bation.

When we joined the party at supper, it was delightful to observe that
the habits of religious charity were so interwoven with the texture of
these girl's minds; that the evening which had been so interesting to
me, was to them only a common evening, marked with nothing particular.
It never occurred to them to allude to it; and once or twice when I was
tempted to mention it, my imprudence was repressed by a look of the most
significant gravity from Lucilla.

I was comforted, however, by observing that my roses were transferred
from the hat to the hair. This did not escape the penetrating eye of
Ph[oe]be, who archly said, "I wonder, Lucilla, what particular charm
there is in Dame Alice's faded roses. I offered you some fresh ones
since we came home. I never knew you prefer withered flowers before."
Lucilla made no answer, but cast down her timid eyes, and out-blushed
the roses on her head.

CHAPTER XLI.

After breakfast next morning the company dropped off one after another,
except Lady Belfield, Miss Stanley, and myself. We had been so busily
engaged in looking over the plan of a conservatory, which Sir John
proposed to build at Beechwood, his estate in Surrey, that we hardly
missed them.

Little Celia, whom I call the rosebud, had climbed up my knees, a
favorite station with her, and was begging me to tell her another pretty
story. I had before told her so many, that I had exhausted both my
memory and my imagination. Lucilla was smiling at my impoverished
invention, when Lady Belfield was called out of the room. Her fair
friend rose mechanically to follow her. Her ladyship begged her not to
stir, but to employ the five minutes of her absence in carefully
criticising the plan she held in her hand, saying she would bring back
another which Sir John had by him; and that Lucilla, who is considered
as the last appeal in all matters of this nature, should decide to which
the preference should be given, before the architect went to work. In a
moment I forgot my tale and my rosebud, and the conservatory, and every
thing but Lucilla, whom I was beginning to address, when little Celia,
pulling my coat, said--"Oh, Charles" (for so I teach all the little ones
to call me), "Mrs. Comfit tells me very bad news. She says that your new
curricle is come down, and that you are going to run away. Oh! don't go;
I can't part with you," said the little charmer, throwing her arms round
my neck.

"Will you go with me, C