to do so, and till fancied evils produced real ones.  I wept bitterly while she spoke, for to find how completely I had created misery for myself was no agreeable matter of reflection, and my remorse was heightened when mamma said, “You have disappointed us not a little, my dear Emmeline; for I will no longer conceal from you that the little tour we took on our way to London was originally planned by your father and myself, to reconcile you to a change of residence.  We saw how much you regretted leaving Oakwood; nor did we wonder at it, for such feelings were most natural to one of your disposition; and therefore, instead of travelling direct, and suddenly changing the scenes of our beautiful Devonshire for the confinement of this huge city, we hoped by visiting various places, and giving you new objects of reflection, to lessen your regret, and make the change of residence less painfully abrupt.”  As well as I could, I expressed my sorrow and repentance, and promised to use every endeavour to atone for the past, and become all that she and papa wished me.

“I believe you, my own Emmeline,” my kind mother said, as she again kissed me, and her voice was no longer so sorrowfully grave as it had been at first.  “I am sure, now you know all the pain you were inflicting on both your parents, every effort will be put in force to remove it.”  Did I deserve this speech, dear Mary?  I do not think I did; for I often saw by mamma’s countenance I had grieved her, and yet made no effort to control myself, and so I told her.  She smiled her own sweet, dear smile of approbation, and thanking me for my candour, said—­

“If I say that by indulging in these gloomy fancies and appearing discontented, and repining when so many blessings are around you, my Emmeline will be doing her mother a real injury, by rendering my character questionable, not only in the eyes of the world, but of my most valued friends, will she not do all in her power to become her own light-hearted self again?”

“Injuring your character, dearest mother!” I exclaimed, with much surprise; “in what manner?”

“I will tell you, my love,” she replied; “there are many, not only of my acquaintances, but my friends, those whose opinions I really value, who believe I have been acting very wrongly all these years, in never having permitted you and Caroline to visit London.  They think by this strict retirement I have quite unfitted you both for the station your rank demands you should fill.  That by constantly living alone with us, and never mingling in society, you have imbibed notions that, to say the least, may be old-fashioned and romantic, and which will make you both feel uncomfortable when you are introduced in London.  These fears never entered my mind; I wished you to receive ideas that were somewhat different to the generality of Fashion’s dictates, and I did not doubt but that the uncomfortable feeling, against which the letters of my friends often warned