The next month was past in receiving and returning visits; and the most pleasing among them was a sociable day passed at Rose-Hill, the seat of Sir William Cecil. Miss Cecil promised, if Juliet, who now for some time had been tolerably well, should continue so, that Ellen should see her; though she very seldom admitted any company: "But I have said so much of you," said Laura, "that she is quite anxious to see you; and I am particularly anxious to familiarize her to you, both as it will I am sure give her pleasure, and facilitate our being often together." Accordingly, after dinner, when they left the gentlemen, Miss Cecil led Lady St. Aubyn to Juliet's apartment.

Never had Ellen seen so interesting a being: this fair creature, now about fifteen, was a perfect model of beauty and symmetry; though so slightly formed, she appeared, "like a fairy vision, or some bright creature of the element:" her cheeks were faintly tinged with a hectic blush; her eyes were of the most dazzling brightness; her lips like coral; and her teeth of pearly whiteness; her fair hair was covered with a fine lace cap, and her fragile form enveloped in a large shawl.

"My love," said Laura, "here is Lady St. Aubyn, who is so good as to come and see you."

Juliet extended her white hand, and said in a voice of peculiar harmony, fixing at the same time her sparkling and penetrating eyes on Ellen's face, as if she wished to read her heart in her countenance, "Laura says she loves you already, and I am sure I shall." The simple naÏvetÈ of her voice and manner went to the heart of Ellen, who could not help embracing her tenderly, while she felt the tears start to her eyes at seeing one so young and lovely in a state of health so precarious.

After a little more conversation, Ellen put her hand accidentally on a small book which lay half concealed by one of the pillows of Juliet's couch, and said with that native politeness which ever prevented her from doing any thing rude or intrusive, "May I look at the subject of your studies?" "Yes," said Juliet, with an angelic smile, "If you please." Ellen opened the book. It was in a character totally unknown to her. "Do you read Greek?" asked the fair Juliet, with a simplicity and absence of design which proved her question was serious; and this interrogation, which would from most people to a young woman be absolutely ridiculous, from Juliet appeared merely a natural wish to know whether her new friend was as able as herself to read the book she held in her hand; for strange as it may appear, it was a copy of the New Testament in Greek; and Juliet read it as easily as if it had been English.

"My dear Juliet," said Laura, "few females make that language their study; I conclude, therefore, Lady St. Aubyn does not know it any more than myself." "Oh, I wish you both did," said Juliet: "if you could but know the delight I feel from reading the Scripture in its original language!—If I live till next summer I hope the Hebrew Bible will be as familiar to me as that book is now."

It is impossible for language to do justice to the perfect innocence and artlessness with which she spoke: she seemed to think her own wonderful attainments no more extraordinary than other girls do of being able to read a newspaper, or work a handkerchief: not a trace of affectation or pedantry was visible in her manner: she had a childishness of voice and tone that singularly contrasted with the subjects on which she spoke; for Laura, willing to let Ellen see what a wonderful creature she was, led her to speak of astronomy; and a celestial globe happening to be on a table before her, led her by degrees to display her extraordinary knowledge in that science—of the dimensions and motions of the heavenly bodies, their distances from the sun and from each other, &c. all of which she explained in the clearest and most perspicuous manner, making such happy allusions to the poets who have touched on the subject, and illustrating it by such apt comparisons, as shewed her imagination was as brilliant, as the calculations she readily made proved her memory was accurate.

Lady St. Aubyn, who had at every leisure hour since her marriage been engaged in studying this and other interesting subjects of useful knowledge, could in some degree appreciate the value and extent of this sweet girl's extraordinary acquirements, and was lost in admiration of her abilities, and the industry with which, notwithstanding her ill health, she had cultivated them.

This happened to be a day in which Juliet was unusually well, for in general she declined all conversation, and spent most of her time in studying the Scriptures, in devotional exercises, and promoting every plan which her health would permit her to join in for the relief of the poor; for her early piety and extensive charity were as remarkable as her other attainments were wonderful: but this day she was so well, that at Laura's solicitation, in which Ellen earnestly joined, she placed herself at a chamber organ that stood in her apartment, which she touched with great taste and science; and was at last prevailed on to accompany it with a voice of the most angelic sweetness.

