tion
were so completely absorbed in the duties of acquaintanceship that she
did not know it, she really had affections--they were concentrated upon
a few near relations. She was extremely fond and extremely proud of
her son. Next to her son, she was fonder of her niece than of any other
creature. She had received Grace Nugent into her family when she was
left an orphan, and deserted by some of her other relations. She had
bred her up, and had treated her with constant kindness. This kindness
and these obligations had raised the warmest gratitude in Miss Nugent's
heart; and it was the strong principle of gratitude which rendered her
capable of endurance and exertions seemingly far above her strength.
This young lady was not of a robust appearance, though she now underwent
extraordinary fatigue. Her aunt could scarcely bear that she should
leave her for a moment: she could not close her eyes unless Grace sat
up with her many hours every night. Night after night she bore this
fatigue; and yet, with little sleep or rest, she preserved her health,
at least supported her spirits; and every morning, when Lord Colambre
came into his mother's room, he saw Miss Nugent look as blooming as
if she had enjoyed the most refreshing sleep. The bloom was, as he
observed, not permanent; it came and went, with every emotion of her
feeling heart; and he soon learned to fancy her almost as handsome when
she was pale as when she had a colour. He had thought her beautiful when
he beheld her in all the radiance of light, and with all the advantages
of dress at the gala, but he found her infinitely more lovely and
interesting now, when he saw her in a sick-room--a half-darkened
chamber--where often he could but just discern her form, or distinguish
her, except by her graceful motion as she passed, or when, but for a
moment, a window-curtain drawn aside let the sun shine upon her face, or
on the unadorned ringlets of her hair.

Much must be allowed for an inflammation in the eyes, and something for
a rheumatic fever; yet it may seem strange that Lady Clonbrony should be
so blind and deaf as neither to see nor hear all this time; that, having
lived so long in the world, it should never occur to her that it was
rather imprudent to have a young lady, not eighteen, nursing her--and
such a young lady!--when her son, not one-and-twenty--and such a
son!--came to visit her daily. But, so it was. Lady Clonbrony knew
nothing of love--she had read of it, in