“The bishop has taste,” I murmured to myself, scarcely deigning to give a second look at the equipage.

Clara now left the room, but speedily returned—­her dress changed, and shawled as if for a walk.  What could all this mean?—­and the whispering, too, what is all that?—­and why are they all so sad?—­Clara has been weeping.

“God bless you, my child—­good by,” said my aunt, as she folded her in her arms for the third time.

“Good by, good by,” I heard on every side.  At length, approaching me, Clara took my hand and said—­

“My poor Harry, so we are going to part.  I am going to Italy.”

“To Italy, Clara?  Oh! no—­say no.  Italy!  I shall never see you again.”

“Won’t you wear this ring for me, Harry?  It is an old favourite of yours—­and when we meet again”—­

“Oh! dearest Clara,” I said, “do not speak thus.”

“Good by, my poor boy, good by,” said Clara hurriedly; and, rushing out of the room, she was lifted by Mortimer into the carriage, who, immediately jumping in after her, the whip cracked, the horses clattered, and all was out of sight in a second.

“Why is she gone with him?” said I, reproachfully, turning towards my aunt.

“Why, my dear, a very sufficient reason.  She was married this morning.”

This was my first love.

CHAPTER XXXVI.

WISE RESOLVES.

Musing over this boyish adventure, I fell into a deep slumber, and on awakening it took me some minutes before I could recall my senses sufficiently to know where I was.  The whole face of things in my room was completely changed.  Flowers had been put in the china vases upon the tables—­two handsome lamps, shaded with gauzes, stood upon the consoles —­illustrated books, prints, and caricatures, were scattered about.  A piano-forte had also, by some witchcraft, insinuated itself into a recess near the sofa—­a handsome little tea service, of old Dresden china, graced a marquetry table—­and a little picquet table stood most invitingly beside the fire.  I had scarcely time to turn my eyes from one to the other of these new occupants, when I heard the handle of my door gently turn, as if by some cautious hand, and immediately closed my eyes and feigned sleep.  Through my half-shut lids I perceived the door opened.  After a pause of about a second, the skirt of a white muslin dress appeared—­then a pretty foot stole a little farther—­and at last the slight and graceful figure of Emily Bingham advanced noiselessly into the room.  Fear had rendered her deadly pale; but the effect of her rich brown hair, braided plainly on either side of her cheek, suited so well the character of her features, I thought her far handsomer than ever.  She came forward towards the table, and I now could perceive that she had something in her hand resembling a letter.  This she placed near my hand —­so near