fondness; he hoarded his enjoyment by delaying to break it. At last he opened the letter: he watched the fair Italian hand with delight. Lady Marchmont's hand-writing was peculiarly fine; often careless, and sometimes illegible, but never to her uncle. Her affectionate remembrance was marked in the care with which she wrote, lest her letters might be troublesome to decipher. He read it at first eagerly; he needed to be assured of her health and happiness; then slowly, lingering over every word: and then, as was his custom, prepared to read it aloud.
In the mean time, Ethel had leant her head on her hand, while the large tears trickled slowly through her fingers. Every day the disappointment grew more insupportable. The sight of another's letter filled her with the bitterest envy. Suffering cannot come unattended with bad feelings. It was in vain that she checked herself; but the question would arise, Why should Henrietta be so much happier than herself? Scarcely could she command her attention when Sir Jasper be-
