ny society, even for
that of Lucilla. I withdrew, gratefully pressing Mr. Stanley's hand; he
kindly returned the pressure, but neither of us attempted to speak.

He silently put my father's packet into my hands. I shut myself into my
apartment, and read, for three hours, letters for which I hope to be the
better in time and in eternity. I found in them a treasure of religious
wisdom, excellent maxims of human prudence, a thorough acquaintance with
life and manners, a keen insight into human nature in the abstract, and
a nice discrimination of individual characters; admirable documents of
general education, the application of those documents to my particular
turn of character, and diversified methods for improving it. The pure
delight to which I looked forward in reading these letters with Lucilla,
soon became my predominant feeling.

I returned to the company with a sense of felicity, which the above
feelings and reflections had composed into a soothing tranquillity. My
joy was sobered without being abated. I received the cordial
congratulations of my friends. Mrs. Stanley behaved to me with increased
affection: she presented me to her daughter, with whom I afterward
passed two hours. This interview left me nothing to desire but that my
gratitude to the Almighty Dispenser of happiness might bear some little
proportion to his blessings.

As I was passing through the hall after dinner, I spied little Celia
peeping out of the door of the children's apartment, in hope of seeing
me pass. She flew to me, and begged I would take her in to the company.
As I knew the interdict was taken off, I carried her into the saloon
where they were sitting. She ran into Lucilla's arms, and said, in a
voice which she meant for a whisper, but loud enough to be heard by the
whole company, "Do, dear Lucilla, forgive me, I will never say another
word about the curricle, and you sha'n't go to the Priory since you
don't like it." Lucilla found means to silence her, by showing her the
pictures in the "Peacock at Home;" and without looking up to observe
the general smile, contrived to attract the sweet child's attention to
this beautiful little poem, in spite of Sir John, who did his utmost to
widen the mischief.

CHAPTER XLIII.

The next day, in the afternoon, Dr. Barlow called on us. By the uncommon
seriousness of his countenance I saw something was the matter. "You will
be shocked," said he, "to hear that Mr. Tyrrel is dying, if not