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“I am sorry, aunt, Mr. Denbigh is not
rich,” said Emily to Mrs. Wilson, after they
had retired in the evening, and almost unconscious
of what she uttered. The latter looked
at her neice in surprise, at the abrupt remark,
and one so very different from the ordinary
train of Emily's reflections, as she required
an explanation. Emily slightly colouring at
the channel her thoughts had insensibly
stolen into, gave her aunt an account of their
adventures in the course of their morning's
ride, and touched lightly on the difference
in the amount of the alms of her brother and
Mr. Denbigh.

“The bestowal of money is not always
an act of charity,” observed Mrs. Wilson,
gravely, and the subject was dropped;
though neither ceased to dwell on it in their
thoughts, until sleep closed their eyes.

The following day Mrs. Wilson invited
Grace and Emily to accompany her in a
walk; the gentlemen having preceded them
in pursuit of their different avocations. Francis
had his regular visits of spiritual consolation;
John had gone to the hall for his
pointers and fowling piece, the season for
woodcock having arrived; and Denbigh had
proceeded no one knew whither. On gaining
the high-road, Mrs. Wilson desired her

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companions to lead to the cottage, where the
family of the mendicant gardener had been
lodged, and thither they soon arrived. On
knocking at the door, they were immediately
admitted to an outer room, in which was the
wife of the labourer who inhabited the building,
engaged in her customary morning employments.
They explained the motives of
their visit, and were told the family they
sought were in an adjoining room, but she
rather thought at that moment engaged with
a clergyman, who had called a quarter of an
hour before them. “I expect, my lady, its the
new rector, who every body says is so good to
the poor and needy; but I have not found time
yet to go to church to hear his reverence
preach, ma'am,” curtseying and handing the
fresh dusted chairs to her unexpected visiters;
the ladies seated themselves—too delicate to
interrupt Francis in his sacred duties, and
were silently waiting his appearance; when
a voice was distinctly heard through the
thin petition, the first note of which undeceived
them as to the person of the gardener's
visiter.

“It appears then, Davis, by your own confession,”
said Denbigh, mildly, but in a tone
of reproof, “that your frequent acts of intemperance,
have at least given ground for
the steward in procuring your discharge, if it
has not justified him from what was his duty
to your common employer.

“It is hard, sir,” replied the man, sullenly,

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“to be thrown on the world with a family like
mine, to make way for a younger man with
but one child.”

“It may be unfortunate for your wife and
children,” said Denbigh, “but just, as respects
yourself. I have already convinced
you, that my interference or reproof is not
an empty one; carry the letter to the person
to whom it is directed, and I pledge you, you
shall have a new trial; and should you conduct
yourself soberly, and with propriety,
continued and ample support; the second
letter will gain your children immediate admission
to the school I mentioned; and I
now leave you, with an earnest injunction to
remember that habits of intemperance, not
only disqualify you to support those who
have such great claims on your protection,
but inevitably leads to a loss of those powers
which are necessary to insure your own eternal
welfare.”

“May Heaven bless your honour,” cried
the woman, with fervour, and evidently in
tears, “both for what you have said and
what you have done. Thomas only wants
to be taken from temptation, to become a
sober man again—an honest one he has ever
been, I am sure.”

“I have selected a place for him,” replied
Denbigh, “where there is no exposure from
improper companions, and every thing now
depends upon himself under Providence.”

Mrs. Wilson had risen from her chair on

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the first intimation given by Denbigh of his
intention to go, but had paused at the door to
listen to this last speech; when beckoning
her companions, she hastily withdrew, having
first made a small present to the woman of
the cottage, and requested her not to mention
their having called.

“What becomes, now, of the comparative
charity of your brother and Mr. Denbigh,
Emily?” asked Mrs. Wilson, as they gained
the road, on their return homeward. Emily
was not accustomed to hear any act of
John slightly spoken of, without at least
manifesting some emotion, which betrayed
her sisterly regard; but on the present occasion
she chose to be silent; while Grace,
after waiting in expectation that her cousin
would speak, ventured to say timidly,

“I am sure, dear madam, Mr. Moseley
was very liberal, and the tears were in his
eyes, while he gave the money; I was looking
directly at him the whole time.”

“John is compassionate by nature,” continued
Mrs. Wilson, with an almost imperceptible
smile. “I have no doubt his sympathies
were warmly enlisted on behalf of
this family; and possessing much, he gave
liberally; I have no doubt he would have
undergone personal privation to have relieved
their distress, and endured both pain and
labour, with such an excitement before him;
but what is that to the charity of Mr. Denbigh;”
and she paused.

