sh them farewell. You must do it, Seymour. It will be an
exertion, I acknowledge; but, if I mistake not his character, not too
great a one for William Seymour. Good night, my dear boy."

On the ensuing morning, Seymour, who had fortified himself in his good
resolutions, walked to the hall to announce his approaching departure on
foreign service, and to take his farewell, his last farewell, of Emily.
He found the carriage at the door, and Mrs Rainscourt in her pelisse
and bonnet, about to pay a visit at some distance. She was sorry at the
information, for Seymour was a great favourite, and delayed her
departure for a quarter of an hour to converse with him; at the end of
which, Emily, who had been walking, came into the library.
Communicating the intelligence to her daughter, Mrs Rainscourt then
bade him farewell, and expressing many wishes for his health and
happiness, was handed by him into the carriage, and drove off; leaving
Seymour to return to the library, and find himself--the very position he
had wished to avoid--alone with Emily.

Emily Rainscourt was, at this period, little more than sixteen years
old; but it is well known that, in some families, as in some countries,
the advance to maturity is much more rapid than in others. Such was the
case with our heroine, who, from her appearance, was generally supposed
to be at least two years older than she really was, and in her mind she
was even more advanced than in her person.

Seymour returned to the library, where he found Emily upon the sofa.
Her bonnet had been thrown off; and the tears that were coursing down
her cheeks were hastily brushed away at his entrance. He perceived it,
and felt his case to be still more embarrassing.

"When do you go, William?" said Emily, first breaking silence.

"To-morrow morning. I have called to return my thanks to your mother,
and to you, for your kindness to me;--I shall ever remember it with
gratitude."

Emily made no answer, but a deep sigh escaped.

"I shall," continued Seymour, "be away perhaps for years, and it is
doubtful if ever we meet again. Our tracks in life are widely
different. I am an orphan, without name or connection--or even home,
except through the kindness of my friends: they were right when, in my
childhood, they christened me the `King's Own,' for I belong to nobody
else. You, Miss Rainscourt," (Emily started, for it was the first time
that he had ever called her so, after the first week of