ent, her only parent, almost, for aught she had ever heard
or learnt, her only relative. For her mother's family, though she was
aware of their existence by the freedom with which Lady Annabel ever
mentioned them, and though Venetia was conscious that an occasional
correspondence was maintained between them and Cherbury, occupied no
station in Venetia's heart, scarcely in her memory. That noble family
were nullities to her; far distant, apparently estranged from her
hearth, except in form she had never seen them; they were associated
in her recollection with none of the sweet ties of kindred. Her
grandfather was dead without her ever having received his blessing;
his successor, her uncle, was an ambassador, long absent from his
country; her only aunt married to a soldier, and established at a
foreign station. Venetia envied Dr. Masham the confidence which was
extended to him; it seemed to her, even leaving out of sight the
intimate feelings that subsisted between her and her mother, that the
claims of blood to this confidence were at least as strong as those of
friendship. But Venetia stifled these emotions; she parted from her
mother with a kind, yet somewhat mournful expression. Lady Annabel
might have read a slight sentiment of affectionate reproach in the
demeanour of her daughter when she bade her farewell. Whatever might
be the consciousness of the mother, she was successful in concealing
her impression. Very kind, but calm and inscrutable, Lady Annabel,
having given directions for postponing the dinner-hour, embraced her
child and entered the chariot.

Venetia, from the terrace, watched her mother's progress through the
park. After gazing for some minutes, a tear stole down her cheek. She
started, as if surprised at her own emotion. And now the carriage
was out of sight, and Venetia would have recurred to some of those
resources which were ever at hand for the employment or amusement of
her secluded life. But the favourite volume ceased to interest this
morning, and almost fell from her hand. She tried her spinet, but her
ear seemed to have lost its music; she looked at her easel, but the
cunning had fled from her touch.

Restless and disquieted, she knew not why, Venetia went forth again
into the garden. All nature smiled around her; the flitting birds were
throwing their soft shadows over the sunny lawns, and rustling amid
the blossoms of the variegated groves. The golden wreaths of the
laburnum and the silve