er, who gabbled at the momentous
hours of robing and unrobing: "Oh, miss! of all the dark young ladies I
ever see!"--Emilia was the most bewitching. By-and-by, Emilia was led to
think of herself; but with a struggle and under protest. How could it be
possible that she was so very nice to the eye, and Wilfrid had abandoned
her? The healthy spin of young new blood turned the wheels of her brain,
and then she thought: "Perhaps I am really growing handsome?" The maid
said artfully of her hair: "If gentlemen could only see it down, miss!
It's the longest, and thickest, and blackest, I ever touched!" And so
saying, slid her fingers softly through it after the comb, and thrilled
the owner of that hair till soft thoughts made her bosom heave, and then
self-love began to be sensibly awakened, followed by self-pity, and some
further form of what we understand as consciousness. If partially a
degradation of her nature, this saved her mind from true despair when it
began to stir after the vital shock that had brought her to earth. "To
what purpose should I be fair?" was a question that did not yet come to
her; but it was sweet to see Merthyr's eyes gather pleasure from the
light of her own. Sweet, though nothing more than coldly sweet. She
compared herself to her father's old broken violin, that might be mended
to please the sight; but would never give the tones again. Sometimes, if
hope tormented her, she would strangle it by trying her voice: and such a
little piece of self-inflicted anguish speedily undid all Merthyr's work.
He was patient as one who tends a flower in the Spring. Georgiana
marvelled that the most sensitive and proud of men should be striving to
uproot an image from the heart of a simple girl, that he might place his
own there. His methods almost led her to think that his estimate of human
nature was falling low. Nevertheless, she was constrained to admit that
there was no diminution of his love for her, and it chastened her to
think so. "Would it be the same with me, if I--?" she half framed the
sentence, blushing remorsefully while she denied that anything could
change her great love for her brother. She had caught a glimpse of
Wilfrid's suppleness and selfishness. Contrasting him with Merthyr, she
was singularly smitten with shame, she knew not why.

The anticipation of the ball at Penarvon Castle had kindled very little
curiosity in Emilia's bosom. She seemed to herself a machine; "one of the
rest;" and looked