Alice or The Mysteries

BOOK I. Thee, hid the bowering vales amidst, I call

CHAPTER L

“Who art thou, fair one, who usurp’st the place Of Blanch, the lady of the matchless grace? ””—LAMB, fined and home-like features of the scene. It was a spot, 1ote, sequestered, shut out from the business and pleasures of ~

You would scarcely have guessed, from her appear- , that she was more than seven or eight and twenty, though 1e exceeded by four or five years that critical boundary in > life of beauty. Her form was slight and delicate in its

6 0 RICE OR THE MYSTERIES, aes proportions, nor was her countenance the less lovely because, — from its gentleness and repose (not unmixed with a certain sadness) the coarse and the gay might have thought it wanting in~ expression. For there is a stillness in the aspect of those who — have felt deeply, which deceives the common eye—as rivers are — often alike tranquil and profound, in proportion as they are remote from the springs which agitated and swelled the commencement of their course, and by which their waters | are stil], though invisibly, supplied.

The elder lady, the guest of her companion, was past seventy; _ her grey hair was drawn back from the forehead, and gathered ~ under a stiff cap of quaker-like simplicity ; while her dress, rich but plain, and of no very modern fashion, served to increase the — venerable appearance of one who seemed not ashamed of years.

“My dear Mrs. Leslie,” said the lady of the house, after a thoughtful pause in the conversation that had been carried on for the last hour, “it is very true; perhaps I was to blame in coming to this piace; I ought not to have been so selfish.”

“No, my dear friend,” returned Mrs. Leslie, gently; “selfish is a word that can never be applied to you; you acted as became you—agreeably to your own instinctive sense of what is best when at your age,—independent in fortune and rank, and still so lovely ;—you resigned all that would have attracted others, and devoted yourself, in retirement, to a life of quiet and unknown benevolence. You are in your sphere in this village— humble though it be—consoling, relieving, healing the wretched, the destitute, the infirm; and teaching your Evelyn insensibly to imitate your modest and Christian virtues.” The good old lady spoke warmly, and with tears in her eyes; her companion placed her hand in Mrs. Leslie’s.

“You cannot make me vain,” said she, with a sweet and melancholy smile. “I remember what I was when you first gave shelter to the poor, desolate wanderer and her tatherless child; and I, who was then so poor and destitute, what should I be, if I was deaf to the poverty and sorrows of others—others, too, who are better than I am. But now Evelyn, as you say, is growing up; the time approaches when she must decide on accepting or rejecting Lord Vargrave ;—and yet in this village

Fshe ‘compare him with others New can she forma What you say is very true; and yet I did not think rl, to act so as may be best for her own happiness.”

Of that I am sure,” returned Mrs. Leslie; “and yet I know how to advise. On one hand, so much is due to the wishes « your late husband, in every point of view, that if Lord 1 Targrave be worthy of Evelyn’s esteem and affection, it would be most desirable that she should prefer him to all others. But if he be what I hear he is considered in the world,—an artful, scheming, almost heartless man, of ambitious and hard pursuits, -—I tremble to think how completely the happiness of Evelyn’s _whole life may be thrown away. She certainly is not in love with him, and yet I fear she is one whose nature is but too "susceptible of affection. She ought now to see others,—to know her own mind, and not to be hurried, blindfold and inex- : -perienced, into a step that decides existence. This is a duty we owe to her—nay, even to the late Lord Vargrave, anxious as he was for the marriage. His aim was surely her happiness, and “he would not have insisted upon means that time and circum- "stances might show to be contrary to the end he had in view.”

~ “You are right,” replied Lady Vargrave; “when my poor usband lay on his bed of death, just before he summoned his phew to receive his last blessing, he said to me, ‘ Providence can counteract all our schemes. If ever it should be for Evelyn’s real happiness that my wish for her marriage with Lumley Ferrers should not be fulfilled, to you I must leave the ‘right to decide on what I cannot foresee. All I ask is that no obstacle shall be thrown in the way of my wish; and that the child shall be trained up to consider Lumley as her future usband.’ Among his papers was a letter addressed to me to he same effect ; and, indeed, in other respects that letter left more to my judgment than I had any right to expect. Oh, I m often unhappy to think that he did not marry one who would ave deserved his affection! and—but regret is useless now.”

