis and her dinner. If you do not finish your dressing quickly you will keep them waiting."

Elizabeth took her sister's advice, and finished her toilette with all possible despatch. It was singular that though invariably consuming double the time that sufficed for Emma, the result of her efforts in adjusting her clothes was much less satisfactory. She never looked finished. Her hair was certain to fall down too low; or her gown burst open, or her petticoat peeped out from underneath: she was always finding a string, or a button, or a loop wanting, just when such a loss was particularly inconvenient—always in a hurry, always behind hand, always good-naturedly sorry, but always as far from amendment.

The evening was spent in quiet comfort, far removed from the stately grandeur of the yester-night's scene—they closed round the fire, chatting and laughing, cracking nuts and eating home-baked cakes with a zest which Osborne Castle and its lordly halls could not rival. They talked of the snow melting, and Charles and his uncle too persisted in the greatest incredulity on that subject. A hundred other things were discussed, made charming by the ease and good-humour with which they were canvassed, and then a book was produced. Shakespeare was placed in Mr. Howard's hands, and he read with a degree of feeling and taste, which made it very delightful to his listeners. Thus the evening passed peacefully and quickly, and when they separated for the night, it was with encreased good will and affection between the parties.