Soon after the family at Deane Hall had lost the society of Augustus Mordaunt, they had accepted an invitation to dine at Webberly Mouse. The appointed day having arrived, and Cecilia Webberly, being fully attired for the reception of the expected guests, placed herself in a negligent attitude near one of the windows of her mother's drawing-room, with a book in her hand, not for the purpose of reading, but for that of tossing it into a chair, conveniently set for the occasion, as she had seen Lady Eltondale throw her bonnet the evening of her unexpected arrival at Deane Hall.

There could not, however, be a greater contrast, than the full-blown Cecilia Webberly presented, to the elegant fragile Viscountess. Full one half of her massive figure stood confessed to sight, without a single particle of drapery. Her immense shoulders projected far above her sleeve; in truth, her arm was bare half way to her elbow, and her back in emulation nearly to her waist, whose circumference might well be termed the Arctic circle, as it was described at that distance from the pole, which exactly marked the boundary of those regions of eternal snow which rose on its upper verge. Her petticoats, descending but little below the calf of her leg, displayed its "ample round" to the utmost advantage.

But, to counterbalance this nudity, that moiety of her terrestrial frame, which was clothed, was loaded with ornaments and puffings of all descriptions, with reduplicated rows of lace and riband, which most injudiciously increased her natural bulk; and the little covering which was above her waist, differing in colour and texture from that below, made the apparent seem still less than the real length of her garments. Nor did Cecilia's countenance and manner more nearly resemble Lady Eltondale than her dress and figure, as what was quiet elegance in the latter, might, without any great breach of Christian charity, be mistaken for stupid insipidity in the former.

Miss Webberly had not yet finished the repetition of her anticipated impromptus; and her mother had left the room to reiterate her directions about the dinner, so that the fair attitudinist had no spectator of her various rehearsals, except the unaffected Adelaide.

But Cecilia Webberly was quite unused to blushing, though she might sometimes redden with passion, and was equally unconscious of her striking inferiority to her unstudied companion. At last the entrance of the Seymour family presented another contrast to the brazen Colossus in Selina's sylph-like form, vivacious eye, and glowing cheek:—

Mrs. Sullivan and her eldest daughter hastened to pay their compliments to their company, the one in the language of Cheapside, the other in all the flowers of rhetoric; and the rest of the expected guests soon after arriving, they all proceeded to the dining-room, Mrs. Sullivan insisting on giving Selina "percussion," (for so she termed precedence) to the blushing girl's infinite annoyance, who, never having dined out before, was unaccustomed to take place of the woman whom, of all others, she most respected: however her painful pre-eminence at the head of the table was almost compensated by her aunt sitting next her, and thus hedging her in from the rest of the company.

The dinner—an object of too much consequence to be passed over unnoticed in the present state of society—was evidently dressed by a man cook; but as Mrs. Sullivan had insisted on making her own alterations in the bill of fare, she had put the poor man in a passion; and, as a natural consequence, the whole was a manquÉ, no unapt model of the family, presenting vulgarity, finery, and high seasoning out of place.

The warmth of Mrs. Sullivan's temperature was considerably increased by her vocal and manual exertions; whilst her son was much puzzled to reconcile the nonchalance he believed fashionable, with the desire he had to show Selina that obsequious attention he deemed judicious. But though his tongue was incessantly employed in Miss Seymour's service, (for the poor girl would have died of a surfeit if she had taken a fourth part of the eatables he pressed on her acceptance,) his eyes were involuntarily attracted to Adelaide, who, amidst the confusion of tongues, was keeping up a seemingly animated conversation with a very handsome young man, the eldest son of Mr. Thornbull, who sat next her. Of this Mr. Webberly did not approve; and therefore gave her every possible interruption, but all in vain. For no sooner did she answer his inquiry, or assent to his request, than she resumed her conversation, which seemed much more to interest her; and, for the first time, he thought the quick succession of smiles, that passed over her countenance when she conversed, did not become her so much as its placid expression when she was silent.

At length Selina heard the welcome sound of "Vill you like any more vine, Miss Seymour?" and this well understood summons relieved her from her place of penance.

