The Parsonage garden was now blooming in all the beauty of summer, and the hedges had exchanged the fragrance of the violet for that of the flaunting woodbine. Instead of a brisk walk of a bracing March evening, its happy inmates enjoyed a sauntering ramble by the light of the newly risen stars, over rich meadows, or through wooded glades and cheerful valleys.

Mrs. Temple and Adelaide were one evening returning from such a walk: every thing was at rest in the surrounding scene; the very flowers of day had closed their corollas, and ceased to give forth their perfumes; but the air was fragrant with the night-blowing orchis, and the new-mown grass; and sometimes it brought to their ear the melody of the nightingale, the hooting of the owl, or the hum of the night crow.

Such a scene is more favourable to meditation than discourse; and, when speech is found, it more resembles thinking aloud than conversation. The two friends had continued long in silence, when Mrs. Temple said, "I am never so pious as in such a scene as this; my heart overflows with gratitude to the Author of the spontaneous happiness, that, unsought, seems to pour in on the mind." "Certainly the devotion of the heart is most pure in such a temple," replied Adelaide; "I wonder the worship of the air was not in ancient times more general. It appears to my mind the best emblem of the deity, that man by reason alone can form;—it is every where present, every where invisible; in it 'we live and move, and have our being.' We confess its awful might in the storm, and feel its beneficent power every moment of our lives." These and similar reflections cheated the friends of their time till they reached the Parsonage, where a light in the drawing-room informed them Mr. Temple had returned from his ride. As they entered the room, he gave Adelaide the long expected letter from Mrs. Sullivan; she hesitated for an instant to open it, with that undefined dread we always feel on receiving any communication from a person, whose good will we are doubtful of possessing. However, on reading her letter, she was not a little relieved to find it written in a style of unusual civility; but was surprised beyond measure to find it request, or rather desire, her to meet Mrs. Sullivan at Shrewsbury, from whence she intended proceeding to Ireland, declining all discussion as to matters of business, till their return to Webberly House. In her first surprise, she did not perceive the short period of Mrs. Sullivan's intended absence from her accustomed residence; but a confused picture of being taken to another kingdom, and separated from the only people from whom she had any chance of receiving kindness or protection, mixed with painful recollections of her last journey, rose to her mind. Her first thought was not to go; but she as quickly remembered, that Mrs. Sullivan's authority, as her guardian, was indisputable; also that she ought no longer to trespass on the hospitality of her kind hosts. The agitation of her countenance did not escape Mrs. Temple's observation, but she forbore to notice it; and Adelaide, commanding herself sufficiently to bid good night, retired to her room.

When she read Mrs. Sullivan's letter more attentively a second time, she smiled at the phantom she had raised to terrify herself; for she found her guardian proposed returning home rather before she should be of age, and that of course the dilemma, she had fancied would arise from her being in Ireland without any positive claim on Mrs. Sullivan's protection, would not occur.

Being convinced she could not avoid going to Ireland, her next endeavour was to persuade herself the journey would not be unpleasant; for it was always her custom to look for the best side of every thing and every body: she therefore soon discovered, that becoming acquainted with a country and a people she knew as little of as the Iroquois tribes, would afford her more amusement, than spending another summer at Webberly House. The civility of Mrs. Sullivan's letter was so striking, that Adelaide began to think she had been too harsh in her judgment of her character, and determined that her expedition should commence with a voyage of discovery, to ascertain the unknown perfections of the mother and daughters. A strong intellect may command the feelings, but the body is not so obedient as the mind. Adelaide found, though she could compose her thoughts to rest, she could not quiet her nerves to sleep, and therefore got up with the sun; and taking a book to fix her ideas, remained out of doors till Mrs. Temple's early breakfast hour.

