At this sally, Miss Danvers laughed violently. “I am dying to go in.—Dear Lady Saville, pray, pray open the door; I am sure we shall find something odd.” Emmeline could think of no further reason to give for not entering; and, in truth, felt rather glad of the opportunity so forced upon her to visit that room where Fitzhenry had passed and still passed so many hours of his life. A person’s apartment is certainly the next best thing to their society, and even ranks in the gratification of our feelings before a letter; we seem to be admitted into all their occupations, even into their very thoughts. Then the little things belonging to them scattered about identify them so much to us. Every one must have experienced this when going into the room that has been inhabited by some dear friend immediately after their departure; the pens they have used still lying wet on the table, the books they had been reading—a glove, or handkerchief forgotten. How strongly do such trifles sometimes affect us, and give us a deceitful feeling of their presence! Lady Saville had opened the door into Fitzhenry’s room, and Emmeline had gone in with the rest, when luckily, after Miss Selina had expressed her astonishment at Lord Fitzhenry’s sleeping in the little couch bed, and had enquired of Lady Saville whether it was not very droll—a book of French caricatures attracted and fixed the attention of the whole party, and Emmeline was thus left at liberty to look at every thing in the room, and indulge in her own reflections. _There_ was the table at which he wrote, the chair on which he sat, and she placed herself in it. On the table, among a confusion of parliamentary papers, pamphlets, bills, &c. was a volume of Petrarch, lying open, as if lately read, and by it the cover of a letter recently torn open. It was directed to Fitzhenry, and in a woman’s hand. On the seal, were the words—“_Tout ou rien_”—words that said volumes to poor Emmeline’s heart. She tried to make out the post-mark, but it was so blotted over that she could only decypher the date, which convinced her it had been that very day received! With a sort of shudder she threw it down again, and, getting up from her seat, her eye was attracted by two drawings that hung over the chimney-piece—they were evidently views in Italy and Greece. In both these, were the same two figures: below one of the drawings, these lines from Lord Byron were written:— “Sweet Florence! those were pleasant times When worlds were staked for ladies eyes. Had bards as many realms as rhymes, Thy charms might raise new Anthonies. “Though fate forbids such things to be, Yet, by thine eyes and ringlets curled, I cannot lose a world for thee, But would not lose thee for a world.”