She sung only sacred music, and now delighted Ellen with "Angels ever bright and fair;" and, "I know that my Redeemer liveth:" and while her pure lips poured forth these exquisite specimens of musical inspiration, the soft and pious expression of her heavenly countenance, for ever fixed and hallowed them in the remembrance of her hearers.

To Ellen she seemed hardly a being of this world, and her young and enthusiastic heart was melted with the tenderest love for one so very far superior to any thing she could have imagined.

From this day the St. Aubyns and Cecils spent a great part of their time together, and the highly polished manners of Miss Cecil, her excellent judgment, and fine taste, were extremely advantageous to Lady St. Aubyn. Without losing her natural grace and sweet simplicity, she gradually acquired more of that style which marks both the woman of fashion and the possessor of intellectual knowledge; even her beauty improved with the encreased intelligence of her mind, and the serenity of her heart; for now for the first time she felt entirely happy; scarcely a cloud overshadowed her.

St. Aubyn was every day more tender and attentive, and every day expressed himself more pleased and delighted with his choice. Those starts of agitation and gloom which on their first acquaintance had appeared in him so frequently, were now very seldom seen. He received frequent letters from Spain, which he told Ellen were from his friend the Marquis of Northington, who was there in a diplomatic situation, and was engaged in seeking a person, by means of his extensive connections on the Continent, who alone could unravel some mysterious circumstances of the most material consequence to him. "But when found," said St. Aubyn, one day when he had by degrees been led to speak on this subject—"when found, if ever that should happen, I know not that he will be prevailed on to disclose what I have every reason to believe he alone can tell. He is a villain!"——(and St. Aubyn's frame shook with the agitation of smothered rage) "and may from motives of fear or revenge add to the other injuries he has done me, by withholding that information which alone can secure my fame, perhaps my life."

He had never before spoken so much or so calmly on this interesting subject; and seeing that Ellen listened with great anxiety, and that at his last words she trembled and turned pale, he added:

"Fear not, my love: for your dear sake I will take every necessary precaution; and should I find the enemy, who has long, though most unjustly, threatened to revenge on me an act, horrible indeed, but of which I was not the author——should I find him still determined on vindictive measures, I will for a time pass over to the Continent, till some accommodation can be effected. At all events, my Ellen, remember you have promised to believe me innocent. In the course of the next summer, this enemy (who, alas! and that is not the least hardship in my wayward fate, ought by every tie to look upon me as a friend and father) will be in England, and I shall perhaps be able to clear his mind from those evil impressions with which an unfortunate chain of circumstances have stampt it——impressions received in early youth, and which he has ever since cherished, and brooded over with the most determined resentment."

At this juncture, when St. Aubyn seemed for the first time inclined to open his whole heart to his wife, and to disclose to her a story in which she was so deeply interested, they were interrupted by a servant, who announced Mrs. Dawkins, and her tender friend Miss Alton, who came armed with a whole catalogue of sympathetic feelings and notes of admiration of all kinds to entertain Lady St. Aubyn.

Many were the disasters which had happened since they saw her last: horses had been lame, servants impertinent, showers of rain had fallen at the most unlucky moments, even a dinner had been spoilt which had cost a whole week's preparation, by the cook's inattention in over-roasting the venison; in short, all the minor evils of life had set themselves in array against the peace of poor Mrs. Dawkins: and even the sympathizing Miss Alton could hardly keep pace with lamentations sufficient for such a doleful list of distresses. She fought her way, however, as well as she could, and where words failed her, shrugs, sighs, and the whole artillery of gesticulation, were employed in their stead.

What then became of poor Ellen, who could at best only sit "with sad civility and an aching head," amid this alternate din of complaint and compassion? But Mrs. Dawkins was pre-determined to like and be pleased with every thing the lovely Countess did or omitted to do, and construed the silence and acquiescence with which she heard every thing into the kindest attention and most obliging concern for the troubles of her friends.

