The next morning, though ushered in by no change of the weather, brought a very material alteration to the Miss Watsons. About eleven o'clock, as the ladies were working together, their attention was attracted by the sound of carriage wheels on the drive to the house. Presently a note was handed to Miss Watson, accompanied by an assurance that the carriage was waiting. With much surprise, Elizabeth opened the dispatch. It was from her father, and contained information to the effect, that wearied by their long absence, and finding that the lanes were still blocked up, he had sent their man to the post town for a chaise, in which they could return home, by taking the high road, which, although greatly adding to the distance, was the safest and most expeditious route they could adopt. He begged them to return immediately in the post-chaise, and Robert could follow with their own little vehicle after them. Kind as the family had been to them, the girls were still glad of a prospect of returning home before Sunday, being conscious that they could be ill spared from their father's house, and that every hour of enjoyment to them, was probably unpleasant and wearisome to him.

They could not be parted with, of course, without great regret and many remonstrances on the subject of the dangerous nature of the expedition they were undertaking. Charles, in particular, gave them such repeated assurances that they would certainly be upset, that Emma declared her belief that his foreknowledge arose from having bribed the postilion to bring on a catastrophe. Mrs. Willis' object seemed to be to overwhelm them with cloaks, furs, shawls, and everything she could think of to fence the cold away, and Mr. Howard obviated all difficulty about returning these articles, by volunteering to drive over as soon as the weather permitted, and fetch them all back. Hopes of a continued friendship closed the visit, and they parted on the best possible terms.

Their return home was perfectly uneventful. There was not even the cold to complain of—so well had Mrs. Willis succeeded in wrapping them up.

Most cordial was the welcome they received from Mr. Watson; and Margaret, too, really looked enlivened by the sight of them.

"I shall not let you young ladies go visiting again in a hurry," said he good-humouredly, "I began to think one of you must have eloped with Lord Osborne, and the other with Mr. Howard. I assure you, we have been very dull without you."

Such was his salutation—Margaret's ran as follows:

"Well, I hope you have been having pleasure enough—and that you will have brought home some news to enliven us. I am sure I am almost dead of stupidity and dulness. Not a creature have we seen—not an individual has come near us. Some people contrive to keep all the amusement—all the luck—everything that is good and pleasant to themselves."

The astonishment of Margaret, when she heard the detail of what had occurred, was excessive; she was ready to cry with vexation and envy, to think of her sisters having so much to amuse them—of which she did not partake. With jealous anger she insisted on knowing every particular, for the sake, apparently, of tormenting herself to the uttermost, and being as miserable and ill-used as possible.

Every dish at dinner—every jewel in Lady Osborne's necklace—every word said to be spoken by the ladies at the castle, and every amusement suggested by the inhabitants of the parsonage, was an additional sting to her mind; and she was more than ever convinced that it was an act of the most barbarous injustice, the not allowing her to accompany her sisters—though nothing could be more evident than the total impossibility of such an arrangement. In vain did Emma try to turn the conversation to some less irritating topic; Margaret pertinaciously returned to the original theme, and insisted on learning every thing which her sisters could tell her.

There are various tastes amongst the inhabitants of the world; some delight in making themselves happy, some in just the reverse; Margaret's pleasure was to fret; her pastime was to vex herself. Had she been the only victim to this peculiar taste, there would have been less harm in it; but, unfortunately, her father and sisters were likewise sufferers, and in as much as they were involuntary sufferers, and really took no pleasure in her vexation, it was rather hard upon them to be involved in the same calamity.

In progress of time the snow melted from the ground, and the inhabitants of the rectory at Winston were again set free from confinement. As soon as the roads became at all passable, Emma began to catch herself wondering when Mr. Howard would redeem his promise of coming to fetch the articles with which his sister had supplied them. She likewise detected herself in what she considered another failing; this was looking round the untidy rooms of her father's home, with their dingy carpets, faded curtains, papers soiled by the hands of the servants and children, and tables unpolished and scratched, and contrasting them mentally with the clear and cheerful aspect of the apartments where Mrs. Willis was mistress. The grandeur of Osborne Castle had none of the charms in her eyes which Mrs. Willis' little parlour presented, and she came to the conclusion that the happiest thing in the world must be to preside over such an establishment with such a companion. Those feelings, however, she did not openly express, in which she differed from Elizabeth, who repeatedly declared that she wished she could make their house resemble Mr. Howard's.

