After breakfast next morning the company dropped off one after another, except Lady Belfield, Miss Stanley, and myself. We had been so busily engaged in looking over the plan of a conservatory, which Sir John proposed to build at Beechwood, his estate in Surrey, that we hardly missed them.

Little Celia, whom I call the rosebud, had climbed up my knees, a favorite station with her, and was begging me to tell her another pretty story. I had before told her so many, that I had exhausted both my memory and my imagination. Lucilla was smiling at my impoverished invention, when Lady Belfield was called out of the room. Her fair friend rose mechanically to follow her. Her ladyship begged her not to stir, but to employ the five minutes of her absence in carefully criticising the plan she held in her hand, saying she would bring back another which Sir John had by him; and that Lucilla, who is considered as the last appeal in all matters of this nature, should decide to which the preference should be given, before the architect went to work. In a moment I forgot my tale and my rosebud, and the conservatory, and every thing but Lucilla, whom I was beginning to address, when little Celia, pulling my coat, said—"Oh, Charles" (for so I teach all the little ones to call me), "Mrs. Comfit tells me very bad news. She says that your new curricle is come down, and that you are going to run away. Oh! don't go; I can't part with you," said the little charmer, throwing her arms round my neck.

"Will you go with me, Celia?" said I, kissing her rosy cheek. "There will be room enough in the curricle."

"Oh, I should like to go," said she, "if Lucilla may go with us. Do, dear Charles, do let Lucilla go to the Priory. She will be very good: won't you, Lucilla?"

I ventured to look at Miss Stanley, who tried to laugh without succeeding, and blushed without trying at it. On my making no reply, for fear of adding to her confusion, Celia looked up piteously in my face and cried:

"And so you won't let Lucilla go home with you? I am sure the curricle will hold us all nicely; for I am very little, and Lucilla is not very big."

"Will you persuade her, Celia?" said I.

"O," said she, "she does not want persuading; she is willing enough, and I will run to papa and mamma and ask their leave, and then Lucilla will go and glad: won't you, Lucilla?"

So saying, she sprang out of my arms, and ran out of the room; Lucilla would have followed and prevented her. I respectfully detained her. How could I neglect such an opportunity? Such an opening as the sweet prattler had given me it was impossible to overlook. The impulse was too powerful to be resisted; I gently replaced her on her seat, and in language, which, if it did any justice to my feelings, was the most ardent, tender, and respectful, poured out my whole heart. I believe my words were incoherent; I am sure they were sincere.

She was evidently distressed. Her emotion prevented her replying. But it was the emotion of surprise, not of resentment. Her confusion bore no symptoms of displeasure. Blushing and hesitating, she at last said: "My father, sir—my mother." Here her voice failed her. I recollected with joy that on the application of Lord Staunton she had allowed of no such reference, nay, she had forbidden it.

"I take your reference joyfully," said I, "only tell me that if I am so happy as to obtain their consent, you will not withhold yours." She ventured to raise her timid eyes to mine, and her modest but expressive look encouraged me almost as much as any words could have done.

At that moment the door opened, and in came Sir John with the other drawing of the conservatory in his hand. After having examined us both with his keen, critical eye; "Well, Miss Stanley," said he, with a look and tone which had more meaning than she could well stand, "here is the other drawing. As you look as if you had been calmly examining the first, you will now give me your cool, deliberate opinion of the merits of both." He had the cruelty to lay so much stress on the words, cool, calm, and deliberate, and to pronounce them in so arch a manner, and so ironical a tone, as clearly showed, he read in her countenance that no epithets could possibly have been so ill applied.

Lady Belfield came in immediately after. "Well, Caroline," said he, with a significant glance, "Miss Stanley has deeply considered the subject since you went; I never saw her look more interested about any thing. I don't think she is dissatisfied on the whole. General approbation is all she now expresses. She will have time to spy out faults hereafter: she sees none at present. All is beauty, grace, and proportion."

As if this was not enough, in ran Celia quite out of breath—"Oh, Lucilla," cried she, "papa and mamma won't let you go with Charles, though I told them you begged and prayed to go."

Lucilla, the pink of whose cheeks was become crimson, said angrily, "How Celia! what do you mean?"

"Oh, no," replied the child, "I mean to say that I begged and prayed, and I thought you looked as if you would like to go, though Charles did not ask you, and so I told papa."

This was too much. The Belfields laughed outright; but Lady Belfield had the charity to take Lucilla's hand, saying, "Come into my dressing-room, my dear, and let us settle this conservatory business. This prattling child will never let us get on." Miss Stanley followed, her face glowing with impatience. Celia, whom I detained, called after her, "Papa only said there was not room in the curricle for three; but if it is only a little way, I am sure we could sit, could we not, Lucilla?" Lucilla was now happily out of hearing.

Though I was hurt that her delicacy had suffered so much, yet I own I hugged the little innocent author of this confusion with additional fondness. Sir John's raillery, now that Lucilla could be no longer pained by it, was cordially received, or rather I was inattentive to every object but the one of which my heart was full. To be heard, to be accepted, though tacitly, to be referred to parents who I knew had no will but hers,

During the remainder of the day I found no opportunity of speaking to Mr. Stanley. Always frank and cheerful, he neither avoided nor sought me, but the arrival of company prevented our being thrown together. Lucilla appeared at dinner as usual: a little graver and more silent, but always unaffected, natural, and delicate. Sir John whispered to me that she had entreated her mother to keep Celia out of the way till this curricle business was a little got out of her head.