The entrance of a sandwich tray fortunately gave some pause to this melancholy duet; and the excellent hot-house fruits, rich cake, &c. seemed to arrive in good time to refresh both ladies after so much exertion. At last they took their leave, but the moment for confidence was past; indeed, St. Aubyn, in no humour for trifling, had made his escape at one door, as they entered at the other: of course, the conversation was not then resumed.

Not to interrupt the course of the narrative, we omitted in the proper place to notice that Lord and Lady St. Aubyn had, immediately on their arrival at the Castle, written letters of explanation to Powis and Joanna, and he permitted Mr. Ross to publish what he alone knew the real rank and title of the person Ellen had married.

We will not pretend to describe the astonishment excited by this intelligence amongst the inhabitants of Llanwyllan: the honest and unaspiring Powis declared he would much rather Ellen had married a man nearer her own rank in life, for he was afraid, poor dear child, she would be bewildered amongst such fine people, and in such a great house: for his part, even if he were able to travel so far, he should not like to go to such a grand place as she described the Castle to be; besides, he was afraid they would be ashamed to see such a rough, ignorant fellow as he was among their fine company: and if Ellen was above calling him father, he should wish himself in the grave.

The tears started in his eyes at the painful idea, and the good Ross could hardly dissipate his apprehensions of being forsaken by his only child, by reminding him of her excellent qualities and tender affection for him, and of the kindness with which Lord St. Aubyn had treated him through the whole of his acquaintance.

Mrs. Ross was in ten times a greater bustle than ever; she could not rest till she had told the surprizing news to every one she met, and at intervals she scolded Mr. Ross heartily for not letting her into the secret, as if she were not as worthy to be trusted as any body else for secrecy and prudence; "she that had been a mother to Ellen, was no gossip, and minded nothing but her own business!" but when he reminded her that even Ellen, deeply as she was interested, was not permitted to know it, she could not but acknowledge she had no great right to expect to be better informed.

As to Joanna, with the natural vanity of youth, she was elated beyond measure at the idea of her dear Ellen's being a real lady, and the hope of visiting her one day or other in her fine castle, and seeing all her beautiful things, while Mrs. Ross made no doubt Ellen had a dress for every day in the week, and her caps trimmed with fine lace; then she laughed at the recollection of having once "scolded Ellen for putting on her best white gown when she expected Mr. Mordaunt, as we called him, and now I should not wonder if she wears as good in a morning!"—"Dear mother," said Joanna, who, from the slight view she had of what she fancied the world, when she went with St. Aubyn and Ellen to Carnarvon, imagined herself better instructed in fashionable matters—"dear mother, I daresay she does not wear such gowns at all; I should not wonder if her maid had as good: I am sure I saw a lady's maid on a travelling carriage at Carnarvon much better dressed than either of us." "Well, bless me, what will the world come to," said Mrs. Ross, "when such folks as those wear white gowns and flappits!" Alas, poor Mrs. Ross! could she have seen some ladies' maids!—

All these things Joanna told Ellen in a letter the longest she had ever written, and greatly was St. Aubyn diverted with the simplicity of their ideas. The good Ross wrote to St. Aubyn, and expressed his high satisfaction at the very just and honourable manner in which he had performed all his engagements respecting Ellen, and requested to hear from time to time whatever might arise concerning those important circumstances which the Earl had done him the honour to confide to him.

