the passage like a death-warrant, and burst into passionate reproaches for having left her uncle.
Mr. Morton had been overruled, not convinced, by the tenderness which had kept her in ignorance, to be expiated by such bitter after-suffering. He knew Emily, and he felt it would have been more real kindness to have recalled her—it mattered not from what: any thing of pleasure sacrificed would have been a consolation. He did not attempt to give her false hopes—he said little of the ignorance which had kept her away—but he dwelt on what she had still to do—the affectionate care which her uncle was yet able to enjoy and appreciate. "You must not suffer Mr. Arundel to be much by himself: that sunny terrace was just made for an invalid, and your arm will often tempt him to a walk. My sweet Emily, restraint on your own feelings is the best proof of love to your uncle."
Few more words passed, and Emily turned homewards. Hope is the prophet of youth—young eyes will always look forwards. Mr. Morton had spoken of exercise and attention—they might work miracles: the bright, beautiful summer—surely its influence must be genial! She looked with so much reliance on the thou-
