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The harvest had been gathered, and the
beautiful vales of Pendennyss, were shooting
forth a second crop of verdure. The husbandman
was turning his prudent forethought
to the promises of the coming year, while
the castle itself exhibited to the gaze of the
wondering peasant, a sight of cheerfulness
and animation, which had not been seen in
it since the days of the good duke. Its numerous
windows were opened to the light of
the sun—its halls teemed with the happy faces
of its inmates. Servants, in various liveries,
were seen gliding through its magnificent
apartments, and multiplied passages.
Horses, grooms, and carriages, with varied
costume and different armorial bearings,
crowded its spacious stables and offices.—
Every thing spoke—society—splendour—
and activity without. Every thing denoted
order—propriety—and happiness within.

In a long range of spacious apartments, were
grouped in the pursuit of their morning employments,
or in arranging their duties and
pleasures of the day, the guests and owners
of the princely abode.

In one room was John Moseley, carefully
examining the properties of some flints, submitted
to his examination by his attending
servant; while Grace, setting by his side,

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playfully snatches the stones from his hand,
as she cries half reproachfully—half tenderly—

“You must not devote yourself to your
gun so incessantly, Moseley; it is cruel to
kill inoffensive birds for your amusement only.”

“Ask Emily's cook, and Mr. Haughton's
appetite,” said John, cooly, extending his
hand towards her for the flint---“whether
no one is gratified but myself. I tell you,
Grace, I seldom fire in vain.”

“That only makes the matter worse---the
slaughter you commit is dreadful,” rejoined
his wife, still refusing to return her prize.

“Oh!” cried John, with a laugh, “the
ci-devant Captain Jarvis is a sportsman to
your mind. He would shoot a month without
moving a feather---he was a great friend to,”
he continued, throwing an arch look to his
solitary sister, who sat on a sopha at a distance
perusing a book, “Jane's feathered
songsters.”

“But now, Moseley,” said Grace, yielding
the flints, but gently retaining the hand
that took them; “ Pendennyss and Chatterton
intend driving their wives, like good husbands,
to see the beautiful water-fall in the
mountains; and what am I to do this long
tedious morning?”

John stole an inquiring glance, to see if his
wife was very anxious to join the

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party---cast one look of regret on a beautiful agate
he had selected, and inquired:---

“You don't wish to ride very much, Mrs.
Moseley?”

“Indeed---indeed, I do,” said the other
eagerly, “if”---

“If what?”

“You will drive me?” continued she,
with a cheek slightly tinged with an unusual
vermilion.

“Well them,” answered John, with deliberation,
and regarding his wife with great
affection, “I will go---on one condition.”

“Name it?” cried Grace, with still increasing
colour, from the glow of hope.

“That you will not expose your health
again, in going to the church on a Sunday,
if it rains.”

“The carriage is so close, Moseley,” answered
Grace, with a paler cheek than before,
and eyes fixed on the carpet, “it is impossible
I can take cold---you see the Earl,
and Countess, and aunt Wilson, never miss
public worship, when possibly within their
power.”

“The Earl goes with his wife; but what
becomes of poor me at such times,” said John,
taking her hand, and pressing it kindly. “I
like to hear a good sermon---but not in bad
weather. You must consent to oblige me,
who only live in your presence.”

Grace smiled faintly, as John, pursuing the
point, said---“But what do you say to my
condition?”

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“Well, then, if you wish,” replied Grace,
without the look of gaiety, her hopes had first
inspired: “I will not go if it rains.”

John ordered his phaeton, and his wife
went to her room to prepare for the ride, and
regret her own resolution.

In the recess of a window, in which bloomed
a profusion of exotics, stood the figure of
Lady Marian Denbigh, playing with a half
blown rose of the richest colours; and before
her stood leaning against the angle of the
wall, her kinsman, the Duke of Derwent.

“You heard the plan at the breakfast table,”
said his Grace,---“to visit the little falls
in the hills. But I suppose you have seen
them too often to undergo the fatigue for the
pleasure?”

“Oh no?” rejoined the lady with a smile,
“I love that ride dearly, and should wish to
accompany the Countess in her first visit to
it. I had half a mind to ask George to take
me in his phæton with them.”