"What can we do for these very good people, my dear Ellen?" said St. Aubyn: "they have no wants nor wishes beyond their present possessions. If I send them any articles of luxury, or the means of encreasing their present expenses, I know not that I should render them happier. I could easily procure a valuable living for Mr. Ross, and told him so; but he assured me nothing should induce him to leave his present flock, and that he had not a wish to rise to a higher sphere, or for any thing in the world, but a few more books; and for those I have sent an order to my bookseller, requesting they may be immediately forwarded to Carnarvon. I shall also enclose to Ross a larger payment for my good old landlady and cook, dame Grey, than I thought it prudent to make while we remained at Llanwyllan. Is there any thing else my Ellen can think of?"—"There are," answered Ellen, in a low voice, "some very poor people at Llanwyllan, that Joanna and I used to be as kind to as we could. I should like, if you approve of it, to send Joanna a little money for their use." "By all means, send whatever you think proper, and as often as you please; never consult me, but do all that your kind and generous heart prompts you to do on all occasions—think also if there is any thing Mrs. Ross and Joanna would be pleased to have. You must be a better judge of their wishes than I can be."—He then took out his pocketbook, and gave her notes to a large amount, telling her, with a smile, that her expences were so small, he should forget he had a wife if she were not a little more profuse. "Well, but Ellen," said St. Aubyn, "surely this is not all you have to ask for the friends of your youth! don't make me fancy either that you are forgetful, or think more than you choose to express for some of them." "My dear Lord, what do you mean?" said Ellen, a little startled by the manner in which he spoke, "Nay, don't be alarmed," replied St. Aubyn, with a smile, "I was thinking of one certainly not so much in my favour as he ought to be in your's, for he deprived me once of your society for a whole day, for which, and some certain pangs and anxieties, I cannot quite forgive him." "I cannot guess who you mean." "Is that really true?" "Most perfectly so." "Certainly," said St. Aubyn, "I can only mean Charles Ross." "Oh poor Charles!" exclaimed Ellen: "I really had quite forgotten him."

"Now that was excessively ungrateful," said St. Aubyn, laughing, "for I dare engage he has not forgotten you: well, are you still enough his friend to wish to do him service?"

"Certainly," said Ellen: "I shall always feel a regard for him, though just at that moment I was not thinking of him: but what service can I do him, my Lord?"

"If you give him your interest with me, I may, perhaps, try, and most likely shall succeed, in getting him promotion. Should you wish this to be done?"

"Oh, yes, indeed," replied Ellen, animated and sparkling with the pleasing idea of serving her early friend, and of the joy his promotion would give his parents and sister, "nothing could give me more pleasure."

"Not too much of that bright colour and sparkling eye, though, Ellen," said St. Aubyn, half in jest, half gravely: "I shall be jealous."

"You have so much reason!"

"Well, be cautious, I am in that point a Turk, and bear no rival near the throne."

Ellen, half vexed, would have said something, but embracing her tenderly, he stopt her by saying, "Not a word, my love, I am perfectly satisfied," and left her a little disconcerted, and half fearing that she had disturbed or displeased him.

In the familiar intercourse which now took place between Miss Cecil and Lady St. Aubyn, the former shook off her reserve, and imparted to Ellen, not indeed all the particulars of her early disappointment, but that she had endured the most painful trials that the perfidy and inconsistent conduct of one sincerely loved could inflict; yet dignified on this, as on every other subject, she never expatiated upon it, or said any thing disrespectful of the author of her sufferings: though she never fully explained the cause of her separation from her unworthy lover, it was understood, that a full conviction of his bad conduct, and that his address to her had chiefly been induced by mercenary motives, had induced her to discard him, and to resist all his subsequent entreaties to be forgiven.

One day, when Lord St. Aubyn and Sir William Cecil were engaged at a great public dinner in the neighbourhood, Ellen had the pleasure of dining tÊte-À-tÊte with her agreeable friend: they had spent two hours in Juliet's apartment, who every time they met gained more and more on Ellen's affections, and was become excessively attached to her, when the sweet girl, feeling fatigued, said she would lie down for an hour, and then she should be well enough to enjoy their company at tea, which she requested they would take in her apartment; they went therefore to pass this hour in Miss Cecil's dressing-room, who, opening a writing-desk to shew Ellen a drawing she had just finished, undesignedly displayed to the quick eye of Lady St. Aubyn a little book, marked "Manuscript Poetry."

"Your own," said Ellen, laying her hand on it playfully, "or extracts?" "Why," returned Laura, "as Lord St. Aubyn thought proper to betray a secret which he learnt when we were children together, I will not deny that little volume contains some insignificant attempts of my own."