One morning, shortly after their return home, Tom Musgrove, whom they had not seen since that event, was ushered into the parlour.

Margaret, who happened to be alone, was instantly all agitation and bustle, trying to persuade him to take her chair by the fire, as she was sure he must be cold, or to accept the loan of her father's slippers whilst his boots were sent to the kitchen to dry.

He persisted, however, in declining her tender attentions, declaring she wanted to make an old man of him before his time, and placing himself on the hearth-rug, with his back to the fire, and his hands behind him, half whistled an air.

Margaret sighed.

"It is long since we have seen you," said she; "and the time has passed very wearily."

"Hum," said Tom, stopping in his tune. "Where are your sisters, Miss Margaret?"

"Oh, they are at home again," replied Margaret. "I believe Emma is with my father, and Elizabeth in the kitchen. Did you hear of their being away so long?"

"How long?" cried Tom.

"From Wednesday to Saturday: there was I left without a creature to speak to except my father and the servants, snowed up in the house, and if they had only taken me with them, I should have enjoyed it as much as they did."

"I dare say; but how came they to go?" said Tom, who though really knowing nothing about it, was determined to learn all he could without betraying his ignorance.

"Oh, they wanted to return Mrs. Willis' visit, and they went over in the pony-chaise, and then the snow came on and stopped them there all that time. I dare say they liked to stay, for I have no doubt but they might have come home had they tried. At last my father was obliged to send for a post-chaise to fetch them home in, and they came on Saturday."

"And they liked it very much, did they?"

"Oh yes, of course—was it not hard I could not go too? I am always thwarted and ill-used."

"I wish your sister Emma would come down; she is always shut up in your father's room; I called here on purpose to see her."

"I dare say she will come presently—do sit down here; I am sure you ought to rest yourself; you seem to have had a very dirty ride."

"You could not go and call her, I suppose?"

"Oh no, she will come when she has done reading to my father. Do take something—a biscuit and a glass of wine, or something of that kind."

"Quite unnecessary, I have but just breakfasted. I do not keep such gothic hours as some of my friends do. I am able to please myself—a free and independent man."

"No doubt a happy one. Ah, Mr. Musgrove, you are most fortunate. You cannot tell the misery, the low spirits, the—the—in short all we poor helpless women suffer from, how much heart-breaking sorrow we endure in silence—bitterness of heart of which the world knows nothing."

Tom only whistled again in reply to this very pathetic address, then turning round began to examine the ornaments on the chimney-piece. Even Margaret could not quite blind herself to the change in his manner since the period when her smiles seemed the object he most coveted.

Presently he began again.

"Whilst your sisters were at Howard's did they see much of the Osbornes?"

Before Margaret had time to give an account of the visit to the Castle, Elizabeth entered the room.

"So I understand, Miss Watson, you have been playing the truant, and been obliged to be brought back almost by force."

"And are you come to congratulate or condole with me on our return?"

"I am come to wish you joy about being overwhelmed in the snow. I little thought when I was last at Osborne Castle we were such near neighbours."

"When were you there?" cried Elizabeth.

"Let me see—I think it was Thursday. I am there very often, but I think Thursday was the last day. How droll it would have been had we met."

"Emma," cried Miss Watson, as her youngest sister just then entered the room, "Mr. Musgrove says he was at the Castle on Thursday."

"Oh," said Emma.

"I wonder we did not hear of it," pursued Elizabeth. "Miss Osborne never mentioned it."

"How do you like Miss Osborne," enquired Tom, who wanted to appear perfectly well informed as to what had passed, and was, therefore, ashamed of asking questions which might betray his real ignorance.

