Martha,
you are decidedly at fault, and have jumped to a conclusion which you have
rather wished than believed. But, enough of this foolish matter."--And here
the fair writer leaps off to another subject, which, as it has no reference
to our story, nor any particular interest of its own, we beg to leave in
the oblivion in which it reposes. And having quoted enough of the sisters'
correspondence for our purpose, we will here, again, throw our narrative
into its more direct and legitimate channel.

By the letters above given, we have shewn pretty plainly that, on the part
of the one sister, a secret attachment to the unknown lodger was in rapid
progress, if it had not indeed already attained a height fatal to the peace
of mind of her by whom it was entertained; and that, on the part of the
other, a strong suspicion existed, not only that such love had been
generated, but that this love was mutual. And was it so? It was. Mr Mowbray
had not, indeed, made any very palpable advances, nor displayed any
symptoms of the state of his feelings, which any one but such a close and
shrewd observer as Martha could have detected. To no other eyes did this
secret stand revealed. But there was now, in his general manner towards
Rosy, much that such an observer could not fail to be struck with, or to
attribute to its real and proper cause. Nor was this change confined to his
intercourse with Rosy Adair--to the slight confusion that appeared in his
countenance whenever they accidentally met each other, unseen of any one
besides, and to the evident pleasure which he took in her society--to the
circumstance of his seeking that pleasure as often as he could without
making it subject of remark. No, the change that had now come over Mr
Mowbray was not confined to what such incidents as these may be presumed to
indicate; his spirit also, the whole tenor of his thoughts, the whole
constitution of his mind, seemed equally under the influence of his
new-born passion. His manner became more cheerful; his eye became lighted
up with an unwonted fire; and he no longer indulged in the seclusion which
he had so sedulously sought when he first came to West Mains. Mr Mowbray
was now, in fact, a changed man, and changed for the better. He was now no
longer the weeping, melancholy recluse, but a character evidently much more
suitable to his natural temper and dispositions--a gay and cheerful man of
the world. It was, indeed, a marvellous change; but so it was