Such was Mary’s first introduction to her family; and those only who have felt what it was to have the genial current of their souls chilled by neglect or changed by unkindness can sympathise in the feelings of wounded affection—­when the overflowings of a generous heart are confined within the narrow limits of its own bosom, and the offerings of love are rudely rejected by the hand most dear to us.

Mary was too much intimidated by her mother’s manner towards her to give way, in her presence, to the emotions that agitated her; but she followed her sister’s steps as she quitted the room, and, throwing her arms around her, sobbed in a voice almost choked with the excess of her feelings, “My sister, love me!-oh! love me!” But Adelaide’s heart, seared by selfishness and vanity, was incapable of loving anything in which self had no share; and for the first time in her life she felt awkward and embarrassed.  Her sister’s streaming eyes and supplicating voice spoke a language to which she was a stranger; for art is ever averse to recognise the accents of nature.  Still less is it capable of replying to them; and Adelaide could only wonder at her sister’s agitation, and think how unpleasant it was; and say something about overcome, and eau-de-luce, and composure; which was all lost upon Mary as she hung upon her neck, every feeling wrought to its highest tone by the complicated nature of those emotions which swelled her heart.  At length, making an effort to regain her composure, “Forgive me, my sister!” said she.  “This is very foolish—­to weep when I ought to rejoice—­and I do rejoice—­and I know I shall be so happy yet!” but in spite of the faint smile that accompanied her words, tears again burst from her eyes.

“I am sure I shall have infinite pleasure in your society,” replied Adelaide, with her usual sweetness; and placidity, as she replaced a ringlet in its proper position; “but I have unluckily an engagement at this time.  You will, however, be at no loss for amusement; you will find musical instruments there,” pointing to an adjacent apartment; “and here are new publications, and portefeuilles of drawings you will perhaps like to look over;” and so saying she disappeared.

“Musical instruments and new publications!” repeated Mary mechanically to herself.  “What have I to do with them?  Oh for one kind word from my mother’s lips!—­one kind glance from my sister’s eye!”

And she remained overwhelmed with the weight of those emotions, which, instead of pouring into the hearts of others, she was compelled to concentrate in her own.  Her mournful reveries were interrupted by her kind friend Lady Emily; but Mary deemed her sorrow too sacred to be betrayed even to her, and therefore rallying her spirits, she strove to enter into those schemes of amusement suggested by her cousin for passing the day.  But she found herself unable for such continued exertion; and, hearing a large party was expected to dinner, she retired, in spite of Lady Emily’s remonstrance, to her own apartment, where she sought a refuge from her thoughts in writing to her friends at Glenfern.