“TI wish you could really feel so,” said Mrs. Leslie ; “ for regret of another kind still seems to haunt you; and I do not think _ you have yet forgotten your early sorrows,”

t sufficiently. What shall I do? I am only anxious, dear

ALICE ; OR re AVS

“Ah, how can I ?” said Lady Vargrave with a quivering ip.

At that instant, a light shadow darkened the. sunny lawn in ~ front of the casements, and a sweet, gay, young voice was heard — singing at a little distance : a moment more, and a beautiful girl, ; in the first bloom of youth, bounded lightly along the grass, and 3 balted opposite the friends.

It was a remarkable contrast—the repose and quiet of the two persons we have described—the age and grey hairs of one—the resigned and melancholy gentleness written on the features of — the other—with the springing step, and laughing eyes, and radiant bloom of the new comer! As she stood with the setting — sun glowing full upon her rich fair hair, her happy countenance — and elastic form—it was a vision almost too bright for this weary — earth—a thing of light and bliss—that the joyous Greek might have placed among the forms of Heaven, and worshipped as an Aurora or a Hebe.

“Oh! how can you stay indoors this beautiful ccna | Come, dearest Mrs Leslie; come, mother, dear mother, you know you promised you would—you said I was to call you—_ see, it will rain no more, and the shower has left the myrtles | and the violet-bank so fresh.”

“My dear Evelyn,” said Mrs. Leslie, with a smile, “I am not so young as you.”

“No; but you are just as gay when you are in good spirits— and who can be out of spirits in such weather? Let me call for your chair; let me wheel you—I am sure I can—Down, Sultan; so you have found me out, have you, sir? Be quiet, sir—down!”

This last exhortation was addressed to a splendid dog of the :

Newfoundland breed;who now contrived wholly to occupy” Evelyn’s attention.

The two friends looked at this beautiful girl, as with all the grace of youth she shared while she rebuked the exuberant hilarity of her huge playmate; and the elder of the two seemed the most to sympathise with her mirth. Both gazed with fond affection upon an object dear to both. But some memory-or association touched Lad 3: Vargrave, and she sighed as she. gazed,

**¥s stormy life preferred to this serene ?”—Youne’s Satires,

_ AND the windows were closed in, and night had succeeded ‘to evening, and the little party at the cottage were grouped ogether. Mrs. Leslie was quietly seated at her tambour-frame ; —Lady Vargrave, leaning her cheek on her hand seemed absorbed na volume before her, but her eyes were not on the page ;— velyn was busily employed in turning over the contents of parcel of books and music which had just been brought from e lodge where the London coach had deposited it. “Oh, dear mamma !” cried Evelyn, “I am so glad; there is mething you will like—some of the poetry that touched you much, set to music.” ~ Evelyn brought the songs to her mother, who roused herself ym her reverie, and looked at them with interest. “It is very strange,” said she, “ that I should be so affected all that is written by this person : I, too” (she added, tenderly oking down Evelyn’s luxuriant tresses), “ who am not so fond reading as you are!”

“You are reading one of his books now,” said Evelyn, glancing er the open page on the tabie. “Ah, that beautiful passage on ‘Our First Impressions. Yet I do not like you, dear other, to read his books ; they always seem to make you sad.” “There is a charm to me in their thoughts, their manner of > xpression,” said Lady Vargrave, “which sets me thinking, hich reminds me of—of an early friend, whom I could fancy hear talking while I read. It was so from the first time J pened by accident a book of his years ago.” i “Who is this author that pleases you so much?” asked rs. Leslie, with some surprise; for Lady Vargrave had usually le pleasure in reading even the greatest and most popular laster-pieces of modern genius,

7 a SA oY petal ily cto Saline 8 Se ei) fry ata Me ota Ae We a

_. my mother’s enthusiasm.”

“Maltravers!” repeated Mrs. Leslie. “He is, perhaps, a dangerous writer for one soyyoung. At your age, dear girl, you have naturally romance and feeling enough of your own, without seeking them in books.” i

“But, dear madam,” said Evelyn, standing up for her favourite, “his writings do not consist of romance and feeling only; they are not exaggerated, they are so simple—so truthful.” 4

“ Did you ever meet him ?” asked Lady Vargrave, :

“Yes,” returned Mrs. Leslie, “once, when he was a gay, fairhaired boy. His father resided in the next county, and we met. at a country-house. Mr. Maltravers himself has an estate near my daughter in B shire, but he does not live on it; he has been some years abroad—a strange character!” .

