ue magic of life, effecting more strange metamorphoses than ever did
the spells of Archimago, or the arts of Armida--the moral alchemy which
can transmute the basest things into the most precious. It is true of
all circumstances, as well as of personal qualities, that
"Things base and vile, holding no quantity,
Love can transpose to form and dignity."
The purse was quickly finished, and dispatched to Philip, together with
a letter. Emily was in high spirits at the prospect of the answer. She
danced about the house, singing snatches of songs and ballads, and
displaying an unusual amount of gayety; for, though generally cheerful,
she was of too thoughtful a disposition to be often merry. Philip, she
was sure, would write by return of post. How she wished the time were
come! She knew pretty well, to be sure, what he would say; but what did
that signify? She longed to feast her eyes on the words his hand had
traced, and to fancy the tones and the looks which would have
accompanied them had they been spoken instead of written. The expected
day came at last, but the post-bag contained no letter for Emily. At
first she could hardly believe it; her countenance fell, and for a few
minutes she seemed much disappointed; but never mind, the letter would
come to-morrow, and she soon began to trip about and to sing almost as
gayly as before. But another day passed, and another and another, and
still no letter! Poor Emily's blithe voice was mute now, and her light
step rarely heard. Sometimes she tried to read, or to play on the piano,
but without much success; while her anxious looks, and the tear which
occasionally might be seen to glisten in her eye, betrayed the trouble
within. A whole week elapsed, a longer period than had ever passed
before without a letter from Philip Hayforth--a fortnight--a month--and
the poor girl's appetite failed, her nights were sleepless, and her
drooping figure and pining looks told of that anxious suffering, that
weary life-gnawing suspense, which is ten times more hard to bear than
any evil, however great, of which we can ascertain the nature and
discern the limits. Could Philip be ill? Could he--No, he could not be
inconstant. Ought she to write to him again? But to this question her
parents answered "No. It would be unfeminine, unladylike, undignified.
If Mr. Hayforth were ill, he would doubtless write as soon as he was
able; and if he were well, his conduct was inexcusable, and on Emily's
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