last night—her uncle's evident illness flashed upon her memory—and she sprang as hastily from her pillow as if his recovery depended on her rising.
It was scarcely six o'clock, but she dressed; and, stepping softly by her uncle's door—for all in his room was profoundly quiet—she bent her steps towards the garden; and, with that natural feeling of interest towards what is our own, she turned towards the part which, marked by a hedge of the wild rose, had always been called hers. It was at some little distance: in younger days, it had been given as a reward and inducement for exercise—for Emily in winter preferred her own little niche by the fireside, or in summer a seat by her favourite window, where she had only to put out her hand and bring back a rose, to all the running and walking that ever improved constitution or complexion; and though Mr. Arundel was never able to imbue her with a very decided taste for weeding, watering, &c., still, the garden, connected as it was with his kindness and approval, became a sufficient motive for exertion; and our fair gardener bestowed a degree of pains and industry on the culture of her flowers, for the sake of shewing her uncle