“Why does he write no more?” said Evelyn; “I have real his works so often, and know his poetry so well by heart, that I should look forward to something new from him as an event.” —

“T have heard, my dear, that he has withdrawn much from the world and its objects—that he has lived greatly in the East, The death of a lady to whom he was to have been married is said to have unsettled and changed his character. Since that event he has not returned to England. Lord Vargrave can tell you more of him than I.” :

“Lord Vargrave thinks of nothing that is not always before the world,” said Evelyn.

“T am sure you wrong him,” said Mrs, Leslie, looking up andl fixing her eyes on Evelyn’s countenance; “ for you are not belon the world.”

Evelyn slightly—very slightly—pouted her pretty lip, but made no answer. She took up the music, and seating herself at the piano, practised the airs. Lady Vargrave listened with emotion ; and as Evelyn in a voice exquisitely sweet, though not powerful, sang the words, her mother turned away her face, and half unconsciously, a few tears stole silently down her cheek.

When Evelyn ceased, herself affected —for the lines were impressed with a wild and melancholy depth of feeling —she rreeag tet tears fron hie pensive cree Hey own gaiety jefe the : he e drew a stool to her mother’s feet, and wnestling to her, and ;

CHAPTER IIL

“ But come, thou Goddess, fair and free, In heaven yclept Euphrosyne !

To hear the lark begin his flight, And, singing, startle the dul hy night. ”_[) Allegro,

6*But come, thou Goddess, sage and holy, Come, divinest Melancholy ! * * * alas * There held in holy passion still, Forget thyself to marble.” —// Penseroso,.

THE early morn of early spring-—what associations of eshness and hope in that single sentence! And there—a e after sunrise—there was Evelyn, fresh and hopeful as the orning itself, bounding with the light step of a light heart over ie lawn. Alone—alone! no governess, with a pinched nose a sharp voice, to curb her graceful movements, and tell her young ladies ought to walk. How silentiy morning stole r the earth! It was as if youth had the day and the world itself. The shutters of the cottage were still closed, and velyn cast a glance upward, to assure herself that her mother, also rose betimes, was not yet stirring. So she tripped ng, singing ‘from very glee, to secure a companion, and let it Sultan; and, a few moments afterwards, they were scouring + the grass, and descending the rude steps that wound down cliff to the smooth sea-sands. Evelyn was still a child at att: yet somewhat more than a child in mind. In the ajesty of

> “‘ That hollow, sounding, and mysterious main —”

felt those deep and tranquillising influences which belong to the Religion of Nature. Unconsciously to herself, her sweet face | grew more thoughtful, and her step more slow. What a complex thing is education! How many circumstances, that have no connection with books and tutors, contribute to the rearing of the human mind!—the earth, and the sky, and the ocean, were among the teachers of Evelyn Cameron; and beneaiiall her simplicity of thought was daily filled, fom the urns of invisible spirits, the fountain of the poetry of feeling. "4 This was the hour when Evelyn most sensibly felt how little — 4 our real life is chronicled by external events—how much we live a second and a higher life in our meditations and dreams. Brought up, not more by precept than example, in the faith which unites creature and Creator, this was the hour in which — thought itself had something of the holiness of prayer; and if (turning from dreams divine to earthlier visions) this also was — the hour in which the heart painted and peopled its own fairy-— land below—of the two ideal worlds that stretch beyond the — inch of time on which we stand, Imagination is perhaps holier — than memory. : So now, as the day crept on, Evelyn returned in a more sober ft mood, and then she joined her mother and Mrs. Leslie at break- — fast ; and then the household cares—such as they were—devolved _ upon her, heiress though she was; and, that duty done, once — more the straw hat and Sultan were in requisition ; and, opening — a little gate at the back of the cottage, she took the path along — : the village churchyard that led to the house of the old curate. — The burial-ground itself was surrounded and shut in with a belts of trees. Save the small time-discoloured church, and the roofs — of the cottage and the minister’s house, no building—not even — a cotter’s hut—was visible there. Beneath a dark and single yew-tree in the centre of the ground, was placed a rude seat; opposite to this seat was a grave, distinguished from the rest by a slight palisade. As the young Evelyn passed slowly by this spot, a glove on the long damp grass beside the yew-tree caught her eye. She took it up and sighed—it was her mother’s. ©

‘perienced should be sad.

