she would have made it an indispensable one; but the gratitude, the affections of Emily, she believed now to be tab deeply engaged to make the strict inquiry she otherwise would have done; and she had the best of reasons for believing that if Denbigh were not a true Christian, he was at least a strictly moral man, and assuredly one who well understood the beauties of a religion she almost conceived it impossible for any impartial and intelligent man long to resist.  Perhaps Mrs. Wilson, having in some measure interfered with her system, like others, had, on finding it impossible to conduct so that reason would justify all she did, began to find reasons for what she thought best to be done under the circumstances.  Denbigh, however, both by his acts and his opinions, had created such an estimate of his worth in the breast of Mrs. Wilson, that there would have been but little danger of a repulse had no fortuitous accident helped him in his way to her favor.

“Who have we here?” said Lady Moseley.  “A landaulet and four—­the Earl of Bolton, I declare!”

Lady Moseley turned from the window with that collected grace she so well loved, and so well knew how to assume, to receive her noble visitor.  Lord Bolton was a bachelor of sixty-five, who had long been attached to the court, and retained much of the manners of the old school.  His principal estate was in Ireland, and most of that time which his duty at Windsor did not require he gave to the improvement of his Irish property.  Thus, although on perfectly good terms with the baronet’s family, they seldom met.  With General Wilson he had been at college, and to his widow he always showed much of that regard he had invariably professed for her husband, The obligation he had conferred, unasked, on Francis Ives, was one conferred on all his friends, and his reception was now warmer than usual.

“My Lady Moseley,” said the earl, bowing formally on her hand, “your looks do ample justice to the air of Northamptonshire.  I hope you enjoy your usual health.”

Then, waiting her equally courteous answer, he paid his compliments, in succession, to all the members of the family; a mode undoubtedly well adapted to discover their several conditions, but not a little tedious in its operations, and somewhat tiresome to the legs.

“We are under a debt of gratitude to your lordship,” said Sir Edward, in his simple and warm-hearted way, “that I am sorry it is not in our power to repay more amply than by our thanks.”

The earl was, or affected to be, surprised, as he required an explanation.

“The living at Bolton,” said Lady Moseley, with dignity.

“Yes,” continued her husband; “in giving the living to Frank you did me a favor, equal to what you would have done had he been my own child; and unsolicited, too, my lord, it was an additional compliment.”

The earl sat rather uneasy during this speech, but the love of truth prevailed; for he had been too much round the person of our beloved sovereign not to retain all the impressions of his youth; and after a little struggle with his self-love, he answered—­