ul night
his life had ever known. The sun was up long ere he was, so deep, sweet,
and refreshing was his slumber. He woke as if angels had been watching at
his bed all night. I dare say one that was as pure and loving as an angel
had blest his sleep with her prayers.

Next morning the chaplain read prayers to the little household at Walcote,
as the custom was; Esmond thought Mistress Beatrix did not listen to
Tusher's exhortation much: her eyes were wandering everywhere during the
service, at least whenever he looked up he met them. Perhaps he also was
not very attentive to his reverence the chaplain. "This might have been my
life," he was thinking; "this might have been my duty from now till old
age. Well, were it not a pleasant one to be with these dear friends and
part from 'em no more? Until--until the destined lover comes and takes away
pretty Beatrix"--and the best part of Tom Tusher's exposition, which may
have been very learned and eloquent, was quite lost to poor Harry by this
vision of the destined lover, who put the preacher out.

All the while of the prayers, Beatrix knelt a little way before Harry
Esmond. The red stockings were changed for a pair of grey, and black
shoes, in which her feet looked to the full as pretty. All the roses of
spring could not vie with the brightness of her complexion; Esmond thought
he had never seen anything like the sunny lustre of her eyes. My lady
viscountess looked fatigued, as if with watching, and her face was pale.

Miss Beatrix remarked these signs of indisposition in her mother, and
deplored them. "I am an old woman," says my lady, with a kind smile; "I
cannot hope to look as young as you do, my dear."

"She'll never look as good as you do if she lives till she's a hundred,"
says my lord, taking his mother by the waist, and kissing her hand.

"Do I look very wicked, cousin?" says Beatrix, turning full round on
Esmond, with her pretty face so close under his chin, that the soft
perfumed hair touched it. She laid her finger-tips on his sleeve as she
spoke; and he put his other hand over hers.

"I'm like your looking-glass," says he, "and that can't flatter you."

"He means that you are always looking at him, my dear," says her mother,
archly. Beatrix ran away from Esmond at this, and flew to her mamma, whom
she kissed, stopping my lady's mouth with her pretty hand.

"And Harry is very good to look at," says my lady, with her fond eyes
regarding the young man.

"If