a moment, and was then forgotten.

This day passed without any material occurrence; and Emily, though
amused by the characters she had seen, was glad when she could retire to
the recollections, which had acquired with her the character of duties.

A fortnight passed in a round of dissipation and company, and Emily, who
attended Madame Cheron in all her visits, was sometimes entertained, but
oftener wearied. She was struck by the apparent talents and knowledge
displayed in the various conversations she listened to, and it was long
before she discovered, that the talents were for the most part those of
imposture, and the knowledge nothing more than was necessary to assist
them. But what deceived her most, was the air of constant gaiety and
good spirits, displayed by every visitor, and which she supposed to
arise from content as constant, and from benevolence as ready. At
length, from the over-acting of some, less accomplished than the others,
she could perceive, that, though contentment and benevolence are
the only sure sources of cheerfulness, the immoderate and feverish
animation, usually exhibited in large parties, results partly from an
insensibility to the cares, which benevolence must sometimes derive
from the sufferings of others, and partly from a desire to display the
appearance of that prosperity, which they know will command submission
and attention to themselves.

Emily's pleasantest hours were passed in the pavilion of the terrace, to
which she retired, when she could steal from observation, with a book to
overcome, or a lute to indulge, her melancholy. There, as she sat
with her eyes fixed on the far-distant Pyrenees, and her thoughts on
Valancourt and the beloved scenes of Gascony, she would play the sweet
and melancholy songs of her native province--the popular songs she had
listened to from her childhood.

One evening, having excused herself from accompanying her aunt abroad,
she thus withdrew to the pavilion, with books and her lute. It was
the mild and beautiful evening of a sultry day, and the windows, which
fronted the west, opened upon all the glory of a setting sun. Its rays
illuminated, with strong splendour, the cliffs of the Pyrenees, and
touched their snowy tops with a roseate hue, that remained, long after
the sun had sunk below the horizon, and the shades of twilight had
stolen over the landscape. Emily touched her lute with that fine
melancholy expression, which came from her heart. The pe