dahlias would have melted away his anger; but her silence and non-observance of a plat where the campanella had been so carefully trained in capital letters forming her name,—this was too much, and he stalked off in one of those fits of dudgeon, the dearest privilege of an old and indulged servant. However, before he reached the next walk, his anger softened into pity, and he went on muttering,—
"Poor thing—poor thing; she's thinking of her uncle. Well, well,—she won't have him long to think of, poor child. He took no pleasure in nothing after she went."
These words rang in her ears. She sat down on a little garden-seat, and wept long and bitterly. The self-reproach of a sensitive and affectionate temper is of the most refined and exaggerating nature. Unmixed grief requires and seeks solitude—its unbroken indulgence is its enjoyment; but that which is mingled with remorse, involuntarily shrinks from itself,—it wants consolation—it desires to hear some other voice extenuate its faults,—and even while disowning and denying the offered excuse, it is comforted.
It was this feeling that, as Mr. Morton's house in the distance caught Emily's eye, made