At breakfast she read to her friends the subjoined letter from Mrs. Sullivan. Notwithstanding all her distress of mind, it was with the utmost difficulty she could command her countenance while she did so. She omitted some passages, and slightly altered the wording of others; but though her eyes during this time were perseveringly cast down, their comical expression was not thus concealed; for the light that streamed from beneath their half-closed lids was reflected on her cheek, and brightened her whole countenance, displaying as unequivocally what passed in her mind, as if she had directed to her auditors the most meaning glances of arch drollery. She was too generous to wish to expose Mrs. Sullivan's extreme ignorance to her friends, as it was exemplified in this ill spelled, ill written scrawl. But she had yet another secondary motive, which prompted her to screen it from their eyes; and this trifling circumstance may perhaps explain her character more effectually, than one of greater importance, in which nine rational people out of ten would act alike.

She had but little vanity, yet from nature and education was proud in the extreme. This ambiguous quality, partaking of vice and virtue, which is "both perhaps or neither," was interwoven in the very texture of her mind, was blended with many of her virtues and most of her errors, and prompted her always to shield as much as possible from ridicule any person she was even slightly connected with. Mrs. Temple was nearly as much amused by the grave dignity of her countenance, when she looked up after reading her letter, which seemed to say, "You ought not to laugh," as she had been by its droll expression a few moments before.

Mrs. Sullivan to Miss Wildenheim.

London, June 1st.——

My dear Miss Wildenheim,

I've received your letter, and am glad to hear your well: so is Meelly and Cilly. I be sometimes troubled with the vind; but howsomedever I gets my health middling. This comes to say we be all a-going to Ireland with all speed; and I must retreat and insist that you come two; and we can taulk all about what you wrot me in March when we returns from them there outlandish parts. But I'm in great hops Jack will mary his cozen Hannah Leatherly after all, which I just menshion, as young girls be very apt to think ever a man that looks after 'em be in love with 'em. But says I to my eye, Addle Wildenheim has two much spirit of her own to covet her neighbour's goods. So, my dear, if you'll meat us at Shrovesbirry, I'll be excedin glad to be your shoprun; and we mean to reeturn to Webberly House afore the time comes of your mynoritie been over; so till then I wont here taulk of your chousing no other garden.

We be a goin to see Mr. Sullivan and his sister, for he thinks he's a going to put on his wooden great coat, so he's anxshious to see my little Carline, for it's quite natral he shoud desire to see his nearest akin; and so we shoud a gone six weeks ago, only for certain good raisins that made us wish to stay over Lady Ashbrooke's bawll, which was three nights ago. But no good come off it, after all. Some folks are so fine and so sassy, they'd turn up their noses at their own bread and butter. But every dog has his day, and Carline may be as grate a airass as no other guess parson. So now I conclude with complements to Mr. and Mrs. Temple. I'll send John Arding to retort you from Webberly House to Shrovesbirry, and so you may expect him in less than a weak. You must come in the post-shay; and you'd better bring your made Lamotte with you, but you must send her back from Shrovesbirry (mind I'm at no costs for her jurney); for I can't take but one made to attend both you and I. Seeing she can taulk no English, she'd be of small sarvice to I. I've got a stout girl to do our turn. You must pay half the wagers and travailing expences, and I'll charge you naught for her wittals; for d'ye mind me, Mr. Sullivan will see to that, which will be all the better for you: a penny saved is a penny got, as my poor father tot me betimes. I'll send Mrs. Harris home to Webberly, (so she'll keep kumpany with Lamotte); for she'll be wanted to do the sweetmeats and pikchols this summer; and I wish, my dear, you'd wright word to John Gardiner, to sell all the fruit at Deane which isn't vaunted for persarvin; and I expect a good account when I go home. So hopping to met you at Shrovesbirry without fail,

I remane your affectionate friend,
Hannah Sullivan.

P.S.—I'm sure you'd be very sory to take Lamotte to Ireland, you've tot her such bad kustoms, becase she's lived with you since you was a year old. She'd be 'mazed attendin I. You no I be's a bustling body, and a trifle hasty; but I'm nothing the worse for having a good spirit of my own.

