thoughts from the
mournful fate that too evidently hung over her; she became tranquil,
and I proposed taking a stroll in the adjoining park. I thought the
fresh air would revive her.

She agreed to this; and, going to her room, returned in a few minutes.
To her natural beauty was added on that fatal day a morning dress,
which more than any other became her; it was white, richly trimmed,
and fashionably made up by a celebrated French milliner. Her bonnet
was white muslin, trimmed with light blue ribbons, and a sash of the
same colour confined her slender waist. The little Eugenio ran before
us, now at my side, and now at his mother's. We rambled about for some
time, the burthen of our conversation being the future plans and mode
of education to be adopted for the child; this was a subject on which
she always dwelt with peculiar pleasure.

Tired with our walk, we sat down under a clump of beech trees, near
a grassy ascent, winding among the thick foliage, contrived by the
opulent owner to extend and diversify the rides in his noble domain.
Eugenio was playing around us, picking the wild flowers, and running
up to me to inquire their names.

The boy was close by my side, when, startled at a noise, he turned
round and exclaimed--

"Oh! look, mamma, look, papa, there is a lady and a gentleman
a-riding."

I turned round, and saw Mr Somerville and Emily on horseback, within
six paces of me; so still they stood, so mute, I could have fancied
Emily a wax-work figure. They neither breathed nor moved; even their
very horses seemed to be of bronze, or, perhaps the unfortunate
situation in which I found myself made me think them so. They had come
as unexpectedly on us as we had discovered them. The soft turf had
received the impression of their horses' feet, and returned no sound;
and if they snorted, we had either not attended to them in the warmth
of our conversation, or we had never heard them.

I rose up hastily--coloured deeply--stammered, and was about to speak.
Perhaps it was better that I did not; but I had no opportunity. Like
apparitions they came, and like apparitions they vanished. The avenue
from whence they had so silently issued, received them again, and they
were gone before Eugenia was sensible of their presence.

Chapter XXVII

Fare thee well; and if for ever--
Still for ever fare thee well:
Even though unforgiving, never
'Gainst thee shall my heart rebel.

BYRON.

I was so stu