n the German language, begged her pardon
for keeping supper waiting. The old lady knitted faster than ever,
dropped a stitch, picked it up, looked out of the window, and cleared
up, not her temper, but her throat; click, click went the needles, and
Emilie looked concerned.

"Aunt, dear," she said, "shall we sit down to supper?" "My appetite is
gone, Emilie, I thank you." "I am really sorry, aunt, but you know you
are so kind, you wish me to take plenty of exercise, and I was detained
to-night. Miss Parker and I stayed chattering to an old sailor. It was
very thoughtless, pray excuse me. But now aunt, dear, see this fine
crab, you like crabs; old Peter Varley sent it to you, the old man you
knitted the guernsey for in the winter."

No,--old Miss Schomberg was not to be brought round. Crabs were very
heavy things at night, very indigestible things, she wondered at Emilie
thinking she could eat them, so subject as she was to spasms, too.
Indeed she could eat no supper. She was very dull and not well, so
Emilie sat down to her solitary meal. She did not go on worrying her
aunt to eat, but she watched for a suitable opening, for the first
indication indeed, of the clearing up for which she hoped, and though
it must be confessed some such thoughts as "how cross and unreasonable
aunt is," did pass through her mind, she gave them no utterance.
Emilie's mind was under good discipline, she had learned to forbear in
love, and for the exercise of this virtue, she had abundant opportunity.

Poor Emilie! she had not always been a governess, subject to the trials
of tuition; she had not always lived in a little lodging without the
comforts and joys of family and social intercourse.

Her father had failed in business, in Frankfort, and when Emilie was
about ten years of age, he had come over to England, and had gained his
living there by teaching his native language. He had been dead about a
twelve-month, and Emilie, at the age of twenty-one, found herself alone
in the world, in England at least, with the exception of the old German
aunt, to whom I have introduced you, and who had come over with her
brother, from love to him and his motherless child. She had a very small
independence, and when left an orphan, the kind old aunt, for kind she
was, in spite of some little infirmities of temper, persisted in sharing
with her her board and lodging, till Emilie, who was too active and
right minded to desire to depend on her for support, s