very pleasing in suspicion after all; for it involves the hope that that which we suspect will be realized. If even it be prejudicial to ourselves, what a comfort there is in an opportunity of paying a compliment to our own acuteness!—what self-satisfaction is derived from the exclamation, "I knew, of course, how it would be!—I suspected it all along!—and I have not been deceived!" We do not like to be deceived—nay, we cannot, in this respect, hear to be deceived!
It is questionable—aye, very questionable—whether any one is, or ever was, entirely free from the feeling of suspicion; but then it is not to be said that all who possess that feeling are suspicious! No: Aunt Eleanor was not, in the common acceptation of the term, suspicious. She wished to believe that all around her were honest, just, virtuous, and pure: she had as much faith in their integrity as any one could have, but as she could not in any way account for that which had occurred, she felt convinced that there must be something wrong, and that conviction haunted her throughout the night.
In the morning, however, being anxious, as usual, to act with the utmost discretion, she resolved on not recurring to the subject, before the servants, until she had consulted her reverend friend, and, in pursuance of this resolution, she wrote a note to that gentleman, requesting the favour of a call, but, before she had dispatched that note, he came, ostensibly with the view of reminding her, that that was the very day on which the village would have a certain periodical visit.
Now in this visit, much mystery was involved, and as it forms a subject, which must of necessity, be reverted to anon, it will be perhaps as well to explain now, that a gentleman, named Howard, his daughter Henriette, and a lady, whose assumed name was Greville, had for some years honoured the village with their presence, for one hour on the first of April, and the first of October, for a purpose which no one connected with that village had ever been able to learn. It may also be stated, that Henriette was an elegant girl, gentle, amiable, and accomplished. She had been educated with the utmost care, under the surveillance of her father, whose every earthly hope seemed fixed upon her: she was the pride of his heart—his idol; most fondly—most dearly did he love her; but often, while gazing upon her in silence, would he burst into tears. Henriette constantly marvelled at this. To her it was indeed mysterious. She could not ascertain—nay, she could not even conceive, the cause. True, he was almost invariably sad: he was seldom, indeed, seen to smile; and when he did smile, his features in an instant assumed an expression of sadness again: but why he should be unable to look at her intently without shedding tears, she was utterly at a loss to imagine. That there was something heavy at his heart was abundantly clear; but she sought to know the cause of his sorrow in vain. They moreover lived in the most perfect seclusion. They saw no society. She never went out in the morning without him; while he invariably passed his evenings with her at home. She was all the world to him: he appeared to live only for her; and, as she had no companion,