"She seems a very pleasant, amiable young lady," replied Elizabeth, "don't you think so, Emma."

"Yes," replied she, quietly.

"Did she know you were friends of mine, Miss Watson? Miss Emma, did she not talk about me?"

"No, indeed," replied Emma, with much satisfaction; "we never heard your name mentioned the whole time we were in company with her."

"How did you hear we had been there," enquired Elizabeth.

"I think Osborne mentioned it on Saturday, when I saw him for a minute," then seating himself by Emma, who was a little apart from the others, he whispered; "He told me the beautiful, but obdurate Miss Watson had been at Howard's parsonage. Why do you treat him with such scorn, Miss Emma? You will drive my poor friend to despair."

"I should be sorry to think that I merited your accusation, Mr. Musgrove: scorn cannot be a becoming quality in a young lady."

"Nay, there can be nothing unbecoming which you can do; youth and beauty have unlimited privileges," whispered he again. "Miss Osborne vows you eclipse Miss Carr in beauty, and she would rather have you for a friend. She is dying to be introduced to you."

"It is quite unnecessary to inflict such a death upon her even in imagination, Mr. Musgrove—for our acquaintance has progressed too far for that phrase to be at all applicable to it."

"Yes now, I dare say; Osborne told me, but I forget, you went over the castle I think."

"No, we did not."

"You did not! that was unlucky; I wish I had known you were going, I would have been there, and I could have suggested it to Miss Osborne; I dare say she would have shewn you all the rooms."

"She offered to do so, but we put it off till another time; we thought we should be too hurried."

"It's a pity you did not dine there; its something quite grand to see all the plate—I quite enjoy it—they give such good dinners."

"You do not seem aware that we did dine there," replied Emma, "and, as I had seen other large establishments before, I saw nothing so very astonishing at their table."

"You did dine there—yes—but that was in a family way; the thing is to see a regular great dinner—twenty people sitting down—that is what I like."

"I am not fond of large dinner parties; unless one has a very pleasant neighbour they are apt to be dull."

"Very much so—very much so indeed; I quite agree with you, a little, quiet, social dinner—where one person can talk and the others listen, that is pleasant. You get every thing hot and quickly—that's the thing!"

Emma did not feel called on to answer, and presently he added:

"I should like to have you for a neighbour at such a dinner."

Emma was still obdurately silent, and Mr. Musgrove, to recompense himself, turned to Elizabeth, and began to talk to her.

As soon as her attention was released Emma left the room, and throwing on a bonnet and cloak, determined to take refuge in the garden as the day was fine, and she longed for fresh air. Hardly had she quitted the entrance, however, when her attention was attracted by the sound of wheels in the lane, and looking up her cheek crimsoned with pleasure at perceiving Mr. Howard.

The pleasure was certainly mutual, judging from the alacrity with which he sprang from the carriage to meet and address her. There was no mistaking the look and air with which he advanced, it was the genuine expression of a cordial welcome, met with equal though more bashful cordiality on her side.

He was come, of course, to redeem his promise of fetching back his sister's property; she would have come also, but she had a cold which confined her to the house. But he had another object in his visit—he was the bearer of an invitation to herself and sisters to attend a concert at the Castle, which was to take place in the afternoon, and to be followed by a ball in the evening. Miss Osborne hoped they would excuse her mother's not having called on them; she scarcely ever paid visits, never in the winter, or she would have accompanied her daughter to the Vicarage when they were there.

Emma read the note which was addressed to herself, and felt very much pleased. It contained, besides the invitation to the ball for herself and sisters, a most pressing request that she would pay a lengthened visit at the Castle; over this she pondered long, and then ended with coming to no conclusion, suddenly remembering that she was detaining Mr. Howard out of doors, when she ought to have allowed him to enter the house.

"You will find Mr. Tom Musgrove sitting with my sisters," continued she; "but if you will be so kind as not to mention the contents of the note before him, you would greatly oblige me."

