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"No, Wilhelmina, I have not yet made up my mind as to what I shall say, and besides, my poor nerves are in such a shattered state from the agitation caused by your intelligence, that to enter upon the subject tonight would, I believe, nearly kill me. Desire my maid to tell Florence that I have a bad headache, and am too unwell to bid her good night this evening; I am sure that is true enough."

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BUT to return to our heroine, whom we left on the point of entering Lady Seagrove's dressing-room.

She was surprised and discouraged by the unusual gravity of her reception.

After the morning salutations were over, a profound silence ensued, which no one seemed willing to break. Florence knew not how to introduce the subject on which she came to speak, but trembling and agitated, with varying colour and downcast eyes, stood before Lady Seagrove, in a state of most painful embarrassment.

At length Lady Seagrove, motioning with her hand to Florence to be seated, thus commenced:

"So, Captain Wentworth has been making a declaration of love to you, I understand."

A variety of feelings, of which surprise was the prevailing one, kept Florence silent for some moments on hearing these words. She turned her eyes almost instinctively towards Miss Trimmer, who sat bending very low over the figure of an Arab on horseback, which she was working for a screen.

"Why do you not answer, Florence?" resumed Lady Seagrove, after a pause.

"Before I reply," said Florence, "will you permit me to ask who gave you this information ?"

"That is of no consequence," rejoined Lady Seagrove, in some displeasure; "why do you look at Miss Trimmer?"

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My dear Lady Theagrove," interposed the favourite, before Florence could answer, "if your ladythip will allow me, I think I had better tell Florenth the whole and exthact truth, which, ath I have often heard your ladythip thay, ith betht to be thpoken at all timth."

After this exordium, she related the history of Adela's confession and touching speeches, just as she had before recounted them to Lady Seagrove.

"I do not believe," said Florence," that Adela ever made those speeches, neither do I believe she would have said anything to you on this subject if you had not first questioned her."

Miss Trimmer began a volley of exclamations at having what she said doubted, which Florence interrupted by saying, "Let us call my sister, and ask her." Miss Trimmer felt embarrassed, but disguised her feelings by putting on a look of injured innocence, and then turned her eyes imploringly towards Lady Seagrove, who said,

"It does not matter, Florence, whether your sister told Miss Trimmer of her own accord or not. Indeed, it is of no consequence at all who

told me, so that it is the truth, which you do not attempt to deny. And now, what have you to say on the subject?"

"Nothing, Lady Seagrove," replied Florence, proudly. "I came to you this morning with the express intention of telling you what had passed between Captain Wentworth and myself, but since you are already informed of it, there is no occasion for me to say more."

"If you have nothing more to say on the subject," rejoined Lady Seagrove, angrily, "I beg to observe that I have."

She then made a long speech, in which she set forth in glowing colours how excessively wrong, forward, and improper it was for a young lady to venture to prefer one gentleman of her acquaintance to another, unless she was especially permitted and desired to do so. She next showed how reprehensible it would be to tarnish the illustrious descent of the Hamilton family, of the oldest and most important branch of which Florence and her sister were now the sole representatives, by marrying a man with no pretensions to birth or rank.

Florence only replied to the last part of this charge, saying, that although Captain Wentworth boasted neither high birth nor title, yet he had the profession and standing in society of a gentlemau.

"That," returned Lady Seagrove, sharply, "is nothing to the purpose. I never denied that Captain Wentworth was a gentleman. I only said that he was not a suitable match for you, and so you would think if you possessed one spark of family pride, one grain of self-respect, or the smallest particle of love and veneration for the memory of your noble ancestors. Poor General Hamilton, if his life had been spared till now, it would have broken his heart at once to hear a daughter speak as you have spoken this morning."

She put her handkerchief to her eyes, and was too much affected to proceed for several minutes. Recovering her composure, she reproached Florence with want of candour, in having declared but two days before that her heart was free.

Florence pleaded her defence against this accusation with such an air of sincerity and with so much earnestness, that had not Miss Trimmer, unperceived by Florence, whose face was turned from her, shrugged her shoulders with a slight but unmistakeable expression of incredulity, Lady Seagrove would have owned herself persuaded of Florence's truth. But as it was, this strong-minded and independent lady assured Florence that she did not believe one word she said, and peremptorily commanded her to be silent. "It only remains for me to tell you," added Lady Seagrove, after a pause," that I have spoken to my nephew, and prepared him to expect a favourable reception. And now, Florence, leave me, for my poor nerves are almost annihilated. Wilhelmina, for Heaven's sake, hand me my salts. Florence, if you would not have my death to reproach yourself with, leave me instantly."

"Suffer me first to say one word," returned Florence. "Deeplymost deeply as it grieves me to refuse compliance with any of your wishes, I will never-never marry Sir Robert Craven."

Lady Seagrove strove to reply; but surprise, disappointment, and anger, at this resolute and obstinate resistance on the part of one usually so docile, quite overcame her. She made an impatient gesture with her hand, signing to Florence to depart; and fell into strong hysterics.

Here we must leave her for a while, to inquire what happened to Wentworth in the mean time.

A WREATH OF WILD FLOWERS.

APRIL.

SWEET month of rainbows, sunlight, and soft showers,
Fair maiden sister of the matron June;
Now weeping, shrouded in the sunniest hours,
Now laughing, joyous at the wild bird's tune.
Inconstant as yon vane, that like a golden star
Shines from the old grey tower o'er budding trees:
O! for the days of merriment and ease
The peasant dreams of in the furrow far,

Who, as he sprinkleth the yellow grain,
Already sees it waving o'er the plain,—
Already sees it by the reaper borne.