And now Evelyn had passed the churchyard, and was on the sreen turf before the minister’s quaint, old-fashioned house.

_ The old man himself was at work in his garden; but: he threw down his hoe as he saw Evelyn, and came cheerfully “up to greet her.

It was easy to see how dear she was to him.

_ “So you are come for your daily lesson, my young pupil ?”

- “Yes; but Tasso can wait if the——”

_ “Tf the tutor wants to play truant; no, my child ;—and, indeed, the lesson must be longer than usual to-day, for I fear I shall have to leave you to-morrow for some days.”

4 4 “Leave us! why ?—leave Brook-Green—impossible !”

_ “Not at all impossible ; for we have now a new vicar, and I ust turn courtier in my old age, and ask him to leave me with my flock. He is at Weymouth, and has written to me to visit him there. So, Miss ee I must give you a holiday task to learn while I am away.”

__ Evelyn brushed the tears from her eyes—for when the heart s full of affection the eyes easily run over—and clung mournly to the old man, as she gave utterance to all her halfhildish, half-womanly grief at the thought of parting so soon th him. And what, too, could her mother do without him? nd why could he not write to the vicar instead of going o him?

- Thecurate, who was childless and a bachelor, was not insensibleto the fondness of his beautiful pupil, and perhaps he himself as a little more distrait than usual that morning, or else Evelyn was peculiarly inattentive; for certain it is that she eaped very little benefit from the lesson.

Yet he was an admirable teacher, that old man! Aware of velyn’s quick, susceptible, and rather fanciful character of nind, he had sought less to curb, than to refine and elevate e rimagination. Himself of no ordinary abilities, which leisure os

\ a heh ae ful to exclude iterate leavers Dest He Hone the i of of Nature.

religion. And under his care Evelyn’s mind had been dul stored with the treasures of modern genius, and her judgme strengthened by the criticisms of a graceful and generous taste.

In that sequestered hamlet, the young heiress had bee trained to adorn her future station; to appreciate the arts and elegances that distinguish (no matter what the rank) the refined from the low, better than if she had been brought up under the hundred-handed Briareus of fashionable education, Lady Vargrave, indeed, like most persons of modest pretensions and — imperfect cultivation, was rather inclined to overrate the 2 advantages to be derived from book-knowledge, and she was never better pleased than when she saw Evelyn opening ihe monthly parcel from London, and delightedly poring over — volumes which Lady Vargrave innocently believed to be reservoirs of inexhaustible wisdom. sr But this day Evelyn would not read, and the golden verses 4 of Tasso lost their music to her ear. So the curate gave up the — lecture, and placed a little programme of studies, to be conned during his absence in her reluctant hand; and Sultan, who had — been wistfully licking his paws for the last half-hour, sprang — up and caracoled once more into the garden—and the old — priest and the young woman left the works of man for those oe ony

“Do not fear, I will take such care of your garden while you are away,” said Evelyn; “and you must write and let us know - what day you are to come back.” . 4

“My dear Evelyn, you are born to spoil every one — from : Sultan to Aubrey.”

“And to be spoilt too, don’t forget that,” cried Evelyn laughingly shaking back her ringlets. “And now, before you | go, will you tell me, as you are so wise, what I can do to make — —to make—my mother love me?” “a

Evelyn’s voice faltered as she spoke the last words, and Aubrey looked surprised and moved. 4

“Your mother love you, my dear Evelyas What do you mean—does she not love you?”

e her eshet is kind and gentle, I know, fo she is so » to all; but she does not confide in me—she does not ist me; she es some sorrow at heart which I am never allowed to learn and soothe. Why does she avoid all mention _of her early days? she never talks to me as if she, too, had once mother! Why am I never to speak of her first marriage— f my father? Why does she look reproachfully at me, and — un me—yes, shun me, for days together—if—if I attempt to — raw her to the Beet ? Is there a secret ?—if so, am I not old — nough to know it?” — : Evelyn spoke quickly and nervously, and with quivering = ips. Aubrey took her hand, and pressing it, said, after a little ause, ; “Evelyn, this is the first time you have ever thus spoken to - e. Has anything chanced to arouse your—shall I call it — uriosity, or shall I call it the mortified pride of affection?” = “And you, too, are harsh; you blame me! No, it is true hat I have not thus spoken to you before; but I have long, ng thought with grief that I was insufficient to my mother’s — happiness—I who love her so dearly. And now, since Mrs, eslie has been here, I find her conversing with this comparative tranger so much more confidentially than with me ;—when I ome in unexpectedly, they cease their conference, as if I were ot worthy to share it; and—and oh, if I could but make you nderstand that all I desire is that my mother should love e, and know me, and trust me—”