"Could I not see Mr. Watson?" replied Mr. Howard; "I wish to call on him, and perhaps when my visit to him is over your sisters will be disengaged."

"Certainly; I am sure my father would have great pleasure in seeing you," said Emma much gratified; "allow me to show you the way."

She ushered him accordingly to her father's dressing-room, and having witnessed the very cordial reception which Mr. Watson offered him, she was about to withdraw, but her father stopped her.

"I am sure you can have nothing particular to do, Emma, so you may just as well stay and talk to Mr. Howard—I like very much to hear you, but you know I am not strong enough to converse myself."

"I am sure, my dear father, nobody talks half so well when you are equal to it, but indeed you must not fancy yourself unwell, or you will frighten Mr. Howard away."

"When Mr. Howard has reached my age, my dear, and felt half the pain that I do, from gout and dyspepsia, he will be very glad to set his daughter to talk for him, my dear; so I beg you will stay."

"I wish I enjoyed the prospect of realizing your picture, my dear sir; a daughter exactly like Miss Emma Watson would be indeed a treasure."

"But remember it is to be purchased at the expense of gout, and you must not look for it these thirty years, Mr. Howard," said Emma laughing. "When the sacrifice is complete you will talk in a very different strain."

Mr. Howard looked very incredulous, but said nothing more on that subject.

Emma then mentioned the note she had received; her father began to murmur.

"The Osbornes will all turn all your heads with their balls and their visits, child," said he pettishly. "I wish you had never known them."

Emma looked down.

"I am sure I do not wish to go, if you dislike it," said she, in a voice which rather trembled.

It was evident to Mr. Howard that she did wish it very much.

Mr. Watson began again.

"What am I to do if you are going away for two or three days? You are but just come home as it is—I cannot do without you."

"Then I, at all events, can stay with you," replied Emma cheerfully, "and my sisters can do as they please."

Annoyed at the gentleman's selfishness, Mr. Howard felt inclined to interpose, but doubted whether he should not do more harm than good.

Emma knew better, or acted more wisely in not contradicting him, for like many irritable people, the moment he found himself unopposed, he began to relent, and said in a more placid voice,

"What's the invitation, read it again, Emma, I am not quite clear about it."

Emma complied.

"Well, I do not know; she does not want you all to stay over the ball—and as Elizabeth will be at home, perhaps I could spare you for a day or two."

"Elizabeth would like to go to the ball too, papa."

"Yes, yes, but then she and Margaret would come home at night, and I should not be all day alone. I think you might go—you must have a post-chaise and a pair of horses to take you, I suppose, and bring your sisters back again. Would you like it, my dear?"

"Very much, sir, if it does not disturb you."

Like it indeed—the words served but coldly to express the pleasure with which her heart beat at the idea. It was so very kind of Miss Osborne to think of her in that way, and it was so very pleasant to see how much consequence Mr. Howard attached to her acceptance of the offer. She had not dared to look quite at him; but the first glance she had ventured on, showed in his face an expression of deep interest, not to be mistaken, and now looking up, she met his eyes fixed on her with a look which immediately sunk hers again to the ground, and seemed to call all the blood from her heart to her cheeks.

"I am sure," cried he, speaking hurriedly to relieve her embarrassment, "Miss Osborne would have been exceedingly disappointed had you settled otherwise. I can venture to assert, sir, that Miss Osborne is very fond of your daughter, and extremely anxious to cultivate her acquaintance."

"I dare say, I dare say, why should she not; but I hope Emma does not flatter her to win her good will."

"I hope not, sir," said Emma, "I should despise myself if I did."

"It is impossible that it should be necessary," cried Mr. Howard. "Miss Osborne is not to be propitiated by flattery, and it would require, on Miss Emma's part, nothing beyond her natural manners to produce a wish to carry on the acquaintance."

"I suppose Miss Osborne desired you to make civil speeches for her," said Mr. Watson, laughing.

"No, I do it of my own free will, my dear sir."

Mr. Howard's visit was long and lively; Mr. Watson was evidently cheered by it, and pressed him to renew it.