“My curricle would be honoured with the
presence of Lady Marian Denbigh,” cried
the Duke with animation, “if she would accept
me for her Knight on the occasion.”

Marian bowed her assent, in evident satisfaction
to the arrangement, as the Duke

“But if you take me as your Knight, I
should wear your ladyship's colours;” and
he held out his hand towards the budding
rose. Lady Marian hesitated a

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proceeded--- out at the prospect---up at the wall---
turned, and wondered where her brother
was; and still finding the hand of the Duke
extended, as his eye rested on her in admiration.---
She gave him the boon, with a cheek
that vied with the richest tints of the flower.
They separated to prepare, and it was
on their return from the ride, the Duke seemed
uncommonly gay and amusing, and the
lady silent with her tongue, though her eyes
danced in every direction, but towards her
cousin.

“Really, my dear Lady Moseley,” said the
Dowager, as seated by the side of her companion,
her eyes roved over the magnificence
within, and widely extended domains without—
“Emily is well established, indeed---
better even, than my Grace.”

“Grace has an affectionate husband,” replied
the other, gravely, “and one that I hope
will make her happy.”

“Oh! no doubt happy?” said Lady Chatterton,
hastily: “but they say Emily has a
jointure of twelve thousand a year—by-the-bye,”
she added, in a low tone, though no
one was near enough to hear what she said,
“could not the Earl have settled Lumley
Castle on her, instead of the deanery?”

“Upon my word I never think of such
gloomy subjects, as provisions for widow-hood,”
cried Lady Moseley—but, with a
brightening look, “you have been in Annerdale-House—
is it not a princely mausion?”

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“Princely, indeed,” rejoined the Dowager
with a sigh: “don't the Earl intend increasing
the rents of this estate, as the leases fall
in—I am told they are very low now?”

“I believe not,” said the other. “He has
enough, and is willing others should prosper—
but there is Clara, with her little boy—is
he not a lovely child,” cried the grandmother
with a look of delight, as she rose to take
the infant in her arms.

“Oh! excessively beautiful!” said the
Dowager, looking the other way, and observing
Catherine making a movement towards
Lord Henry Stapleton—she called to her.
“Lady Herriefield—come this way, my dear—
I wish you here.”

Kate obeyed with a sullen pout of her pretty
lip, and entered into some idle discussion
about a cap, though her eyes wandered round
the rooms in listless vacancy.

The Dowager had the curse of bad impressions
in youth to contend with, and laboured
infinitely harder now to make her
daughter act right, than formerly she had
ever done to make her act wrong.

“Here! uncle Benfield,” cried Emily,
with a face glowing with health and animation,
as she approached his seat with a glass
in her hands. “Here is the negus you wished;
I have made it myself, and you must
praise it of course.”

“Oh! my dear Lady Pendennyss,” said
the old gentleman, rising politely from his

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seat to receive his beverage; “you are putting
yourself to a great deal of trouble for an
old bachelor, like me---too much indeed---
too much.”

“Old bachelors are sometimes more esteemed
than young ones,” cried the Earl gaily,
as he joined them in time to hear this
speech to his wife. “Here is my friend,
Mr. Peter Johnson, who knows when we
may dance at his wedding.”

“My Lord---and my Lady—and my honoured
master,” said Peter gravely in reply,
and bowing respectfully where he stood, with
a salver to take his master's glass—“I am
past the age to think of a wife; I am seventy-three,
come next lammas—counting by
the old style.”

“What do you intend to do with your
three hundred a year,” said Emily with
a smile, “unless you bestow it on some
good woman, for making the evening of your
life comfortable?”

“My Lady—hem—my Lady,” said the
steward, blushing; “I had a little thought,
with your kind ladyship's consent, as I have
no relations, chick or child, in the world, what
to do with it.”

“I should be happy to hear your plan,”
said the Countess, observing the steward
anxious to communicate something.

“Why, my Lady, if my Lord and my honoured
master's agreeable, I did think of putting
another codicil to master's will in order
to dispose of it.”

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“Your master's will,” said the Earl laughing;
“why not your own, my good Peter?”

