country bloomed in all its luxuriance of vegetation:  everything was propitious to the indulgence of the softer passions; and Lady Moseley, ever a strict adherent to forms and decorum, admitted the intercourse between Jane and her admirer to be carried to as great lengths as those forms would justify.  Still the colonel was not explicit; and Jane, whose delicacy dreaded the exposure of feelings that was involved in his declaration, gave or sought no marked opportunities for the avowal of his passion.  Yet they were seldom separate, and both Sir Edward and his wife looked forward to their future union as a thing not to be doubted.  Lady Moseley had given up her youngest child so absolutely to the government of her aunt, that she seldom thought of her future establishment.  She had that kind of reposing confidence in Mrs. Wilson’s proceedings that feeble minds ever bestow on those who are much superior to them; and she even approved of a system in many respects which she could not endeavor to imitate.  Her affection for Emily was not, however, less than what she felt for her other children:  she was, in fact, her favorite, and, had the discipline of Mrs. Wilson admitted of so weak an interference, might have been injured as such.

John Moseley had been able to find out exactly the hour they breakfasted at the deanery, the length of time it took Egerton’s horses to go the distance between that house and the hall; and on the sixth morning after the departure of his aunt, John’s bays were in his phaeton, and allowing ten minutes for the mile and a half to the park gates, John had got happily off his own territories, before he met the tilbury travelling eastward.  I am not to know which road the colonel may turn, thought John:  and after a few friendly, but rather hasty greetings, the bays were again in full trot to the parsonage.

“John,” said Emily, holding out her hand affectionately, and smiling a little archly, as he approached the window where she stood, “you should take a lesson in driving from Frank; you have turned more than one hair, I believe.”

“How is Clara?” cried John, hastily, taking the offered hand, with a kiss, “aye, and aunt Wilson?”

“Both well, brother, and out walking this fine morning.”

“How happens it you are not with them?” inquired the brother, throwing his eyes round the room.  “Have they left you alone?”

“No Grace has this moment left me.”

“Well, Emily,” said John, taking his seat very composedly, but keeping his eyes on the door, “I have come to dine with you.  I thought I owed Clara a visit, and have managed nicely to give the colonel the go-by.”

“Clara will be happy to see you, dear John, and so will aunt, and so am I”—­as she drew aside his fine hair with her fingers to cool his forehead.

“And why not Grace, too?” asked John, with a look of a little alarm.

“And Grace, too, I fancy—­but here she is, to answer for herself.”