expectancy,—no hour arrives so soon as the one we dread. It was a morning of July rain—the dreariest of any, perhaps from contrast; we look for sunshine in summer—or because it washes away so many sweet flowers and bright leaves. Who, for example, can watch a tree covered with roses blown into full beauty, and not regret, even to pain, the ravage of a heavy shower on its branches—the growth of its year scattered and destroyed in a morning? But every rose in the garden might have been destroyed before Emily had pitied them;—the eyes that are filled with tears look inwards. Physical miseries greatly add to the discomfort of mental ones. Madame de Genlis represents one of her lovers as deploring the loss of his mistress and his feather-bed in a breath; and certainly early rising increases the pang of separation,—the raw, damp air, the headaching feel of lingering drowsiness, the cold coffee, the hurry of sleepy servants; the science of human happiness—and all is science now-a-days—is greatly in arrear, or we should fix the middle of the day for farewells. Regrets, hopes, good wishes, &c. mingled together,—all regretted her departure. Mr. Delawarr handed her to the
