“No doubt of it, my dear,” replied Mrs. Buscot; “no doubt.”

The good dame felt a strong inclination at this moment to introduce a subject very near her heart, but, feeling doubtful as to its reception, she checked herself.  The devoted attachment of the apprentice to her niece had entirely won her regard, and she fondly hoped she would be able to wean Amabel from all thought of the Earl of Rochester, and induce her to give her hand to her faithful lover.  With this view, she often spoke to her of Leonard—­of his devotion and constancy, his good looks and excellent qualities; and though Amabel assented to all she said, Mrs. Buscot was sorry to perceive that the impression she desired was not produced.  It was not so with Nizza Macascree.  Whenever Leonard’s name was mentioned, her eyes sparkled, her cheek glowed, and she responded so warmly to all that was said in his praise, that Mrs. Buscot soon found out the state of her heart.  The discovery occasioned her some little disquietude, for the worthy creature could not bear the idea of making even her niece happy at the expense of another.

As to the object of all this tender interest, he felt far happier than he had done for some time.  He saw Amabel every day, and noted with unspeakable delight the gradual improvement which appeared to be taking place in her health.  The greater part of his time, however, was not passed in her society, but in threading the intricacies of the wood, or in rambling over the neighbouring downs; and he not only derived pleasure from these rambles, but his health and spirits, which had been not a little shaken by the awful scenes he had recently witnessed, were materially improved.  Here, at last, he seemed to have got rid of the grim spectre which, for two months, had constantly haunted him.  No greater contrast can be conceived than his present quiet life offered to the fearful excitement he had recently undergone.  For hot and narrow thoroughfares reeking with pestilential effluvia, resounding with frightful shrieks, or piteous cries, and bearing on every side marks of the destructive progress of the scourge—­for these terrible sights and sounds—­for the charnel horrors of the plague-pit—­the scarcely less revolting scenes at the pest-house—­the dismal bell announcing the dead-cart—­the doleful cries of the buriers—­for graves surfeited with corruption, and streets filled with the dying and the dead—­and, above all, for the ever-haunting expectation that a like fate might be his own,—­he had exchanged green hills, fresh breezes, spreading views, the song of the lark, and a thousand other delights, and assurances of health and contentment.  Often, as he gazed from the ridge of the downs into the wide-spread vale beneath, he wondered whether the destroying angel had smitten any of its peaceful habitations, and breathed a prayer for their preservation!