“My honoured Lord,” said the steward,
with great humility, “it don't become a poor
serving man like me to make a will.”

“But how will you prove it,” said the
Earl kindly, willing to convince him of his
error; “you must be both dead to prove it.”

“Our wills,” said Peter, gulping his words,
“will be proved on the same day.” His
master looked round at him with great affection,
and both the Earl and Emily were too
much struck with his attachment to say
any thing. Peter had, however, the subject
too much at heart to abandon it, just as he had
broke the ice. He anxiously wished the
Countess's consent to the scheme, for he
would not affront her even after he was dead.

“My Lady—Miss Emmy,” said Johnson,
eagerly, “my plan is---if my honoured master's
agreeable---to make a codicil---and give
my mite to a little---Lady Emily Denbigh.”

“Oh! Peter, you and uncle Benfield are
both too good,” cried Emily, laughing and
blushing, as she hastened to Clara and her
mother.

“Thank you—thank you,” cried the delighted
Earl, following his wife with his
eyes, and shaking the steward cordially by
the hand—“and if no better expedient be
adopted by us, you have full permission
to do as you please with your money”

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---and the husband joined some of his other
guests.

“Peter,” said his master to him, in a low
tone, “you should never speak of such
things prematurely—now I remember when
the Earl of Pendennyss, my nephew, was
first presented to me, I was struck with the
delicacy and propriety of his demeanour—
and the Lady Pendennyss, my niece too---
you never see any thing forward or—Ah!
Emmy, dear,” said the old man tenderly, interupting
himself, “you are too good—to
remember your old uncle,” taking one
of the fine peaches she handed him from a
plate---the Countess handed the steward one
also, though with an averted face, and expression
of archness and shame.

“My Lord,” said Mr. Haughton to the
Earl, “Mrs. Ives and myself, have had a
contest about the comforts of matrimony---
she insists she may be quite as happy at Bolton
Parsonage, as in this noble castle, and with
this rich prospect in view.”

“I hope,” said Francis, “you are not teaching
my wife to be discontented with her
humble lot—if so, both, her's and your
visit will be an unhappy one.”

“It would be no easy task, if our good
friend intended any such thing, by his jests,”
said Clara, smiling; “I know my true interests,
I trust, too well, to wish to change my
fortune.”

“You are right,” said Pendennyss; “it is
wonderful how little our happiness

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depends on our temporal condition---when
here, or at Lumley Castle, surrounded by
my tenantry, there are, I confess, moments
of weakness, in which the loss of my wealth
or rank, would be missed greatly---but when
on service---subjected to great privations,
and surrounded by men superior to me in
military rank, and who say unto me--go, and
I go---come, and I come---I find my enjoyments
intrinsically the same.”

“That,” said Francis, “may be owing to
your Lordship's tempered feelings---which
have taught you to look beyond this world
for your pleasures and consolation.”

“It has doubtless an effect,” said the Earl,
“but there is no truth I am more fully persuaded
of, than, that our happiness here, does
not depend upon our lot in life, so we are
not suffering for necessaries---even changes
bring less real misery than they are supposed
to.”

“Doubtless;” cried Mr. Haughton, “under
the circumstances, I would not wish to change,
even with your Lordship, unless, indeed,”
he continued, with a smile, and bow to the
Countess, “it were the temptation of your
lovely wife.”

“You are quite polite,” said Emily,
laughing, “but I have no desire to deprive Mrs.
Haughton of a companion she has made out
so well with these twenty years past.”

“Thirty, my Lady, if you please.”

“And thirty more, I hope,” continued
Emily, as a servant announced the several

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carriages at the door. The younger part of
the company now hastened to their different
engagements, and Chatterton handed Harriet;
John, Grace; and Pendennyss, Emily,
into their respective carriages; the Duke
and Lady Marian following, but at some little
distance from the rest of the party.

As the Earl drove from the door, the Countess
looked up to a window, at which were standing
her aunt and Doctor Ives; and kissed her
hand to them, with a face, in which glowed
the mingled expressions of innocence—love
and joy.

