The first few months of her residence in Paris were fraught with happiness for Mrs. Greville.  Her husband’s manner did not change.  They mingled in society, and the admiration Mary’s quiet beauty excited afforded the greatest pleasure to her mother, and even appeared to inspire her father with some pride.  To the poor girl herself it was irksome and painful; but she tried to convince herself these feelings were wrong, and checked them even in her letters to Herbert.

Ellen returned from Moorlands, where she had been staying with Lilla, whose affection for her continued unabated; for she found in her society and sympathy much comfort since her mother’s death.  There was little change visible in Ellen.  Her health was established, her pensive beauty unimpaired.  Still was she the meek, unassuming, gentle girl she had long been; still to the eye of strangers somewhat cold and indifferent.  Her inward self was becoming every year more strengthened; she was resolved to use every effort to suffer, without the slightest portion of bitterness impregnating her sentiments towards her fellow-creatures, or the world in general.  Her lot she knew was to bear; her duty she felt was to conceal.

Ellen, on her return home, gave her cousin the letter which Emmeline had mentioned as having forwarded to her that morning.  It was fraught with interest, and the anxious eye of Mrs. Hamilton moved not from her daughter’s countenance as she read.  Still was it so calm that even she was puzzled; and again the thought, “Is it for him” she is thus drooping, fading like a flower before me? is it, indeed, the struggle between love and duty which has made her thus? crossed her mind, as it had often, very often done before, and brought with it renewed perplexity.

Lady Florence had written in the highest spirits, announcing the return of her father, Lord Louis, and his tutor; that her brother was looking quite well and strong, and was the same dear, merry, mischievous boy as ever; delighted to be in England, abusing all the Germans, and professing and displaying the most extreme fondness for Mr. Myrvin.

“He speaks of Mr. Myrvin in terms that bring tears to my eyes, tears of which, my dear Ellen, I am not at all ashamed.  The only drawback to the life of a soldier, which my brother has now positively resolved on, in spite of all our persuasions, exists, he says, in the consequent separation from Mr. Myrvin, and he almost wishes to go to Cambridge, to chain him to his side; but for Mr. Myrvin’s sake, I am glad this will not be.  He is looking ill, very ill, quite different to the Arthur Myrvin we knew at Oakwood; a change has come over him which I cannot describe, and even to myself can scarcely define.  He is much more polished in his manner, but it is tinged with such deep melancholy, or intense thought, I really do not know which it is, that he appears many years older than when he left England.  My father