every fear, hope, and joy: whenever they were alone, free, and undisturbed from intrusion, their conversation was of Philimore.
It was then that Rosilia used to think, "surely it will never fall to my lot to meet a human being in whom I could place such an unbounded confidence, as does my happy sister in Philimore. No! I shall never be so fortunate as to meet with one of such real excellence of character." Her thoughts wandered still farther—rebellious thoughts—they brought again Douglas to her view; endeavouring to dismiss the image, she inwardly exclaimed, "No! I shall never love like my sister; my fancy roving after endless attainments beyond the lot of mortals to possess, can meet with nought but disappointment. Oh! never! never!" still she silently ejaculated; "my heart may throb with joy, it may dissolve in compassion towards others griefs, but never will another share in its feelings."
Her whole countenance glowing with a warm suffusion, from the ardour in which she thought—on looking upwards she perceived Mrs. Herbert, who stood before her holding in her hand a packet.
"'Tis from my son, from India," said she, with a look expressive of the utmost gratification. "'Tis from Edward Herbert, my own dear boy! my beloved son!"
