before; they had ever been precious in her
sight till now; but they only excited feelings of mortification, as she
recollected having taken them from her _portefeuille_ at Mrs. Lennox's
request to show to her son.

"This was part of the parade by which I was to win him," thought she
with bitterness; and scarcely conscious of what she did, she crushed
them together, and threw them into the fire. Then hastily advancing to
Mrs. Lennox, she tried to bid her farewell; but as she thought it was
for the last time, tears of tenderness as well as pride stood in her
eyes.

"God bless you, my dear child!" said the unsuspecting Mrs. Lennox, as
she held her: in her arms. "And God _will_ bless you in His way--though
His ways are not as our ways. I cannot urge you to return to this dreary
abode. But oh, Mary! Think sometimes in your gaiety, that when you do
come, you bring gladness to a mournful heart, and lighten eyes that
never see the sun!"

Mary, too much affected to reply, could only wring the hand of her
venerable friend, as she tore herself from her embrace, and followed
Lady Emily to the carriage. For some time they proceeded in silence.
Mary dreaded to encounter her cousin's eyes, which she was aware were
fixed upon her with more than their usual scrutiny. She therefore kept
hers steadily employed in surveying the well-known objects the road
presented. At length her Ladyship began in a grave tone.

"You appear to have had very stormy weather at Rose Hall?"

"Very much so," replied Mary, without knowing very well what she said.

"And we have had nothing but calms and sunshine at Beech Park. Is not
that strange?"

"Very singular indeed."

"I left the barometer very high--not quite at _settled calm_--that would
be too much; but I find it very low indeed--absolutely below nothing."

Mary now did look up in some surprise; but she hastily withdrew from the
intolerable expression of her cousin's eyes.

"Dear Lady Emily!" cried she in a deprecating tone.

"Well--what more? You can't suppose I'm to put up with hearing my own
name; I've heard that fifty times to-day already from Lady Juliana's
parrot--come, your face speaks volumes. I read a declaration of love in
the colour of your cheeks--a refusal in the height of your nose--and a
sort of general agitation in the quiver of your lip and the
_dereglement_ of your hair. Now for your pulse--a _leettle_ hasty, as
Dr. Redgill would say; but let your tongue declare the rest."