st, as the inevitable result?

A buoyant temperament is of all moral qualities the most precious, in
this respect; it is the one force in us--when virtuous resolution proves
insufficient--which resists by instinct the stealthy approaches of
despair. "I shall only cry," Emily thought, "if I stay at home; better
go out."

Observant persons, accustomed to frequent the London parks, can hardly
have failed to notice the number of solitary strangers sadly endeavoring
to vary their lives by taking a walk. They linger about the flower-beds;
they sit for hours on the benches; they look with patient curiosity at
other people who have companions; they notice ladies on horseback and
children at play, with submissive interest; some of the men find company
in a pipe, without appearing to enjoy it; some of the women find a
substitute for dinner, in little dry biscuits wrapped in crumpled scraps
of paper; they are not sociable; they are hardly ever seen to make
acquaintance with each other; perhaps they are shame-faced, or proud, or
sullen; perhaps they despair of others, being accustomed to despair
of themselves; perhaps they have their reasons for never venturing to
encounter curiosity, or their vices which dread detection, or their
virtues which suffer hardship with the resignation that is sufficient
for itself. The one thing certain is, that these unfortunate people
resist discovery. We know that they are strangers in London--and we know
no more.

And Emily was one of them.

Among the other forlorn wanderers in the Parks, there appeared latterly
a trim little figure in black (with the face protected from notice
behind a crape veil), which was beginning to be familiar, day after
day, to nursemaids and children, and to rouse curiosity among harmless
solitaries meditating on benches, and idle vagabonds strolling over the
grass. The woman-servant, whom the considerate doctor had provided, was
the one person in Emily's absence left to take care of the house. There
was no other creature who could be a companion to the friendless girl.
Mrs. Ellmother had never shown herself again since the funeral. Mrs.
Mosey could not forget that she had been (no matter how politely)
requested to withdraw. To whom could Emily say, "Let us go out for a
walk?" She had communicated the news of her aunt's death to Miss Ladd,
at Brighton; and had heard from Francine. The worthy schoolmistress had
written to her with the truest kindness. "Choose your own t