What pleasures Autumn bringeth in her train,
When the glad farmer hails with flowing horn
The last wain laden with the rustling corn.

Sweet month of cheerful light and pleasant shade,
Of golden verdure 'mid the woods embowering,
Where peers young Summer's form, coy and afraid,
From out the veil of snowy blossoms showering.
The lark, hid in the cloud, her coming sings;

And butterflies in blazoned herald's coats

Proclaim it far and wide, the while the greenwood rings
With music from each dappled wild-bird's throat.
Hark! to that note, half merry and half sad,

Now tortured by despair that from some heart-grief springs;
Now all the welkin echoes with its joy,
With happiness the soul can never cloy.
It is the king of song, the nightingale,
Telling to silent eve his sorrow's tale.

Now from the very joy of new-born life the glad bird sings, Shaking from speckled breast and dusky wings

The bright drops of the swiftly passing shower.

Voice of the leaves and buds heard by the live-long hour,

Cheering the ploughman, whom the rainbow's arch
Spans o'er. A glimpse of heaven; a kingly canopy,
A thing of mutable eternity

Rear'd by the angels. Now the winds of March
Give place to gentler gales, that woo the flowers

In glade, and dell, and sunny bank to shed
Their richest perfumes in the coming hours,

Peering from withered brake and leaves long dead.
The while the brook ripples o'er stone and reed,
Warbling so gently through the distant mead
Soft under-music-calm, low, whispering tone,
Like the pure prayer of maiden all alone:

Half breathed aloud, half brooding in her heart,
No pompous words of man or man's proud art.
Music of childhood's hope, with just a shade

Of memory of things past, such as a cloud might cast
Upon the still bright sunshine of a glade,

A moment darkening, and then overpast.

MAY.

Month, when the trees with snowy blossoms piled

Appear like flowery Alps. Would that their snows were

As lasting as the eternal mount's*

That breasts the stars beside the ever-flowing founts!

While white as winter's frosts the hedge-rows wild

Scatter their lavished treasure on the rills,

Two voicest greet us 'mong thy shades, the one, sad as Apollo's lute,
Rich, deep-toned, varying as the murmurs of a flute,

Sweet as the lark's song melting in the cloud,

Hope, yet hope sullied by an inward grief,

This the mere empty babble of a crowd.

The other one that gives the pent-up heart relief

By singing of his woes, not noisy, shallow, lavish of his joy.

The one all tenderness and soul's deep agony,

The other empty, fickle, without one alloy

Of overshadowing care, that seems to be

A stripling who can laugh but cannot weep;

How far unlike he, that, in grappling fight,

Some arrow shot at a venture hath smote deep,
Already darkened by the coming night.

* Parnassus.

† The cuckoo and the nightingale, who appear almost at the same time.

JOHN PRESTER.

III.

On hearing that there was a Mr. Prester in the house, Emily's first idea had been that the story of the letter was true after all, but her aunt's evidently unfeigned astonishment and terror soon caused her to change her opinion. Indeed, it would be impossible to imagine anybody more "taken aback" than Mrs. Tremayne. Emily was bad enough. It is by no means a pleasant thing for a young lady, especially when her heart is already engaged, to hear suddenly that there is a person at hand, of whom she knows nothing, who has the option of marrying her, or, in case of her refusal, of depriving her of thirty thousand pounds. But then Emily had the consolation-a very great one in such cases-of having made up her mind; for she resolved, without a moment's hesitation, that let her newly-found cousin-if it were indeed he-be ever so handsome and agreeable, he only, to whom she had given her heart, should have her hand. Besides this, though sensible enough of the value of the thirty thousand pounds she would lose, she perhaps felt, notwithstanding her gentle and forgiving temper, some latent spice of satisfaction at her aunt's discomfiture, and a hope that this might effectually wean her from her propensity to scheming for the future. As for her, poor old lady, she was in a state nigh bordering on distraction. She dearly loved her niece, and what with her prejudice against the gentleman just arrived, caused partly by his unexpected appearance, partly by John's account of him, her presentiment that her niece would not marry him, her wish to treat him civilly that he might not use his power to deprive her niece of her fortune, and its appearing to her that she herself was the cause of the whole -for the stranger's arrival so soon after, and so exactly corresponding with her fictitious account of him, made her feel as if it were all her doing -with all these thoughts to torment her, she was in such a state of "flustration" as never elderly gentlewoman was in before in the world. At length, after having had her glass of wine, she agreed with Emily that they were to pretend not to guess who their visitor was until he had explained himself, so that there might be no mistake, and walked up and down the room a great many times, in order, as she said, to cool herself, though it seemed to have the directly opposite effect. She seated herself, with as great an appearance of dignity as she could assume, in the armchair, and ordered John to show the stranger up.

John soon returned ushering in a gentleman, dressed, we will not say in the height of fashion, but as if he had taken a spring to get higher still, and had fallen down on the other side. He wore a dress coat; a bright blue waistcoat, over a still brighter red one; a shirt covered over with pink ballet-dancers; a neckerchief tied with an enormous bow; trousers striped by the side à la militaire, and strapped down very tight; and exceedingly high-heeled boots. He had a large pin in his shirtbosom, a great many rings on his fingers, and a massive (mosaic) gold chain, with which his left hand was continually going through evolutions as various and complicated as those of a child's "cat's cradle."

As the possessor of all these external advantages-who was a slight young man, with a light complexion, light hair, and light eyes-advanced into the room, with a profusion of bows and scrapes, his manner was, we

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