The season was far advanced when Mr. Martindale came to town with his family. Lady Woodstock and her daughters made their appearance at the same time. Mr. Henderson's chapel was fuller than ever. All the world was flocking to hear him; and while he was exhorting his hearers to humility, his hearers were presenting to him the incense of adulation, and were flattering him into vanity with all their heart and with all their strength. This was not as it should be; but it was as it was, and as it ever will be.

Mr. Martindale was not much given to flattery; but he liked Mr. Henderson as being a kind-hearted and worthy man, who preached fine sermons not so much to gratify his own vanity as innocently to please fastidious ears. It was Mr. Martindale's habit, whenever he liked or approved any person or thing, to insist upon it that all his friends and acquaintance should like and approve the same; and if by any accident or caprice he changed his sentiments from liking to disliking, then he wondered that any one could have so little taste as to like or tolerate the same. This kind of despotism he exercised over all his acquaintance except Signora Rivolta, who rather governed him. But so it was that Signora Rivolta, notwithstanding her Catholic faith, did not unfrequently attend Mr. Henderson's chapel.

The day after Mr. Martindale arrived in town was Sunday; and on that day the old gentleman went to Mr. Henderson's chapel, and was accompanied by Clara. Markham was there also, and for the first time since his return to England had the pleasure of seeing Clara. Pleasant indeed we may hardly call it, excepting so far that it was agreeable to gaze upon a lovely good-humored countenance; but there were recollections and associations not altogether pleasant. There was also the mortification of seeing Clara attended by a young gentleman of great apparent assiduity of manners, who was on mighty good terms with himself, and looked as if he thought that he was on as good terms with the rest of the party. People ought not to stare about in church time, but they will; there is no preventing it. Even Mr. Henderson himself, who frequently expressed his sense of the impropriety of so doing, could not help, while his assistant was reading the prayers, looking at the door every time it was opened to see who was coming, especially if carriage-wheels were previously heard. We give this as a gentle hint to our readers, not that we think it will do much good; but if we were to refrain from giving good advice on the ground that it would not be taken, how mute would be the tongue of exhortation; and what a number of excellent moral treatises, which now issue from the press in various forms, would cease to delight their writers and profit their publishers! Besides, it is always worth while to give good advice, if it be only for the pleasure of thereby looking wiser and better than the rest of mankind; and if any evil arises from the neglect of it, how pleasant it is to say, "Did not I tell you so?"

How much Markham heard of Mr. Henderson's sermon on the morning when he first saw Clara at the chapel is not known, but we may take it for granted that it was not much. Nor was Miss Henderson quite so attentive as she should have been. Her eyes, and her thoughts too, wandered very much. She could not help feeling what she called some tender emotions at seeing Tippetson so very attentive to Clara; and she could not help feeling a little alarmed at observing the interest with which Markham gazed at the young lady, and the apparent jealousy with which she imagined that he also gazed at the young gentleman with her. Now it was very well both for Clara and Miss Henderson that the former did not recognise Markham, or there perhaps might have been in her countenance some indications of a feeling which Miss Henderson would not at all have approved of. It was very generous of Miss Henderson to make over to Clara one of her admirers, or more properly speaking her admireds; she could not possibly afford to give her another so soon. When service was over, Markham was moving almost instinctively and unconsciously to join Mr. Martindale's party; but Miss Henderson by some contrivance, most ingeniously detained him, and from that moment began to be somewhat jealous, and thought that it would be highly proper to contrive by some means to let him know, that after all the attentions which he had paid to her, it would not be handsome or generous to forsake her. Markham, totally unconscious and quite unsuspicious of all that was passing in Miss Henderson's mind, very placidly suffered himself to be engrossed by her, and very quietly and calmly walked home with her after church was over. As they were walking together, the young lady took the opportunity of sounding Mr. Markham on a very interesting topic.

"Are you at all acquainted, sir, with Mr. Martindale and his family?" inquired Miss Henderson.

"Yes," replied Markham, "I know them very well; I was not aware they were in town, or I should have paid my respects to Mr. Martindale; he was a very kind friend to me before I left England, and he expressed a wish that I would call upon him on my return. Do you know them?"

"I did once," said the young lady, with a very peculiar and pointed emphasis on the word 'once;' "but, to say the truth, I did not think I was well treated by them. The ladies are very singular in their manners; but they are foreigners, and not much acquainted with English manners, and that may account for it. I am not fond of finding fault, but when one has experienced such treatment as I have, it is not an easy task to forget it."

"You astonish me," replied Markham: "it always appeared to me that they were persons of very superior minds, both mother and daughter; I thought them absolutely incapable of behaving intentionally ill to any one. Is it not possible that there may be some misunderstanding or misapprehension?"