“ Evelyn,” said the curate, coldly, “ you love your mother, and ustly ; a kinder and a gentler heart than hers does not beat ina uman breast. Her first wish in life is for your happiness and - welfare. You ask for confidence, but why not confide in her? hy not believe her actuated by the best and the tenderest notives? why not leave it to her discretion to reveal to you ‘any secret grief, if such there be, that preys upon her? why add to that grief by any selfish indulgence of over-susceptibility in ourself? My dear pupil, you are yet almost a child ; and they ho have sorrowed may well be reluctant to sadden with a 1elancholy confidence those to whom sorrow is yet unknown, This much, at least, I may tell you—for this much she does not from which you, more happy, have been saved. She speaks not — to you of her relations, for she has none left on earth, And ~ after her marriage with your benefactor, Evelyn, perhaps it — seemed to her a matter of principle to banish all vain regret, all — _ remembrance if possible, of an earlier tie.”

“My poor, poor mother! Oh, yes, you are right; forgive me. She yet mourns, perhaps, my father, whom I never saw, whom I s feel, as it were, tacitly forbid to name—you did not know ~ him?” = <=

“Him !—whom?’ — “My father, my mother’s first husband.” 2 “ No.”

“But I am sure I could not have loved him so well as my ~ benefactor, my real and second father, who is now dead and — gone. Oh, how well I remember /zm—how fondly!” Here] Evelyn stopped and burst into tears. <

“You do right to remember him thus; to love and revere his — memory—a father indeed he was to you. But now, Evelyn, my own dear child, hear me. Respect the silent heart of your mother; let her not think that her misfortunes, whatever they may be, can cast a shadow over you—you, her last hope and blessing. Rather than seek to open the old wounds, suffer them to heal, as they must, beneath the influences of religion and time; and wait the hour when without, perhaps, too keen a grief, your mother can go back with you into the past.” =|

“T will,—I will. Oh, how wicked,—how ungracious I awe 3 been! it was but an excess of love, believe it, dear Mr. Ae believe it.”

3 : { a ag eg S = Oa 3 of 4 as 3 | may trust in you. “Osea dry those: Hohl eyes, or they will think I have been a hard taskmaster, and let us go to the | cottage.” “~ They walked slowly: and silently across the humble pardeaa ‘ into the churchyard, and there, by the old yew-tree, they saw. Lady Vargrave. Evelyn fearful that the traces of her tears were yet visible, drew back; and Aubrey, aware of what passed 3 + within her, said,— iidiiie :

poor meen ioners in the bs Boga ye Newent is so anxious to” you—we will join you there soon.’

Evelyn smiled her ‘thanks, and kissing her hand to her mothen th seeming gaiety, turned back and passed through the glebe — to the little village. Aubrey joined Lady Vargrave, and drew — A er arm in his. <igae Meanwhile Evelyn thoughtfully pursued her way. Her heart was full, and of self-reproach. Her mother had, then, known use for sorrow; and, perhaps, her reserve was but occasioned her reluctance to pain her child. Oh, how doubly anxious — uld Evelyn be hereafter to soothe, to comfort, to wean that ar mother from the past! Though in this girl’s character here was something of the impetuosity and thoughtlessness of ,her years, it was noble as well as soft; and now the woman’s stfulness conquered all the woman’s curiosity. She entered the cottage of the old bedridden crone whom ubrey had referred to. It was as a gleam of sunshine that sweet comforting face; and here, seated by the old woman’s ide, with the Book of the Poor upon her lap, Evelyn was found Lady Vargrave. It was curious to observe the different impressions upon the cottagers made by the mother and daughter. Both were beloved with almost equal enthusiasm ; t with the first the poor felt more at home. They could alk to her more at ease: she understood them so much more uickly ; they had no need to beat about the bush to tell the ittle peevish complaints that they were half-ashamed to utter o Evelyn. What seemed so light to the young, cheerful eauty, the mother listened to with so grave and sweet a yatience. When all went right, they rejoiced to see Evelyn; t in their little difficulties and sorrows, nobody was like “my ‘ood Lady !” .