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Grace was unused to contend, and least of
all, with Mrs Wilson; but unwilling to abandon
John to such comparative censure, with
increased animation, she said,

“If bestowing freely, and feeling for the
distress you relieve, be not commendable,
madam, I am sure I am ignorant what is.”

“That compassion for the woes of others
is beautiful in itself, and the want of it an invariable
evidence of corruption from too
much, and ill-governed, intercourse with the
world, I am willing to acknowledge, my
dear Grace,” said Mrs. Wilson, kindly, “but
the relief of misery, where the heart has not
undergone this hardening ordeal, is only
a relief to our own feelings—this is compassion;
but christian charity is a higher order
of duty: it enters into every sensation
of the heart—disposes us to judge, as well as
act favourably to our fellow creatures—is
deeply seated in the sense of our own unworthiness—
keeps a single eye in its dispensations
of temporal benefits, to the everlasting
happiness of the objects of its bounty—
is consistent—well regulated—in short,”
and Mrs. Wilson's pale cheek glowed with
an unusual richness of colour, “it is a humble
attempt to copy after the heavenly example
of our Redeemer, in sacrificing ourselves
to the welfare of others, and does, and must
proceed from a love of his person, and an
obedience to his mandates.”

“And Mr. Denbigh, aunt,” exclaimed.

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Emily, the blood mantling to her cheeks with
a sympathetic glow, and losing the consideration
of John in the strength of her
feeling, “his charity you think to be thus.”

“So far, my child, as we can attribute
motives from the complexion of the conduct,”
said her aunt, with lessened energy, “such
appears to have been the charity of Mr.
Denbigh.”

Grace was silenced, if not convinced; and
the ladies continued their walk, lost in their
own reflections, until they reached a bend in
the road which would hide the cottage from
their view. Emily involuntarily turned her
head as they arrived at this spot, and saw
that Denbigh had approached to within a few
paces of them. On joining them, he commenced
his complimentary address in such a
way as convinced them the cottager had been
true to the injunction given her by Mrs. Wilson.
No mention was made of the gardener, and
Denbigh commenced a lively description of
Italian scenery, which their present situation
reminded him of. The discourse was maintained
with great interest by himself and
Mrs. Wilson, on this subject, for the remainder
of their walk.

It was yet early when they reached the
parsonage, where they found John, who had
driven to the hall to breakfast, already returned,
and who instead of pursuing his favourite
amusement of shooting, laid down his
gun as they entered, observing, “it is rather

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soon yet for the woodcocks, and I believe I will
listen to your entertaining conversation, ladies,
for the remainder of the morning.” He threw
himself upon a sofa at no great distance
from Grace, and in such a position as enabled
him, without rudeness, to study the features
of her lovely face, while Denbigh read
aloud to the ladies, at their request, Campbell's
beautiful description of wedded love in
Gertrude of Wyoming.

There was a chastened correctness in the
ordinary manner of Denbigh which wore the
appearance of the influence of his reason,
and subjection of the passions, that, if any
thing, gave him less interest with Emily than
had it been marked by an evidence of
stronger feeling; but on the present occasion,
the objection was removed; his reading was
impressive; he dwelt on those passages which
had most pleased himself, with a warmth of
eulogium fully equal to her own undisguised
sensations. In the hour occupied in their
reading this exquisite little poem, and commenting
on its merits and sentiments, Denbigh
gained more on her imagination than in
all their former intercourse; his ideas were
as pure, as chastened, and almost as vivid as
the poet's; and Emily listened to his periods
with intense attention, as they flowed from
him in language as glowing as his ideas. The
poem had been first read to her by her brother,
and she was surprised to discover how she
had overloked its beauties on that occasion;

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even John acknowledged that it certainly appeared
a different thing now from what he
then thought it; but Emily had taxed his
declamatory power, in the height of the
pheasant season; and some how or other,
John had now conceited, that Gertrude was
just such a delicate, feminine, warm-hearted
domestic girl, as Grace Chatterton. As Denbigh
closed the book, and entered into a general
conversation with Clara and her sister.
John followed Grace to a window, and,
speaking in a tone of unusual softness, he
said,

“Do you know, Miss Chatterton, I have
accepted your brother's invitation to go into
Suffolk this summer, and that you are to be
plagued with me and my pointers again.”