Soon after the ladies had retired to the drawing-room, they separated, some adjourning to the music-room, some to the green-house, and Miss Seymour gladly accepted Adelaide's invitation to proceed from it to the garden. Selina had, before dinner was half over, thought Miss Wildenheim "the most delightful girl in the world!" But she was too diffident of her own claims to attention to have sought her acquaintance so immediately; though, with her usual precipitation, she felt already convinced she should love her all her life, if she were never to see her again. "She is too elegant, too clever, to like an unpolished girl like me," thought Selina. But in this she was mistaken; for Adelaide bestowed as much admiration on her untutored charms, as her own more polished graces excited in Miss Seymour's mind, though she manifested her approbation in a more sober manner; for, besides being three years older than Selina, she had, unfortunately, had more opportunity of having youth's first happy feelings chilled by the bitter blasts of capricious fortune.

When Selina found, from Adelaide's expressive manner, that she might say to herself, "She really does like me," her surprise and delight knew no bounds; and, if she had before thought the object of her enthusiasm the most charming of the daughters of Eve, she was now nothing less than an angel. Her pleasure did not escape her new friend's notice; for Selina was too ingenuous to conceal any thing. Adelaide's countenance was illuminated with one of those joyful smiles, which had brightened it in better days, as she mentally exclaimed, "Happy creature!" But she sighed with real sorrow, as she instantaneously recollected the fleeting nature of youthful impressions, "when thought is speech, and speech is truth."

During the time Selina had employed in her own mind to sign and seal an everlasting friendship with her new acquaintance, they visited the pagoda and hermitage, sat under the marquÉe, where they found the novel which had been Miss Cecilia Webberly's morning study, and had looked in vain for the gold and silver fishes; for Mrs. Sullivan was too fashionable to dine long before sunset, even in the height of summer. Their fruitless search for their aqueous favourites reminded them of the lateness of the hour; and they had begun to retrace their steps towards the house, when a pretty rosy child, about seven years old, with dancing eyes and disordered hair, came skipping up to them. "This sweet child, Miss Seymour," said Adelaide, "is Caroline Sullivan, my dear little companion." Selina kissed the child, partly for its own beauty, partly for the sake of its patroness; and the little urchin, hearing the name of Miss Seymour, said, in an arch tone, "I have a secret for you, Miss Seymour—a great secret." "And what is your great secret, my pretty little love?" asked Selina. "Why, do you know, brother is going to make love to you?—Mama bid him. And he said he would, for he thinks you have a great deal of money; but for all that he says, my dear Adele is handsomer than you—and I think so too—I believe," said the little thing, stopping to look up at them both. The young ladies were so astonished, that at first they had not power to stop the child's harangue, but both coloured scarlet red from offended pride; and, when their eyes met, the picture of the all-conquering hero and his mama rising at once to Selina's mind in the most ludicrous point of view, she burst out into an immoderate fit of laughter, in which Adelaide could not resist joining. The child, from their mirth, thought they were pleased with her observations; and, believing she had said something clever, continued in the same strain; whilst, by grave faces, and knit brows, and remonstrating, they endeavoured in vain to check her volubility.—Car on ne se quÉrit pas d'un dÉfaut qui plait. "Good Lord! what shall we do?" said Selina, half laughing, half crying; for the little girl, in the exuberance of her mirth, seemed bent on following them into the house, with a repetition of her information, when luckily they thought of diverting her attention; and so taking her one by each arm, they almost carried her completely round the pleasure-ground; and, by chattering and running, succeeded in diverting the channel of her thoughts, and were not a little rejoiced that, on their entrance into the drawing-room, Miss Webberly, in a peremptory tone of "brief authority," ordered the little troublesome urchin to bed.

The ladies were all assembled, and Miss Wildenheim thought it necessary to apologise for their absence; and Selina, immediately walking up to her aunt, excused herself, and wondered she had left her so long, for the advanced state of tea and coffee told her it was late.

