for the acacias of her villa. Still I lament Mr. Heathcote: he knows all the world, and has an anecdote for and an epigram upon every body. He kills with diamond arrows: his voice is so low, his smile so bland, his whole manner so gentle, that you are barely aware of the concentrated acid and bitter of his speech. I call him cream of tartar. I am sure you will be so much amused."
Emily felt no such certainty—she felt as if she could never be amused again. She wandered into the drawing-room alone: she tried her harp—it was out of tune; her new songs—they were not pretty; she took up a new novel—it was so dull! She went into the front room—it was too sunny; into the back—it was too dark. The sound of Lorraine's cabriolet attracted her to the window; the fear of being seen kept her away. At length it drove off; she held her breath to listen to its latest sound: another nearer carriage drowned the roll of the distant wheels, and she felt as if even this small pleasure were denied. Strange, how any strong feeling refers all things to itself!—we exalt by dint of exaggeration. Not a creature was in the spacious and beautiful rooms: she almost started to see some four or five whole-