"I am afraid I ask what is not agreeable," continued he; "I dare say I am dull and unpleasant; but if you knew what a treat it is to me to see cheerful faces, you would not wonder at my selfish wish. You, Mr. Howard, and Emma do me good."

There was something very pleasant to Emma's ears in hearing her name thus connected with Mr. Howard's; and it was not unwelcome to the young man either, who warmly pressed her father's hand, and promised readily to come as often as he could.

"And mind, Emma, when he does come, you bring him to me," said her father; "it is not every young man that I care to see. Your Tom Musgroves, and such young dandies, are not at all to my mind; but a young man who listens to what his elders say, and does not flout and jeer at them, but shows a proper respect to age and experience, that's what I like. I shall be happy to see you, Mr. Howard, whenever you can come."

After renewing his promise to be a regular and frequent visitor, Mr. Howard was conducted by Emma to the parlour, from whence they found Tom Musgrove had departed. Her two sisters looked up as if surprised to see Emma and her companion; but their pleasure much exceeded their surprise, when they learnt the nature of the embassy with which he was charged. Margaret especially, who had formed most exalted ideas of the nature and felicity of a visit to the castle, was at first in a perfect rapture. She was certain that the whole affair would be in the most superlative style of excellence; that Miss Osborne must be a lady of first rate taste and talent; that the company would be select in an extraordinary degree, and in short that she should never have known what grandeur, beauty, elegance, and taste meant, but for Lady Osborne's invitation to the concert and ball. She determined to do her best to make her court to the whole family of Osbornes, and had great hopes of becoming an especial favorite with them all. It was not till after Mr. Howard's departure, which took place after a visit of about ten minutes, that a cloud came over her bright vision. She then learnt the sad fact that Emma was invited to remain at the castle, but that she herself was to return home.

This discovery made her very angry; she could comprehend no reason for such a marked preference; why should Miss Osborne invite Emma who was the youngest, and exclude herself; it really surpassed her comprehension; it was most extraordinary; she had a great mind not to go at all; she would let Miss Osborne see that she was not to be treated with neglect; she was not a person to come and go at any one's bidding; if Miss Osborne could ask Emma, why not herself too; she surely had as much claim to attention. Then she turned to Emma and required her to promise that she would not accept the invitation. But Emma said she had done so already. She had written a note which Mr. Howard had charge of; and she was not to be induced to retract. Margaret grew quite angry, accusing her of being mean-spirited and servile, fawning on Miss Osborne, and winning her favor only by her base concessions; she said everything which an irritated and jealous temper could suggest, and tormented Emma into tears at her crossness and ill-will.

"I wonder you mind her, Emma," remonstrated Elizabeth, when she discovered that her sister's eyes were red, and wrung from her an acknowledgment of the cause. Elizabeth had not been present when the discussion which pained Emma so much, had taken place. "It's not the least use fretting about Margaret's ill-temper and teazing ways—she always was a plague and a torment from a child, and there's no chance of her being any better. She is so abominably selfish. But I cannot bear her to make you cry."

"I dare say you think me very foolish," replied Emma, wiping her eyes, "but I have never been used to be crossly spoken to, and it quite upsets me."

"No, I don't think you foolish, Emma; you are only much too good and tender for this situation. I shall be glad when you are married and safe with Mr. Howard, and nobody to scold you or make you spoil your beauty by crying."

"Nonsense, Elizabeth."

"It's not nonsense, Emma, I believe he is very good-natured, and I dare say you will be very happy with him. How long were you tÊte-À-tÊte, with him, before you brought him into the parlour?"

"We came from my father's room then."

"Oh, you need not apologise; I think you were quite right to have a comfortable chat with him, before bringing him into Margaret's company. It is but little conversation you can have when she is by. I saw you with him in the garden."

Emma blushed.

"I assure you we did not stay there five minutes; he came to call on my father, and we went to him immediately."

Elizabeth only answered by a look; but it was a look which shewed that she was not in the least convinced by Emma's assertions, but only wondered that she should think them necessary.