rest Mrs.
Leslie; come, Mother, dear Mother, you know you promised you would,--you
said I was to call you; see, it will rain no more, and the shower has
left the myrtles and the violet-bank so fresh."

"My dear Evelyn," said Mrs. Leslie, with a smile, "I am not so young as
you."

"No; but you are just as gay when you are in good spirits--and who can
be out of spirits in such weather? Let me call for your chair; let me
wheel you--I am sure I can. Down, Sultan; so you have found me out, have
you, sir? Be quiet, sir, down!"

This last exhortation was addressed to a splendid dog of the
Newfoundland breed, who now contrived wholly to occupy Evelyn's
attention.

The two friends looked at this beautiful girl, as with all the grace of
youth she shared while she rebuked the exuberant hilarity of her huge
playmate; and the elder of the two seemed the most to sympathize with
her mirth. Both gazed with fond affection upon an object dear to both.
But some memory or association touched Lady Vargrave, and she sighed as
she gazed.

CHAPTER II.

Is stormy life preferred to this serene?---YOUNG: _Satires_.

AND the windows were closed in, and night had succeeded to evening, and
the little party at the cottage were grouped together. Mrs. Leslie was
quietly seated at her tambour-frame; Lady Vargrave, leaning her cheek on
her hand, seemed absorbed in a volume before her, but her eyes were not
on the page; Evelyn was busily employed in turning over the contents of
a parcel of books and music which had just been brought from the lodge
where the London coach had deposited it.

"Oh, dear Mamma!" cried Evelyn, "I am so glad; there is something you
will like,--some of the poetry that touched you so much set to music."

Evelyn brought the songs to her mother, who roused herself from her
revery, and looked at them with interest.

"It is very strange," said she, "that I should be so affected by all
that is written by this person: I, too" (she added, tenderly stroking
down Evelyn's luxuriant tresses), "who am not so fond of reading as you
are!"

"You are reading one of his books now," said Evelyn, glancing over the
open page on the table. "Ah, that beautiful passage upon 'Our First
Impressions.' Yet I do not like you, dear Mother, to read his books;
they always seem to make you sad."

"There is a charm to me in their thoughts, their manner of expression,"
said Lady Vargrave, "which sets me thinking, which reminds me of--of an
e