So Dame Newman, the moment she saw the pale countenance d graceful shape of Lady Vargrave at the threshold, uttered exciamation of delight. Now she could let out all that she not like to trouble the young lady with; now she could : omplain of east winds, and rheumatiz, and the parish officers, a B and ie bad tea they sold poor eee at Mr. Hart's shop, the ungrateful grandson who was so well to do and who for: he had a grandmother alive | .

CHAPTER IV.

4 Towards the end of the week we receivel a card from the town ladies.” Viear of Wakefield.

THE curate was gone, and the lessons suspended ; otherwi —as like each to each as sunshine or cloud permitted—-day followed day in the calm retreat of Brook-Green ; when, o morning, Mrs. Leslie, with a letter in her hand, sought La Vargrave, who was busied in tending the flowers of a sma conservatory which she had added to the cottage, when, from various motives, and one in especial powerful and mysterious she exchanged for so sequestered “a home the luxurious vill bequeathed to her by her husband.

To flowers—those charming children of Nature; 4 in which ou age can take the same tranquil pleasure as our youth—Lad Vargrave devoted much of her monotonous and unchequeres time. She seemed to love them almost as living things; an her memory associated them with hours as bright and fleeting as themselves. be

“My dear friend,” said Mrs. Leslie, “I have news for you. My daughter, Mrs. Merton, who has been in Cornwall on a visit her husband’s mother, writes me word that she will visit us her road home to the Rectory in B——shire. She will not put you much out of the way,” added Mrs. Leslie, smiling, “ for Merton will not accompany her; she only brings her daught Caroline, a lively, handsome, intelligent girl, who will b enchanted with Evelyn. All you will regret is, that she comes to terminate my visit, and take me away with her,

If you can forgive that offence, you will have pou to pardon.”

Vargrave replied with fer usual simple kindness, but. vas evidently nervous at the visit of a stranger (for she d never yet seen Mrs. Merton), and still more distressed at > thought of losing Mrs. Leslie a week or two sooner than been anticipated. However, Mrs. Leslie hastened to reasher. Mrs. Merton was so quiet and good-natured, the wife a country clergyman with simple tastes; and, after all, Mrs. slie’s visit might last as long, if Lady. Vargrave would be yntented to esd her hospitality to Mrs. Merton and roline. ; When the visit was announced to Evelyn, her young heart s susceptible only of pleasure and curiosity.. She had no end of her own age; she was sure she should like the ndchild of her dear Mrs. Leslie. _ Evelyn, who had learned betimes, from the affectionate solicitude of her nature, to relieve her mother of sich few mestic cares as a home so quiet, with an establishrient so Tegular, could afford, gaily busied herself in a thousand little “preparations. She filled the rooms of the visitors with flowers not dreaming that any one could fancy them unwholesome), d spread the tables with her own favourite books, and had little cottage piano in her own dressing-room removed into aroline’s — Caroline must be fond of music: she had some ubts of transferring a cage with two canaries into Carmline’s m also, but when she approached the cage with that ention, the birds chirped so merrily, and seemed so glad see her, and so expectant of sugar, that her heart smote her her meditated desertion and ingratitude. No, she could not re up the canaries; but the glass bowl with the gold fish—oh, hat would look so pretty on its stand just by the casemept; nd the fish—dull things !—would not miss her. The morning—the noon—the probable hour of the important trival came at last; and after having three times within the st half-hour visited the rooms, and settled and unsettled, and tled again everything before arranged, Evelyn retired to her n room to consult her wardrobe, and Margaret — once her e, now her Abigail. Alas! the wardrobe of the destined py Vergrave—the betrothed of a rising statesman, a new and : B 2 now an ostentatious peer—the heiress of the w ealthy Templet: on —was one that many a tradesman daughter would ha disdained. Evelyn visited so little; the clergyman of the © place, and two old maids who lived most respectably on a — hundred and eighty pounds a year, in a cottage, with one — maidservant, two cats, and a footboy, bounded the circle of — her acquaintance. Her mother was so indifferent to dress; she herself had found so many other ways of spending money !—_ but Evelyn was not now more philosophical than others of her — age. She turned from muslin to muslin—from the coloured to — the white, from the white to the coloured—with pretty anxiety and sorrowful suspense. At last she decided on the newest, — and when it was on, and the single rose set in the lustrous and