Miss Henderson shook her head, and gave one of those serious smiles which speak volumes. "Oh no, Mr. Markham, it is no misapprehension or misunderstanding. You would be indeed astonished if I were to tell you all. Perhaps some of these days, I may tell you more than I like to mention at present; besides, as they are friends of yours, I have no wish to prejudice you against them."

Markham did not importune the lady to say more, therefore she proceeded without being asked.

"Did you observe a gentleman sitting in the pew with Mr. Martindale's family? that is Mr. Tippetson, a young gentleman of large fortune, or at least of very good property. He is the gentleman to whom Miss Rivolta is engaged. He was at one time an intimate friend of ours; but we grew quite tired of him, for he is a man of no mind whatever, one of the most ignorant creatures I ever saw. He used to pester me with his attentions, and I did not know how to get rid of him. Indeed, if ever I marry, it must be to a person who has some mind. As soon as he began to pay his court to Miss Rivolta, the young lady, who was formerly my correspondent, left off writing to me, and has since then taken no notice of me whatever. I wonder she can have the impudence to come to our chapel. I could show you such letters that she has written to me. You cannot imagine what a hypocrite she is."

In saying so much, and in using such a tone of anger in her expressions, Miss Henderson forgot herself. She was too deeply mortified by her jealousy to be under the government of prudence; and when she had said so much, she wished it more than half unsaid, but it was too late. Markham, ignorant as he was of the world and its ways, was not so ignorant and so unobserving as not to understand and apprehend the complexion of Miss Henderson's mind. And without knowing, or even caring what might be the exact state of the case, he very plainly saw that the temper and disposition of Miss Henderson were not such as met his ideas of propriety or moral beauty. That part of the information which most affected and concerned him, was the intelligence that Mr. Tippetson was engaged to Clara. He had no reason to doubt that fact, but was surprised to find that Clara could attach herself to such a character. Yet judging from the tenor of Miss Henderson's philippic, he thought that Mr. Tippetson might not be quite so great a blockhead as she had represented him.

Markham took the earliest opportunity of paying his respects to Mr. Martindale, notwithstanding all that Miss Henderson had said and insinuated concerning the cruel usage she had experienced from that family. It was well that when Markham called, only Mr. Martindale was visible. The young lady, whom Miss Henderson was pleased to call a hypocrite, was not within. When the old gentleman saw Markham he greeted him with the utmost cordiality, and was, as he said, most heartily glad to see him.

"And pray, young man, how long have you been in England?"

Markham informed him of the circumstances which occasioned his return, and Mr. Martindale expressed his regret that there was such occasion of returning. "But," added he, "I don't see that you look ill now; it is a mere fancy that young men get into their heads about this and that place not agreeing with them. When I was a young man there was no such nonsense; young fellows went out to the East or West Indies, and made fortunes, and came home in high good health to enjoy themselves. It is a sad pity that you have let such a golden opportunity slip through your fingers; but if you really were ill, you could not help it. But don't be in a hurry, sit down. Little Clara and her mother will be home soon. You know you and Clara used to talk a good deal about poetry. I am sure she will be glad to see you. There is a young fellow, who is following us wherever we go, who is paying mighty close attention to Clara. I don't know whether they will make a match of it. Signora Rivolta does not like the young man. Perhaps you know him, his name is Tippetson; he has a very pretty fortune of his own. But I think it would be better if he had taken a profession. I don't like young men to be quite idle. My poor cousin Philip did himself no good by leaving his profession, and setting himself up as a man of rank. He is a man of higher rank now. I suppose you have heard that he has been created Earl of Trimmerstone. Foolish thing; but I believe it was partly my fault. Of course, you also know that he is married. Ah! to think that after all his fine talk about people of family and descent, to think, I say, that he should now go at last and marry the daughter of a soap-boiler. Though I don't see any harm in boiling soap. Soap must be had, and a soap-boiler is as useful a man as any other member of society, perhaps quite as useful as a lord; but I must not speak slightingly of lords. Philip's father died very suddenly at last. He was breaking very much, I think, when you were in England. You never knew him. He was a much steadier man than his son. I am very much afraid Philip is not going on well. I have heard sad stories about him of his gambling, and laying such unreasonably large bets upon the merest trifles in the world. You must be introduced to him again now he has a new title, and you must see his lady. You remember her; a pretty woman, but rather coarse in her manners. All very well for a rich man's wife, but not at all fit for a countess. People of rank don't admire her much; and she is so very intimate with vulgar people, that poor Philip says he is afraid to go into a snuff-shop for fear the man behind the counter should inquire after the Countess of Trimmerstone. It is a foolish thing to marry for money. Never do that, Markham."

