sible to say whether speaking or listening is the greatest pleasure. Still, Mr. Arundel saw, and saw with regret, that Emily returned not home the same as she went. The narrative of the young carries its hearer along by its own buoyancy—by the gladness which is contagious; but Emily's recital was in the spirit of another age—there lay a fund of bitterness at her heart, which vented itself in sarcasm; she spoke more truly, more coldly of pleasures than suited her few years—surely, it was too soon for her to speak of their vexation and vanity.
But the bustle and hurry which always preceded Mrs. Arundel's going to church—for which she was always too late—put an end to their conversation, and they hurried across the fields—her aunt only interrupting her account of how tiresome it was that Mr. Arundel would take nothing that did him any good, and of what a deal of trouble she had had with him, by incessant inquiries if Emily could hear the bell, which, near as they were to the church, no one could avoid hearing, if it were going. Most of the congregation were seated before they arrived, and Emily had no time to look round for familiar faces, ere Mr. Morton's
