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have every indulgence within their reach. Fanny's relief, and her consciousness of it, were quite equal to her cousins', but a more tender nature suggested that her feelings were ungrateful, and she really grieved because she could not grieve. "Sir Thomas, who had done so much for her and her brothers, and who was gone perhaps never to return! that she should see him go without a tear!—it was a shameful insensibility." He had said to her moreover, on the very last morning, that he hoped she might see William again in the course of the ensuing Winter, and had charged her to write and invite him to Mansfield as soon as the squadron to which he belonged should be known to be in England. "This was so thoughtful and kind!"—and would he only have smiled upon her and called her "my dear Fanny," while he said it every former frown or cold address might have been forgotten. But he had ended his speech in a way to sink
