sand indications of existence around her—the murmur of the distant village—all its varying sounds, its voices, its steps—all blent into that one low musical echo which is, nevertheless, such certain sign of human neighbourhood. Every bough had its bird—every blossom its bee—the long grass was filled with myriads of insects. Amid so much of life, how difficult to believe in death! One loss teaches us to expect another, but Emily was unfamiliar with the realities of death: there was no vacant place in the small circle of her affections—she had never yet lost a friend.
Both Mr. and Mrs. Arundel were in the breakfast-room, and her aunt's shrill, dry voice was very audible. "Well, there is no advising some people to their good: Mrs. Clarke told me, she knew three persons cured of exactly your complaint, by taking a raw egg before breakfast."
"The remedy, my dear, was worse than the disease," said Mr. Arundel, turning away with an inward loathing from the yellow liquid, which, ever since Mrs. Clarke's call, had been duly presented every morning.
"Men are so obstinate; but I shall beat it up in your tea—I can't have the egg wasted:
