“Really, my dear Lady Mosely,” said the dowager, as, seated by the side of her companion, her eyes roved over the magnificence within, and widely extended domains without—­“Emily is well established indeed—­better even than my Grace.”

“Grace has an affectionate husband,” replied the other, gravely, “and one that I hope will make her happy.”

“Oh! no doubt happy!” said Lady Chatterton, hastily:  “but they say Emily has a jointure of twelve thousand a year—­by-the-by,” she added, in a low tone, though no one was near enough to hear what she said, “could not the earl have settled Lumley:  Castle on her instead of the deanery?”

“Upon my word I never think of such gloomy subjects as provisions for widowhood,” cried Lady Mosely:  “you have been in Annerdale House—­is it not a princely mansion?”

“Princely, indeed,” rejoined the dowager, sighing:  “don’t the earl intend increasing the rents of this estate as the leases fall in?  I am told they are very low now!”

“I believe not,” said the other.  “He has enough, and is willing others, should prosper.  But there is Clara, with her little boy—­is he not a lovely child?” cried the grandmother, rising to take the infant in her arms.

“Oh! excessively beautiful!” said the dowager, looking the other way, and observing Catharine making a movement towards Lord Henry Stapleton, she called to her.  “Lady Herriefield—­come this way, my dear—­I wish to speak to you.”

Kate obeyed with a sullen pout of her pretty lip, and entered into some idle discussion about a cap, though her eyes wandered round the rooms in listless vacancy.

The dowager had the curse of bad impressions in youth to contend with, and labored infinitely harder now to make her daughter act right, than formerly she had ever done to make her act wrong.

“Here! uncle Benfield,” cried Emily, with a face glowing with health and animation, as she approached his seat with a glass in her hands.  “Here is the negus you wished; I have made it myself, and you will praise it of course.”

“Oh! my dear Lady Pendennyss,” said the old gentleman, rising politely from his seat to receive the beverage:  “you are putting yourself to a great deal of trouble for an old bachelor like me; too much indeed, too much.”

“Old bachelors are sometimes more esteemed than young one,” cried the earl gaily, joining them in time to hear this speech.  “Here is my friend, Mr. Peter Johnson; who knows when we may dance at his wedding?”

“My lord, and my lady, and my honored master,” said Peter gravely, in reply, bowing respectfully where he stood, waiting to take his master’s glass—­“I am past the age to think of a wife:  I am seventy-three coming next ’lammas, counting by the old style.”

“What do you intend to do with your three hundred a year,” said Emily with a smile, “unless you bestow it on some good woman, for making the evening of your life comfortable?’