Before leaving the Park, the party passed
Sir Edward, with his wife leaning on one
arm and Jane on the other—pursuing
their daily walk—The Baronet followed the
carriages with his eyes, and exchanged looks
of the fondest love with his children, as they
drove slowly and respectfully by him, and if
the glance which followed on Jane, did not
speak equal pleasure--it surely denoted its
proper proportion of paternal love.

“You have much reason to congratulate
yourself, on the happy termination of your
labours,” said the Doctor, with a smile, to
the widow; “Emily is placed, so far as human
foresight can judge, in the happiest of
all stations a female can be in—the pious
wife of a pious husband--beloved, and deserving
of it.”

“Yes,” said Mrs. Wilson, drawing back
from following the phaeton with her eyes,

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“they are as happy as this world will admit
of, and, what is better, they are well prepared
to meet any reverse of fortune which
may occur—and discharge the duties they
have entered on;—I do not think,” continued
she musing,“that Pendennyss can ever doubt
the affections of such a woman as Emily.”

“I should think not,” said the Doctor,
with a smile, “but what can excite such a
thought in your breast, and one so much to
the prejudice of George?”

“The only unpleasant thing, I have ever
observed in him,” said Mrs. Wilson, gravely,
“is the suspicion which induced him to
adopt the disguise he entered our family
with.”

“He did not adopt it, Madam—chance,
and circumstances drew it around him accidentally—
and when you consider the peculiar
state of his mind from the discovery of
his mother's misconduct—his own great
wealth and rank—it is not surprising he
should yield to a deception, rather harmless
than injurious.”

“Dr. Ives,” said Mrs. Wilson, “is not
wont to defend deceit.”

“Nor do I now, Madam,” replied the
Doctor, with a smile, “I acknowledge the
offence of George—myself, wife, and son—
I remonstrated at the time upon principle—
I said the end would not justify the means—
that a departure from ordinary rules of propriety,
was at all times dangerous, and seldom
practised with impunity.”

[figure description] Page 339.[end figure description]

“And you failed to convince your hearers,”
cried Mrs. Wilson, gayly;“a novelty in
your case, my good rector.”

“I thank you for your compliment,”
said the Doctor, “I did convince them
as to the truth of the principle, but the
Earl contended his case might make an innocent
exception—he had the vanity to
think, I believe, that by concealing his real
name, he injured himself more than any one
else, and got rid of the charge in some such
way—he is, however, thoroughly convinced
of the truth of the position by practice—his
sufferings, growing out of the mistake of his
real character, and which could not have
happened had he appeared in proper person—
were greater than he is free to acknowledge.”

“If they study the fate of the Donna
Julia, and his own weakness,” said the
widow, “they will have a salutary moral always
at hand, to teach them the importance
of two cardinal virtues at least—obedience
and truth.”

“Julia has suffered much,” replied the
Doctor, “and although she has returned to
her father, the consequences of her imprudence
are likely to continue—when once
the bonds of mutual confidence and respect
are broken—they may be partially restored
it is true; but never with a warmth and reliance,
such as existed previously—to return,
however, to yourself—do you not feel a

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sensation of delight at the prosperous end of
your exertions in behalf of Emily?”

“It is certainly pleasant to think we have
discharged our duties—and the task is much
easier than we are apt to suppose,” said Mrs.
Wilson; “it is only to commence the foundation,
so that it will be able to support
the superstructure—I have endeavoured
to make Emily a christian—I have endeavoured
to form such a taste, and principles
in her—that she would not be apt to
admire an improper suitor—and I have laboured
to prepare her to discharge her continued
duties through life, in such a manner
and with such a faith, as will, under the providence
of God, result in happiness far exceeding
any thing she now enjoys—in all
these, by the blessings of Heaven, I have
succeeded—and had occasion offered, I
would have assisted her inexperience through
the more delicate decisions of her sex—
though in no instance would I attempt to
control them.”

“You are right, my dear madam,” said
the Doctor, taking her kindly by the hand,
“and had I a daughter, I would follow a
similar course—give her delicacy—religion,
and a proper taste, aided by the unseen influence
of a prudent parent's care—the
chances of women for happiness would be
much greater than they are—and I am entirely
of your opinion—“That prevention
is at all times better than cure.”