"Oh let me see some of them, pray do," said Ellen: "assure yourself I will make no ill use of your confidence. I really am quite delighted with this opportunity, for I have long wished to see some specimens of your talents in this way." Thus urged, Laura allowed her to read two or three of the little poems contained in the volume, and at her earnest request, permitted her afterwards to have copies of the two following

ELEGIAC STANZAS.

EPISTLE TO LADY DELAMORE,
ON RETURNING TO ROSE-HILL.

With both these little pieces Ellen was perhaps more pleased than their intrinsic merit warranted; but we naturally look with a partial eye on the performances of those we love. After looking over several other poetical attempts, and some beautiful drawings, they returned to Juliet's apartment, where they spent a delightful evening; for Juliet seemed materially mending, and Laura's spirits rose in proportion.

Thus, and in similar pleasures, passed the time till the beginning of March, varied indeed by the occasional visits of the neighbouring families. One day, after a long solicitation, the St. Aubyns, Cecils, and some more of the most fashionable people near them, dined with Mrs. Dawkins, where they also met her tender friend and shadow, Miss Alton, who this day, for the first time in her life, was destined to offend that sweet woman, Mrs. Dawkins; for charmed to find herself seated on a sofa between "her dearest Lady St. Aubyn," and that most delightful man, General Morton, a veteran officer in the neighbourhood, at whom it was supposed Miss Alton had long set her cap, as the phrase is, she attended not to the hints, shrugs, and winks of her friend, who, not keeping a regular housekeeper, and being extremely anxious for the placing her first course properly, wished Miss Alton just to slip out and see it put on table: but vain were her wishes; and the cook, finding no aid-de-camp arrive, after waiting till some of the dishes were over-dressed, and others half cold, was obliged to act as commander-in-chief, and direct the disposition of the table herself; in which, not having clearly understood her mistress's directions (for in fact her anxiety to have all correct made them vary every half hour), she succeeded so ill, that when, after all her fretting and fuming, poor Mrs. Dawkins was told dinner was on table, that unfortunate Lady had nearly fainted at perceiving, when she entered the dining-room, that half the articles intended for the second course were crowded into the first, and roasted, ragoued, boiled, fried, sweet and sour, were jumbled together, in the finest confusion imaginable!

"This is all your fault," said Mrs. Dawkins, in a low voice, but with the countenance of a fury, to poor Alton: "you could not stir to see it put down;" and pushing rudely by her, she left her staring with surprize, and wondering what had made the dear soul so very angry: but when she saw the blunders which were so obvious in the arrangement of the table, and recollected her own negligence (for in fact she had promised to see it set down), she was in her turn quite shocked.

Insupportable was the delay and confusion in putting down this second course; even curtailed as it was, Mrs. Dawkins's servants were not perfectly au fait at such things, and at last Lord St. Aubyn gave a hint to his own man, who waited behind his chair to assist, which he did so effectually, that every thing was soon placed as by magic, and the rest of the dinner and dessert passed over tolerably well. After dinner, the ladies retired to the drawing-room, and listened, with their usual patience, to fresh lamentations from Mrs. Dawkins, and renewed sympathies on the part of Miss Alton, who sought, by even increasing her usual portion of tender sensibility, to regain her wonted place in Mrs. Dawkins's good graces; but that lady continued so haughty and impracticable, that poor Alton came at last with real tears, to complain to the good-natured Ellen and Laura of her hard fate, and the impossibility, do all she could, of pleasing some people; and they really were so sorry for her vexation, that when Lady St. Aubyn's carriage was announced, she rescued her from the visible unkindness of Mrs. Dawkins, by desiring to have the pleasure of setting her down, and made her quite happy again, by asking her to meet a small party at the Castle the next day, which, as it was understood to be rather a select thing, and confined to those most intimate there, assured Miss Alton a renewed importance with Mrs. Dawkins and all her friends, as she should have much to tell, which they could by no other possibility know any thing about.