"I don't know, I did not observe."

"Did you, Mr. Lovell?"

"It struck me that it was Mrs. Ernsley."

"Then I am afraid I have lost my bet, unless Mrs. Middleton
would try to remember the contrary. Come, Mrs. Middleton, make
an effort in my behalf. Did Mr. Lovell turn to you and say,
'Is not that Mrs. Ernsley?' or did he positively say, 'There
is Mrs. Ernsley.' A great deal would depend upon that."

My mouth quivered while I repeated, with what must have had
the appearance of ill-humour, that I remembered nothing about
it. In vain I tried to turn the conversation; he continued to
appeal alternately to Henry and to me about the gay appearance
of the nursery gardens we had passed, and the style of
architecture of the new church at Chelsea, until he had
succeeded in plainly establishing the fact that we had been
that day taking a long drive together. While this was going on
I had not ventured to look at Edward; but when at last another
subject was started, and I had heard him make some indifferent
remark in his natural tone of voice, I raised my eyes to his.
He was pale, and his lips were firmly compressed, but he
exerted himself and talked a great deal. I was so entirely
occupied in watching him, that, when Henry bent forward and
said to me, "Sir Edmund is asking you to drink wine with him,"
I gave a violent start, and my hand shook so, that I could
hardly hold the glass.

I left the room soon after, and as I walked into the
drawing-room, its very look of brightness and comfort made my
heart ache. It would have been a relief to cry, but I dared not
give way; it _would not do_ (that phrase which Henry was
eternally repeating to me); it would not do to be found in tears.
I would _not_ think. I tried to play; but whether the tune was
sad or gay it seemed equally to affect me. I took up book
after book from the table; but whether it was "Macaulay's
Reviews," or "Southey's Poems," a volume of Shakespeare, or a
book of sermons, there was in each page some passage or
expression, which, by its eloquence or its simplicity, its
gaiety or its grief, touched the spring of sorrow which was
swelling up to the brink, and that was only kept down by a
sort of passive resistance.

I took refuge in an Annual, and page after page of short tales
and addresses to Finden's Beauties, I glanced over
successfully, till the following lines, by Miss Landon, caught
my eye, as I was rapidly turning over the leaves:--

"I see the clo