“Plagued, Mr. Moseley,” said Grace, in a
voice softer than his own, “I am sure—I am
sure, we none of us think you, or your dogs
ever a plague.”

“Ah! Grace,” and John was about to become
what he had never been before—sentimental—
as he saw the carriage of Chatterton,
containing the dowager and Catherine,
entering the parsonage gates.

Pshaw! thought John, there comes mother
Chatterton—“Ah! Grace,” said John,
“there are your mother and sister returned
already.”—“Already!” said the young lady;
and, for the first time in her life, she felt
rather unlike a dutiful child; at least, five
minutes could have made no great

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difference to her mother, and she would have so
liked to hear what it was John Moseley
meant to have said; for the alteration in his
manner, convinced her that his first “ah!
Grace,” was to have been continued in a
something different language, from what his
second “ah! Grace,” was ended.

Young Moseley and her daughter standing
together at the open window, caught the
attention of Lady Chatterton, the moment
she got a view of the house; and she entered
with a good humour she had not felt
since the disappointment of her late expedition
on behalf of Catherine. The gentleman
she had determined on for her object in
this excursion had been taken up by another
rover, acting on her own account, and
backed by a little more wit, and a good deal
more money, than what Kate could be fairly
thought to possess. Nothing further in that
quarter offering in the way of her occupation,
she turned her horses' heads towards
London, that great theatre, on which there
never was a loss for actors. The salutations
had hardly passed before turning to John,
she exclaimed, with what she intended for a
most motherly smile, “what not shooting
this fine day, Mr. Moseley? I thought you
never missed a day in the season.”

“It is rather early yet, my lady,” said John,
cooly, and something alarmed by the expression
of her countenance.

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“Oh!” continued the dowager, in the
same strain, “I see how it is, the ladies have
too many attractions for so gallant a young
man as yourself.” Now, as Grace, her own
daughter, was the only lady of the party who
could reasonably be supposed to have much
influence over John's movements—a young
gentleman seldom caring as much for their
own, as other people's sisters, this may be
fairly set down as a pretty broad hint of the
thoughts the dowager entertained of the state
of things; and John saw it, and Grace saw
it.—The former cooly replied, “why, upon
the whole, if your ladyship will excuse the
neglect, I will try a shot this fine day;” and
in five minutes, Carlo and Rover were both
delighted.—Grace kept her place at the
window, from a feeling she could not define,
and perhaps was unconscious of, until the
gate closed, and the shrubbery hid the sportsman
from her sight, and then she withdrew
to her room to—weep.

Had Grace Chatterton been a particle less
delicate—less retiring—blessed with a managing
mother, as she was, John Moseley
would not have thought a moment
about her; but on every occasion when the
dowager made any of her open attacks,
Grace discovered so much distress, so much
unwillingness to second them, that a suspicion
of a confederacy never entered his
brain. It is not to be supposed that Lady
Chatterton's manœuvres were limited to the

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direct and palpable schemes we have mentioned;
no—these were the effervescence,
the exuberance of her zeal; but as is generally
the case, they sufficiently proved the
ground-work of all her other machinations;
none of the little artifices of---placing---of
leaving alone---of showing similarity of tastes---
of compliments to the gentlemen, were
neglected; this latter business she had contrived
to get Catherine to take off her hands;
but Grace could never pay a compliment in
her life, unless changing of colour, trembling,
undulations of the bosom, and such
natural movements can be called so; but she
loved dearly to receive them from John
Moseley.

“Well, my child,” said the mother, as she
seated herself by the side of her daughter,
who hastily endeavoured to conceal her tears,
“when are we to have another wedding? I
trust every thing is settled between you and
Mr. Moseley by this time.”

“Mother! Mother!” said Grace, nearly
convulsed with the bitterness of her regret,
“Mother, you will break my heart, indeed
you will;” and she hid her face in the clothes
of the bed by which she sat, and wept with
a feeling of despair.

“Tut, my dear,” replied the dowager, not
noticing her anguish, or mistaking it for
shame, “you young people are fools in these
matters, but Sir Edward and myself will arrange
every thing as it should be.” The

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daughter now not only looked up, but sprang
from her seat, her hands clasped together, her
eyes fixed in almost horror; her cheek pale
as death; but the mother had retired, and
Grace sank back in her chair with a sensation
of disgrace, of despair, which could not
have been surpassed, had she readily merited
the heavy weight of obloquy and shame she
thought about to be heaped upon her.

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