he was eager she
should see that he entirely forgave her. He would have gone part of the
way with her, but for the extreme illness of Lord Elmwood, in whose
chamber he passed most of the day, and slept in Elmwood House every
night.

On the morning of her journey, when Dorriforth gave his hand and
conducted Miss Milner to the carriage, all the way he led her she could
not restrain her tears; which increased, as he parted from her, to
convulsive sobs. He was affected by her grief; and though he had
previously bid her farewell, he drew her gently on one side, and said,
with the tenderest concern,

"My dear Miss Milner, we part friends?--I hope we do?--On my side, depend
upon it, that I regret nothing so much at our separation, as having ever
given you a moment's pain."

"I believe so," was all she could utter, for she hastened from him, lest
his discerning eye should discover the cause of the weakness which thus
overcame her. But her apprehensions were groundless; the rectitude of
his own heart was a bar to the suspicion of her's. He once more kindly
bade her adieu, and the carriage drove away.

Miss Fenton and Miss Woodley accompanied her part of the journey, about
thirty miles, where they were met by Sir Harry and Lady Luneham. Here
was a parting nearly as affecting as that between her and her guardian.
Miss Woodley, who for several weeks had treated her friend with a
rigidness she herself hardly supposed was in her nature, now bewailed
that she had done so; implored her forgiveness; promised to correspond
with her punctually, and to omit no opportunity of giving her every
consolation short of cherishing her fatal passion--but in that, and that
only, was the heart of Miss Milner to be consoled.

END OF THE FIRST VOLUME.

A

SIMPLE STORY,

IN FOUR VOLUMES,

BY

MRS. INCHBALD.

VOL. II.

_THE FOURTH EDITION._

LONDON:

Printed for G. G. and J. ROBINSON, PATERNOSTER ROW.

1799.

A SIMPLE STORY

CHAPTER I.

When Miss Milner arrived at Bath, she thought it the most altered place
she had ever seen--she was mistaken--it was herself that was changed.

The walks were melancholy, the company insipid, the ball-room
fatiguing--for, she had left behind all that could charm or please her.

Though she found herself much less happy than when she was at Bath
before, yet she felt, that she would not, even to enjoy all that past
happiness, be again reduced to the being she was at that peri