sembles travelling through the East, with a few phrases of lingua franca—just enough for the ordinary purposes of life—enow of words to communicate a want, but not to communicate a thought! Then, again, though it be sweet to sit in the dim twilight, singing the melancholy song whose words are the expression of our inmost soul, till we could weep as the echo of our own music, still it is also very pleasant to have our singing sometimes listened to. At all events, it was much more agreeable to hear Lord Mandeville say, "We must have that song again—it is one of my great favourites," than Mrs. Arundel's constant exclamation, "Well, I am so sick of that piano!"
One day led to another, till Emily passed the greater part of her time at the Abbey. Her spirits regained something of their naturally buoyant tone, and she no longer believed that every body was sent into the world to be miserable. Not that Lorraine was forgotten. Often did she think, "Of what avail is it to be loved or admired?—he knows nothing of it;" and often, after some gay prediction of Lady Mandeville's, of the sensation she was to produce next season, she would weep, in the loneliness of her own chamber, over one remembrance,
