a fortnight domesticated at the
Villa Caprini, where her weakness still detained her, and yet she had
contrived to consult Sir William about her fortune, invested, almost
entirely, in "Peruvians," which her agent, Mr. Halker, had told her were
"excellent;" but whether the people of that name, or the country, or the
celebrated Bark, was the subject of the investment, she really professed
not to know.

To May Leslie she had confided the great secret of her heart,--an
unpublished novel; a story mainly comprised of the sad events of
her own life, and the propriety of giving which to the world was the
disputed question of her existence.

As to Charles, she had consulted him how best to disembarrass herself
of the attentions of Mr. Mosely, who was really become a persecutor.
She owned that in asking his counsel she could not impart to him all the
circumstances which he had a right to be possessed of,--she appealed to
his delicacy not to question her. So that whether wife or widow, he
knew not what she might be, and, in fact, she even made of the obscurity
another subject of his interest, and so involved him in her story that
he could think of nothing else. She managed each of these confidences
with such consummate skill that each believed himself her one sole
trusted friend, depositary of her cares, refuge of her sorrows; and
while thus insinuating herself into a share of their sympathy, she
displayed, as though by mere accident, many of her attractions, and gave
herself an opportunity of showing how interesting she was in her sorrow
and how fascinating in her joy!

The Heathcotes--father, son, and niece--were possessed of a very ample
share of the goods of fortune. They had health, wealth, freedom to live
where and how they liked.

They were well disposed towards each other and towards the world;
inclined to enjoy life, and suited to its enjoyment. But somehow, pretty
much like some mass of complicated machinery, which by default of
some small piece of mechanism--a spring, a screw, or a pinion the
more--stands idle and inert,--all its force useless, all its power
unused, they had no pursuit,--did nothing. Mrs. Morris was exactly
the motive power wanting; and by her agency interests sprang up,
occupations were created, pleasures invented. Without bustle, without
even excitement, the dull routine of the day grew animate; the hours
sped glibly along. Little Clara, too, was no small aid to this change.
In the quiet monoton