To this desultory harangue, and to much more of the same description, narrating and commenting upon all the events which had occurred since his departure, did Markham closely and attentively listen. He liked the old gentleman very much, for he had received good advice from him, and many compliments which are more agreeable than all the good advice in the world. While Mr. Martindale was speaking, Clara made her appearance, accompanied by Mr. Tippetson. The old gentleman introduced the young men to each other, and they looked at each other rather coldly. Clara tried to be very composed, but could not succeed. She trembled, blushed, and stammered: she made a hasty retreat, and ran up stairs to her own apartment, and when there, she gave way to a flood of tears. It was easy to indulge in this emotion, but it was not easy to suppress it. There she sat sobbing and weeping, and silently reproaching herself, unconscious and heedless of the lapse of time. A multitude of conflicting thoughts rushed into her mind, and her heart was a chaos of confusion and distress. She scarcely knew what she had been saying, doing, or thinking of. She thought that Markham looked reproachfully at her, and she thought that he had a right to look so. Poor innocent! she never found out that she had a heart till it began to reproach and torment her.

Not very long had she been thus employed in tormenting herself, when Signora Rivolta, who heard that Clara was in her own apartment, and understood that she had just met Markham on his return to England, suspecting that the meeting would produce an impression on her daughter's feelings, entered the young lady's room, and was grieved to see the very powerful emotion in which she was indulging herself. The Signora, who though an essentially kind mother, had generally a sternness and hardness of manner in addressing her daughter on matters of conduct and deportment, now saw that it was absolutely necessary to use the utmost gentleness and considerateness in speaking to her. Assuming therefore an unusual degree of softness of manner and mildness of tone, she gently approached the poor sufferer, and taking her hand and sitting down by her side, said,

"My dear child, it pains me to see you afflict yourself thus. Come, speak to me, tell me what is the cause of your sorrow. Why do you give so much indulgence to these emotions? Let me hear you speak. I would willingly comfort you." With these and such expressions the mother of Clara endeavoured to bring the young lady to a little composure; but the attempt was in vain. Poor Clara could not speak had she been willing, and she knew not what to say had she been able to speak. She could hardly describe to her own mind the cause of her tears. Her mother for a little while ceased to make inquiries, but sat in silent sympathy holding the hand of her sorrowing child; and after a time, when the violence of the emotion abated, Clara feeling herself ashamed of the violence and cause of her grief, attempted as well as she was able, which was indeed but indifferently, to apologise for and to explain her feelings. Signora Rivolta plainly saw that her heart was Markham's, and that she feared that she had given more encouragement than with propriety she should have given to the perfumed fop, who by disguising his real character had wrought upon the inexperienced mind of the poor girl to lead her to think more highly of him than he deserved. For when the female heart has been once exposed to disappointment, it not unfrequently afterwards surrenders a cold consent to a less worthy object. Thus situated had Clara been. Markham appeared lost to her, and then she became indifferent to all others, and suffered Mr. Tippetson to pay her those attentions which under other circumstances she would have repelled with the greatest contempt from a person of his character and mind. After having suffered or tolerated those attentions, it appeared to her that she had given the young gentleman reason to suppose that a more serious address would not be rejected; but when Markham again made his appearance, and when he looked so interestingly and affectionately at her, and so inquiringly and jealously at Tippetson, then Clara felt as if he had reproached her for inconstancy and fickleness; then did she think that it was now too late to hope that Markham would renew those attentions with which she had formerly been so delighted; and in a moment did her active imagination institute a comparison between Markham and Tippetson, not much to the advantage of the latter. For though she did not very attentively or seriously study the character of Tippetson, yet she had been so far familiar with the style of his conversation and with the attitude of his mind, that a comparison was easily formed between the two young gentlemen. Painful was this comparison to Clara's mind; for not only did she regret the loss of Markham, but almost as deeply did she bewail the necessity under which she had almost voluntarily, certainly carelessly, placed herself to accept the hand of Mr. Tippetson. Those of our readers to whom we have made ourselves intelligible concerning the character of Clara's mind, will very readily understand how deeply and severely she must have felt under these circumstances.

After this fit of sorrow, Clara no more made her appearance while Markham stayed. It was absolutely impossible for her to show herself. Her eyes were swelled and inflamed with weeping, her color was gone, and her whole frame in a trembling, agitated state. Another fit of illness threatened her; and Signora Rivolta, anxious for her daughter, could not think without indignation of Miss Henderson, who, to her mind, seemed to be so greatly the cause of that romantic and passionate state of mind in which Clara was placed.