Adelaide's delicacy prevented her from allowing her friends to suppose she had any dislike to accompanying Mrs. Sullivan to Ireland, well knowing that if they were aware of it, they would apply to her guardian for permission to protract her stay at the Parsonage; and she succeeded in impressing them with an idea, that the project was far from unpleasant to her. This matter being discussed, they gave her a pressing invitation to spend the following winter with them, during which time Mr. Temple promised, if she gave him authority so to do, to use his best endeavours either to procure her reception by her family, or an eligible abode, wherever she might wish to fix her residence; also authorizing her, should she find herself in any dilemma previous to her return, to apply to him for whatever assistance she might require. The worthy rector soon interrupted Adelaide's warm acknowledgements for his present and past kindness, by saying, "I hope this delightful scheme, to which Mrs. Temple and I look forward with so much pleasure, will not be prevented by your being run away with by some fine fellow at the other side of the channel. Joking apart," said he seriously, "there is an English gentleman, who is as much in love as his nature will suffer him to be, to whom I hope no consideration will ever tempt you to unite yourself." Adelaide blushed and blushed, till the tears stood in her eyes. Mr. Temple looked at her with astonishment; "Is it possible!" thought he: "You may think me impertinent, Miss Wildenheim, but I know you never contemn the advice of experience and friendship. It would be heart-rending to see you so thrown away;—such a total dissimilarity of character can never produce happiness. You are beings of a different sphere. The moment in which you marry Mr. Webberly, you sign the misery of your whole life." The expression of her countenance was now quite changed, and the few calm words she spoke, convinced her reverend adviser she then felt convinced she could never marry Mr. Webberly. But he had, in the course of his life, seen so many strange matches made, that the word "amazement" in matrimony had to him lost its meaning; particularly as he had so often known it commence without "dearly beloved" on the part of either of the persons concerned; and still having some little distrust of the future, he would sincerely have rejoiced to hear, that Mr. Webberly had done Miss Leatherly the honour of making her his wife. When Adelaide retired after breakfast, Mr. Temple questioned his wife as to the possibility of her having become attached to Augustus Mordaunt, whom she had frequently met at the Rectory. "What vain creatures you men are!" said she: "A girl can't spend a sleepless night, and be a little agitated by an unexpected change in her plans, but you must suppose her colour comes and goes in the intermittent fits of a love fever." "You may quiz, Charlotte, but I assure you, when Miss Wildenheim used to meet Augustus here, her eyes told more than her tongue." "Then believe me, they told intolerable stories! No young woman of good sense, or good conduct, will ever love a man, who does not show her the most unequivocal preference. After all, what is called love has its residence more in the brain than the heart. Believe me, Adelaide is no such fool; she has strength of mind to conquer even a reciprocal attachment, if necessary. She has a great deal of feeling, with an equal portion of reason and reflection; but I think her imagination is rather in the minority, at least it takes its rise from her feelings, not her feelings from it." "Well, Charlotte, you may think an attachment a very silly thing now; but, you know, you were in love once yourself." "Never with you, I assure you: you know, my dear, that was impossible, for you were old enough to have passed for my father when we married. I had always too much respect for your reverence. Yet I don't think I have made the worse wife, because I never mistook you for a Strephon, but saw from the first you were a good, plain, steady country parson." "And but for this good, plain, steady country parson, Charlotte," said he, "you would never have been the estimable woman you now are. But to return to Miss Wildenheim: what is it that distresses her? You are clear there is nobody in England she is sorry to leave behind." "Pardon me; I think she is very sorry to leave us." "That I take for granted; but on the whole she seems pleased with her expedition. Perhaps she is unprepared to meet so unexpected a demand on her purse; and Mrs. Sullivan's elegant epistle does not say a word on the subject of money:—she should have had more consideration! I will make an estimate of what the journey to Shrewsbury will cost her—will you give it to her, and say I shall be happy to advance what money she may require." "That I will," replied Mrs. Temple; "Poor thing! I'm sure she would die before she would ask Mrs. Sullivan—at least I should, without doubt." When Mr. Temple made out his memorandum, and his wife giving it to Adelaide repeated his offer, she was so touched by this new instance of her friend's kindness, that she could not for a short time reply to Mrs. Temple; but pressing her hand with the earnestness of gratitude, remained silent for an instant, and then, both by word and look, expressed her grateful sense of all the benefits they had bestowed on her. "In the present instance, however," said she, "I need not trespass on Mr. Temple's goodness; I assure you I am quite rich, sufficiently so to make this unexpected journey no inconvenience." "Nobody is rich now-a-days," said Mrs. Temple; "in such an extravagant family how have you managed, my dear Adele, to get into such a good condition of purse?" "When I was first at Webberly House, I was too unhappy to have any fancies to indulge; and as soon as by your benevolent care I recovered from my primary state of stupefaction, I became so terrified at my unprotected situation, that I determined to provide for any emergency that might occur, by limiting my expenditure as much as possible. Impressed with these fears, I dared not give myself habits of extravagance. I assure you I have been economical almost to parsimony." "Your poor pensioners do not say so," rejoined Mrs. Temple, in a tone of affectionate approbation.—"I do not think it permissible, my dear Mrs. Temple, to provide for future wants by the neglect of present duties. I look upon charity in proportion to our means, as a necessity as indispensable to our condition as daily food and raiment; a due portion of whatever fund procures the one, ought surely to provide for the other." "You are a singular girl," said Mrs. Temple; "I will apply to you Goldsmith's epitaph on Dr. Bernard:—

