to her daughters, at least her two youngest—­the rest are married—­Lady Anne and Lady Lucy; they appear very nice young women, agreeable companions, as yet we have but little conversation in common, though they appear to get on remarkably well with Caroline.  The Countess Elmore, a nouvelle mariee, but a delightful creature, so exquisitely lovely—­such eyes, hair, teeth; and yet these rare charms appear entirely forgotten, or displayed only for the Earl her husband, who is worthy of it all.  He has talked to me so often, that his wife also takes a great deal of notice of me, and when they are of our party I always pass an agreeable evening.  The Earl is well acquainted with our beautiful Devonshire, dearest Mary; he admires country as I do, and he asked so much about it one night last week, that I quite forgot all my intentions about control, and actually talked and apostrophised the Dart as I would to one of my own brothers.  I forgot everybody else in the room, till I caught mamma’s glance fixed earnestly on me, and then, my dear friend, I did not feel over comfortable, however, I was soon at ease again, for I saw it was only warning, not reproving; and the next morning, when I sought her to tell her all my delight of the preceding evening, she shared in it all, and when I asked her, half fearfully, if her glance meant I was passing the boundary she had laid down, she said, “Not with the Earl of Elmore, my dear Emmeline; but had you been talking in the same animated strain to the Marquis of Alford, who, I believe, took you into supper, I should say you had.”

“But I did not with him,” I exclaimed.

“No, my love,” she answered, laughing at the anxiety that was, I felt, imprinted on my face.  “But why are you so terrified at the bare suggestion?”

“Because,” I said, and I felt I blushed, “he is a single man; and I never can speak with the same freedom to unmarried as to married men.”

“And why not?” she asked, and fixed her most penetrating glance on my face.

I became more and more confused, dear Mary, for I felt even to my own mother it would be difficult to express my feelings on that subject.  I managed, however, with some difficulty, to say that I had often heard Annie say she hated assemblies where there were only married men, though there might be some fun in endeavouring to excite the jealousy of their wives; but it was nothing compared to the triumph of chaining young men to her side, and by animated conversation and smiles make each believe himself a special object of attraction, when, in reality, she cared nothing for either.  “Rather than do that,” I exclaimed, starting from the stool which I had occupied at mamma’s feet, and with an energy I could not restrain, “I would bury myself for ever in a desert, and never look upon a face I loved; rather than play upon the feelings of my fellow-creatures, I would—­I know not what I would not endure.  Mother,” I continued, “mother, if ever