enity. In
a moment this experience appeared like a sick dream, and her present
certainty of being beloved spread its calm over her lately-troubled
spirit, somewhat as her nightly devotions had done from her childhood
upwards. Even now, it was little that she thought of herself: her
recovered Philip filled her mind--he who had been a stranger--who had
been living in a world of which she could conceive nothing--who had
suddenly vanished from her companionship, as if an earthquake had
swallowed him up--and who was now all her own again, by her side, and to
be lived for. Amidst this security, this natural and delightful state
of things, that restless uneasiness--now jealousy, and now
self-abasement--which she had called her own vanity and selfishness,
disappeared, and she felt like one who has escaped from the horrors of a
feverish bed into the cool fragrant airs and mild sunshine of the early
morning. Anxieties soon arose--gentle doubts expressing themselves in
soft sighs, which were so endeared by the love from which they sprang
that she would not have banished them if she could--anxieties lest she
should be insufficient for Philip's happiness, lest he should overrate
the peace of home, which she now knew was not to be looked for in full
measure there, any more than in other scenes of human probation. Gentle
questionings like these there were; but they tended rather to preserve
than to disturb her calmness of spirit. Misery had broken her sleep by
night, and constrained her conduct by day. Happy love restored her at
once to her natural mood, lulling her to the deepest rest when she
rested, and rendering her free and self-possessed in all the employments
and intercourses of life.

There was one person who must not be kept waiting for this intelligence
till Mrs Rowland's return--as Margaret told Philip--and that was Maria.
Philip's heart was now overflowing with kindness towards all whom
Margaret loved; and he spoke with strong interest of Maria, of her
virtues, her misfortunes, and the grace and promise which once bloomed
in her.

"You knew her before her misfortunes then?"

"To be sure I did:--that was the time when I did know her; for, as you
may perceive, there is not much opportunity now. And, besides, she is
so totally changed, that I do not feel sure that I understand her
feelings--I am too much in awe of them to approach her very nearly. Oh
yes, I knew Maria Young once, much better than I know her now."