nt. I suppose my aunt thinks the latter will
benefit me by her society, and the salutary example of her gentle
deportment and lowly and tractable spirit; and the former I suspect she
intends as a species of counter-attraction to win Mr. Huntingdon's
attention from me. I don't thank her for this; but I shall be glad of
Milicent's company: she is a sweet, good girl, and I wish I were like
her--more like her, at least, than I am.

* * * * *

19th.--They are come. They came the day before yesterday. The gentlemen
are all gone out to shoot, and the ladies are with my aunt, at work in
the drawing-room. I have retired to the library, for I am very unhappy,
and I want to be alone. Books cannot divert me; so having opened my
desk, I will try what may be done by detailing the cause of my
uneasiness. This paper will serve instead of a confidential friend into
whose ear I might pour forth the overflowings of my heart. It will not
sympathise with my distresses, but then it will not laugh at them, and,
if I keep it close, it cannot tell again; so it is, perhaps, the best
friend I could have for the purpose.

First, let me speak of his arrival--how I sat at my window, and watched
for nearly two hours, before his carriage entered the park-gates--for
they all came before him,--and how deeply I was disappointed at every
arrival, because it was not his. First came Mr. Wilmot and the ladies.
When Milicent had got into her room, I quitted my post a few minutes to
look in upon her and have a little private conversation, for she was now
my intimate friend, several long epistles having passed between us since
our parting. On returning to my window, I beheld another carriage at the
door. Was it his? No; it was Mr. Boarham's plain dark chariot; and
there stood he upon the steps, carefully superintending the dislodging of
his various boxes and packages. What a collection! One would have
thought he projected a visit of six months at least. A considerable time
after, came Lord Lowborough in his barouche. Is he one of the profligate
friends, I wonder? I should think not; for no one could call him a jolly
companion, I'm sure,--and, besides, he appears too sober and gentlemanly
in his demeanour to merit such suspicions. He is a tall, thin,
gloomy-looking man, apparently between thirty and forty, and of a
somewhat sickly, careworn aspect.

At last, Mr. Huntingdon's light phaeton came bowling merrily