The few days Adelaide had to spend at the Parsonage flew most rapidly away. She saw the dreaded morning arrive, in which she was to commence her journey, with a heavy heart, and perhaps those she was to leave behind were yet more sorrowful than herself. In the separation of friends, those who depart are never half so much to be pitied as those who remain. Change of scene, motion, and fatigue, insensibly divert the former; but the latter have nothing new to fill up the uncomfortable void they feel. It is long before the eye ceases to look for the beloved face it has been used to gaze on, or the ear unconsciously to expect the well-known voice or step. The children had bid farewell to Adelaide the night before, not without many pressing entreaties for her speedy return; but the father and mother got up at a very early hour, to take leave of her on the morning of her departure. At the sight of Mrs. Temple she could no longer control her feelings, but threw herself in an agony of sorrow into her arms, saying, it was her fate always to be torn from what was dear to her in life, and that she should know nothing like happiness till she saw her again. Mr. Temple, seeing her make a great effort to restrain her tears, said, "Do not, my dear young friend, suppress the expression of your sorrow; here are those who respect your tears—they are most natural to your age and sex. You have too much the habit of suppressing your own feelings, to avoid distressing those of others. We shall all meet happily again in a few months, and then your connection with that unamiable family will cease. You are too deserving of happiness not to meet with it;—indeed you will find it in your own mind, when you recover from the first shock of the heavy affliction it has pleased Providence to assign you. You may, if it is any consolation, take with you an old man's blessing; whose utmost wish would be gratified in having a daughter to resemble you." Mrs. Temple, who had been nearly as much comforted by his commendation as Adelaide, now said, "Rouse yourself, my dear girl, and look at all those impertinent Webberlys, as much as to say, 'I hold ye in sovereign, contempt.' I wish you were not content, with feeling your own superiority, but would occasionally assert it. I should like to see them smarting under the power of ridicule certain arch smiles have told me you possess—indeed, indeed, my dear, you are righteous over much: do oblige me, and be a little spiteful."

By the time breakfast was over, Adelaide's spirits were comforted by Mr. Temple, and rallied by his wife. Though she could not trust herself to say, "Good bye," she stept into the carriage with tolerable composure; but when she lost sight of them and their cheerful abode, she experienced an acuteness of sorrow she some time before had thought she was as incapable of ever feeling again, as an equal degree of joy.

When the carriage drove away, Mr. Temple made a speedy retreat into his study; and the traces of tears were still visible on his wife's face, when they met at dinner.