place before?"

"Yes; she had been here many years ago, and took the place after my poor
father's death,--I always call the late Lord Vargrave my father.
She used to come here regularly once a year without me; and when she
returned, I thought her even more melancholy than before."

"What makes the charm of the place to Lady Vargrave?" asked Caroline,
with some interest.

"I don't know; unless it be its extreme quiet, or some early
association."

"And who is your nearest neighbour?"

"Mr. Aubrey, the curate. It is so unlucky, he is gone from home for
a short time. You can't think how kind and pleasant he is,--the most
amiable old man in the world; just such a man as Bernardin St. Pierre
would have loved to describe."

"Agreeable, no doubt, but dull--good curates generally are."

"Dull? not the least; cheerful even to playfulness, and full of
information. He has been so good to me about books; indeed, I have
learned a great deal from him."

"I dare say he is an admirable judge of sermons."

"But Mr. Aubrey is not severe," persisted Evelyn, earnestly; "he is
very fond of Italian literature, for instance; we are reading Tasso
together."

"Oh! pity he is old--I think you said he was old. Perhaps there is a
son, the image of the sire?"

"Oh, no," said Evelyn, laughing innocently; "Mr. Aubrey never married."

"And where does the old gentleman live?"

"Come a little this way; there, you can just see the roof of his house,
close by the church."

"I see; it is _tant soit peu triste_ to have the church so near you."

"_Do_ you think so? Ah, but you have not seen it; it is the prettiest
church in the county; and the little burial-ground--so quiet, so
shut in; I feel better every time I pass it. Some places breathe of
religion."

"You are poetical, my dear little friend."

Evelyn, who _had_ poetry in her nature, and therefore sometimes it broke
out in her simple language, coloured and felt half-ashamed.

"It is a favourite walk with my mother," said she, apologetically; "she
often spends hours there alone: and so, perhaps, I think it a prettier
spot than others may. It does not seem to me to have anything of gloom
in it; when I die, I should like to be buried there."

Caroline laughed slightly. "That is a strange wish; but perhaps you have
been crossed in love?"

"I!--oh, you are laughing at me!"

"You do not remember Mr. Cameron, your real father, I suppose?"

"No; I believe he died before I was born."