The vacation now commenced. The physician had ordered change of air for Jane, or rather change of scene: she therefore accompanied Miss Cotton to spend a month with her parents. Elizabeth, however, would not accept any invitation. Mrs. Adair was surprised at the circumstance, knowing that young people are fond of novelty, particularly after the confinement of a school.

“It is strange that you have refused all our friends,” she said to her daughter, “especially your old favourite!”

Elizabeth coloured highly. “My dear mother, teaching has given me the wisdom to value a comfortable home. How quiet we are this evening! and what a cheerful, blazing fire! and as for this tea, I think I never tasted any thing so fragrant.”

“And are these your reasons for remaining at home?”

“O no! but only think how pleasant it is to be free from monotonous voices buzzing in one’s ears! To-night I shall go to rest without the fear of being disturbed ‘with the sound of the school-going bell,’ and shall rise to-morrow an independent being.”

“Ah, Elizabeth! is there no vexation, or lurking regret, dwelling upon your mind? your countenance will betray you. Believe me, there are many obstacles to the fulfilment of our wishes in this world. In all things it may be said, ‘we look through a glass darkly.’ But no more on this head: you have reason, and you must exert it. Be assured of one thing, we are often wisely disappointed in our plans of happiness; if we attain our wishes, we must not expect to be wholly free from care.”

“I have promised to spend a few days with Colonel Vincent’s family. You shall go with me to town on Thursday.”

“But, my dear mother, you know—”

“I understand you,” said Mrs. Adair. “I do not mean that you shall be their visitor; I have another plan in view. I know that Miss Damer is very uncomfortably situated at home, therefore you can call for her, to spend the time here whilst I am absent.”

The morning Mrs. Adair and her daughter arrived in London, Elizabeth sat a few minutes with Mrs. Vincent, and then proceeded to B—— Square, where Mr. Damer resided. As she entered the house she beheld all things in confusion; men were employed in packing up china and chandeliers; straw and cord were strewed over the hall floor; and people were running in every direction, carrying trunks, chairs and sofas. Elizabeth inquired for Miss Damer: and was answered by a footman in a very surly tone, that “he knew nothing of her.” An elderly, respectable looking female now stepped forward, and begged Elizabeth would follow her. They passed through two empty apartments, and she then gently opened a door into a room which was little more than a closet, the light issuing from a small casement. A band-box, a bookshelf, and a trunk, upon which Miss Damer was seated, close to a grate, containing the dying embers of a fire, were all that Elizabeth could discern. Her pupil started from her seat, with eyes red with weeping, and in a confused tone exclaimed, “Miss Adair here!”

“I am here, indeed,” said Elizabeth; “and I hope I am come to a good purpose. But what has caused this strange confusion? But I beg your pardon,” perceiving the distress of her pupil, “I was not aware of what I was saying. You must come with me; I came hither on purpose for you.”

“Then you have heard of our troubles, ma’am?”

“I see them all. But we have not a moment to spare.” Guided by the impulse of the moment, Elizabeth dropped upon one knee, opened the band-box, took out a bonnet, and then searched the trunk for a pelisse. Miss Damer looked down upon her dress—

“Never mind your morning dress, my dear: this will cover all,” said she, as she assisted Miss Damer with her pelisse; and as she tied the strings of her bonnet, exclaimed, “Now we shall do; but we must go immediately, for the days are short.” As they were leaving the room, the elderly female came up to them: “Where are you going, my dear young lady?”

“Ah, my good nurse, I had forgotten you in my surprise! This is Miss Adair: but I am so confused, I scarcely know what I am doing—only that I am going where I have been most happy! But you will write to me, or see me, or something.”

“If you wish to see Miss Damer, come in one of the morning coaches,” said Elizabeth.

“I thank you, ma’am, kindly,” said the nurse. “You are now in good hands, my dear young lady, so do not fret; Providence, I have often told you, would never desert so dutiful a daughter; and you find an old woman’s words may be true. We shall be happy yet, never fear. People cannot forget their own. Never mind if they do: there is an eye over you in all your ways. And there is a death-bed, too,” said she in a low voice; “then conscience will be heard—there is no saying, I won’t hear; no creeping into corners, and running away. When the arms drop, and the head is weary with anguish, coaxing and paint will not give one jot of comfort; no, nor the sight of the most beautiful face upon earth. Be good, then, my dear young lady, for the evil day will come to us; and what a blessing it will be, if we can say with sincerity, ‘the Lord’s will be done.’”

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