"Lady Anne is at home, but the young ladies are out, walking," was the answer of the page; but, in the drawing-room, he found Isabella alone. Languid and dispirited, she had declined accompanying her sisters, and was employed in copying a drawing. It was a sketch of Mr. Glentworth's, and he had been describing the scene, the last evening that he spent in Welbeck Street. He caught sight of her face—it was unusually pale, and there was a glitter on the long, dark lash, and a dimness in the eye, as if tears had been recently shed. Not such was the countenance that turned and met his own. The dark eyes filled with light, a rich colour mantled the cheek, and smiles surrounded the lip, whose welcome was at first inaudible.
"How we have missed you!" exclaimed she. "Do you know that we have left the book you were reading to us in the middle—we could not bear to go on in your absence." She did not add that this was her own suggestion.
"I have been much engaged," replied Mr. Glentworth.
"I hope your engagements are over now," said she; "we have grown so accustomed to you, that we can not get on without you."
"I fear," said he, hesitatingly, "I shall soon be obliged to go abroad." He was startled to see the effect of his own words in Isabella's ashy paleness—she could not force a reply. But there is a timidity in genuine feeling, which brings with it an intuitive
