d made up
his mind to see her the wife of a man who, though of respectable
parentage, could boast neither title nor pedigree, and was only the
junior partner in a mercantile firm. But then young Hayforth bore the
most honorable character; his prospects were said to be good, and his
manners unexceptionable; and, above all, Emily was evidently much
attached to him; and remembering the days of his own early love, the
father's heart of the aristocratic old colonel was fairly melted, and he
consented to receive the young merchant as his son-in-law. The marriage,
however, was not to take place till the spring of the following year.
Meanwhile the lovers agreed to solace the period of their separation by
long and frequent letters. Philip's last words to Emily, as he handed
her into the postchaise in which she was to commence her homeward
journey, were, "Now write to me very often, my own dearest Emily, for I
shall never be happy but when hearing from you or writing to you; and if
you are long answering my letters, I shall be miserable, and perhaps
jealous." She could only answer by a mute sign, and the carriage drove
away. Poor, agitated Emily, half happy, half sad, leaned back in it, and
indulged in that feminine luxury--a hearty fit of tears. As for Philip,
he took a few turns in the park, walking as if for a wager, and feeling
sensible of a sort of coldness and dreariness about every object which
he had never remarked before. Then he suddenly recollected that he must
go to the counting-house, as he was "very busy." He did not, however,
make much progress with his business that day, as somehow or other he
fell into a reverie over every thing he attempted.

Nothing could exceed the regularity of the lovers' correspondence for
the first two or three months, while their letters were written on the
largest orthodox sheets to be had from the stationer's--post-office
regulations in those days not admitting of the volumes of little notes
now so much in vogue. At last Emily bethought herself of working a purse
for Philip, in acknowledgment of a locket he had lately sent her from
London. Generally speaking, Emily was not very fond of work; but somehow
or other no occupation, not even the perusal of a favorite poem or
novel, had ever afforded her half the pleasure that she derived from the
manufacture of this purse. Each stitch she netted, each bead she strung,
was a new source of delight--for she was working for Philip. Love is the
tr