When Miss Wildenheim, in reply to some observation addressed to her by Mrs. Temple, entered into general conversation, Selina was as much surprised as delighted by the graceful ease of her manner; and, in the simplicity of her ideas, wondered how she could be so enlivening, and at the same time so elegant. "It is not odd," thought she, "that Lady Eltondale is elegant, for she is so quiet, she has plenty of time to do every thing in the most beautiful manner; but, though she is very elegant, she is not at all entertaining, while Miss Wildenheim is both."

Though Adelaide's character was ever the same, the style of her conversation varied with every different person she conversed with. She was generally animated, though seldom gay; and the liveliness of her discourse was owing to her possessing not only an uncommonly clear perception of the ideas of others, but also an equally clear arrangement of her own, which gave her conversation a lucidity, that elicited the thinking powers of her auditors; so that if she was not absolutely witty herself, she was often at least "the cause of wit in others." She was habitually cheerful, and generally self-possessed, except when her feelings were accidentally excited, and they lay too deep to be called forth in the common intercourse of society. In a word, her vivacity proceeded less from the buoyancy of animal spirits, as passing as youth itself, than from the satisfaction of a soul at peace with itself, and of a mind amused by a constant flow of intellect.

The entrance of the gentlemen transferred Miss Cecilia Webberly, and of course her guests, from the drawing-room to the music saloon. Here again her fine voice, like her fine person, was spoiled by affectation, and by an attempt at displaying a taste, of which nature had denied her mind any just perceptions. She had acquired from her master a would-be expression, which consisted of a regular alternation of piano and forte, as completely distinct as the black and white squares of a chess board, with corresponding movements of her eyes and shoulders; the tout ensemble seeming to the hearer like a succession of unprepared screams, neither leaving him the peace of a monotonous repose, nor affording him the charm of variety. "By heavens, I would as soon be shut up in a room with a trumpeter; she has voice enough to blow a man's brains out!" said young Mr. Thornbull to Mr. Temple, while his ears yet tingled with Cecilia's last shout. "I am sure Miss Wildenheim sings in a very different manner." "I am not sure," replied his reverend auditor, smiling, "that she sings at all. If she does, no doubt her judgment is as correct in music as in every thing else;—however, let us see:"—and walking up to Mrs. Sullivan, they begged of her to procure them a specimen of Miss Wildenheim's musical abilities. Adelaide complied with a look and a curtsy, that bespoke the pardon of her imperfections, and which, strange to say, procured a temporary absolution for her charms, even from those to whom they were most obnoxious.

The young man was too much engaged in watching the playful variety of her countenance when she sung (for she never looked half so charming as when singing), to criticise her performance, but took for granted it was divine, and so must

For though it is easy to exhibit deformity, it is impossible to describe the nicely adjusted balance of opposite beauties, which constitutes perfection: more especially in an art, that is often most felt when least understood, and whose evanescent charms are passing for ever away, whilst the mind is yet revelling in a consciousness of their existence!

When the usual routine of complimenting had been gone through by the rest of the company, and Adelaide was disengaged, Mr. Temple, after praising her performance, said, "Notwithstanding your delightful singing, I must say, I think the best days of music are past." The lovely songstress, casting her eyes on Selina and thereby applying her words to the beautiful girl's bewitching figure, replied, "I partly agree with you, my dear sir.—'When music, heavenly maid, was young,' perhaps her wild graces were more captivating than her mature elegance."—"Your simile is just, and well applied. Music certainly now feels her decay, and seeks to hide her faded charms by profuse ornament."

Mr. Temple not unfrequently talked by inch of candle, and would have gone on, perhaps, for an hour, had not his wife, tapping him on the shoulder, told him it was time to return home: and, as is usually the case in parties in the country, the announcement of one carriage was the signal for the abrupt departure of the whole company; and though Mrs. Sullivan roared out in an audible voice, "Why, Cilly, you haven't a gone half through the hairs you practised this morning! Where's your bravo hair? and your polacker?" before the anxious mother had recapitulated half the catalogue, she found, equally to her surprise and dismay, that all her guests had disappeared, nearly as suddenly as Tam O'Shanter's companions, before he had finished his commendatory exclamations:

And,