“Well, Ann,” said Susan Spencer, “it really is fixed for us to visit cousin Robert; for mamma has given orders to Hayward to prepare our clothes, and we are to set out next Monday.” “I cannot think what can induce mamma to visit him just now,” answered Susan: “he is such an oddity, I hear, and lives so very retired. Mary Morgan told me, (and Mary knows him well,) that he rarely goes into parties; and she laughed immoderately, when she said that the heavy little windows, and massy doors of the old mansion, always reminded her of a monastery; and, for her part, she thought it would be better to turn it into one, people it with monks, and make Mr. Wilmot superior of “I dare say you did,” replied Susan; “and I think it excessively provoking to be immured there, when the Drummonds, and the Williams’s, and the Grovenors are going to the seaside. It vexes me to think how Miss Drummond will boast, when she returns, of the company she has been introduced to, the new fashions she has seen, and how often her music and dancing were praised; whilst you and I must sit by, without having a word to say, or being able to relate any thing but the histories of the old rooks, that perched in the high trees close to the house, or——or——” But here they were interrupted by the entrance of their mother; and as they well knew that observations of this kind would be displeasing to her, they turned the conversation to some indifferent subject. Susan and Ann Spencer were the daughters of a military officer, whose delicate state of health had obliged his wife to accompany him abroad; leaving, with reluctance, her two little daughters to the care of their paternal grandmother. They were good-tempered, affectionate, and animated; but the mistaken fondness The death of their father in India, and the return of their mother, after an absence of six years, suddenly put a stop to these injudicious plans; and Susan and Ann had been under their mother’s care about three months, when the preceding dialogue took place. Mrs. Spencer was a woman of too sincere piety, and too good an understanding, to allow her grief, deep as it was, for her departed husband, to interfere with her duties towards her children. She knew that the best test she could give of affection to his memory, was to render them worthy of his name, and, if possible, inheritors of his virtues. She loved them with the tenderest affection, but she was not blind to their faults; and whilst she strove to gain their confidence, she endeavoured, by gentle means, to counteract their foibles. Whilst she was endeavouring to arrange her plans, she received an invitation from her cousin, Mr. Wilmot, an elderly gentleman, and the guardian of her children, to pay him a visit of On the following morning the party left Brook-street, and in a few days reached the place of their destination, without the occurrence of any material incident on the road. They were received with the hospitality and politeness inseparable from benevolence and good-breeding; and even Susan and Ann, prejudiced as they were, could not help silently allowing, that he was neither quite so ugly, nor so old-fashioned, as they expected. The evening passed cheerfully in detailing the little events of their journey; and when, as their cousin took them by the hand, in bidding them good night, he kindly said, “I have known both your parents from infancy, and hope that I shall find, on further acquaintance, that you, my dear girls, are equally worthy of my love,” they involuntarily dropped their best curtseys, and returned his salutation with their most good-humoured smiles. Mr. Wilmot was fond of children, and he devised many schemes for Susan’s and Ann’s amusement. “When we are become better The summer was now in its beauty, and a party was proposed for an excursion on the water. Mr. Wilmot, who had entered into more company since the arrival of his relations, readily acquiesced in the invitation of a neighbouring family, that he and the ladies should partake of the proposed pleasure. The little girls anticipated with youthful impatience the happy morning; and scarcely had day-light entered their chamber, when, jumping out of bed, they drew aside their curtains, in the hope of beholding a resplendent day; and their disappointment was extreme, in finding it pouring with rain, without the slightest prospect of its cessation. With heavy hearts they descended to the breakfast-table; and after watching for some time the continued pattering of the rain, Susan at last exclaimed, “How mortifying! I cannot “Oh, Sir, we will be ready in a few minutes,” said the girls, brightening up at this intelligence; and eagerly dispatching the remains of their meal, they followed their kind cousin through the hall, till he stopped at an oaken door, to which he applied the key; and in an instant they found themselves within a spacious and handsome Picture Gallery. |