——It grieved her not a little, tho’ She seemed it well to beare. And thus she reasons with herself— ‘Some fault perhaps in me, ‘Somewhat is done, that so he doth: ‘Alas! what may it be? ‘How may I winne him to myself? ‘He is a man, and men ‘Have imperfections; it behoves ‘Me pardon nature then.’ THE PATIENT COUNTESS. THE next morning, before her maid came to her, Emmeline renewed her search, but with as little success as on the night before. It delayed her dressing; and when she entered the breakfast-room, all were assembled—Mr. Moore coming in at an opposite door at the same minute. “Who owns a turquoise pin?” said he, in a loud, sententious voice, as he approached the breakfast table, “with some mysterious, and, I conclude, very sentimental letters at the back.” Fitzhenry, who was reading the newspaper, instantly laid it down. He felt for his brooch, and forgetting that he had not put on any that morning, exclaimed, at the same moment with Emmeline—”I do!” Both looked at each other, and coloured. “Well, I never knew such a pattern pair,” said Moore; “they have so conscientiously every thing in common, that they have but one brooch between them, and I suppose wear it alternately. Pin of my pin—brooch of my brooch,” added he, laughing: “without the help of Solomon, I really don’t know how to decide the matter between you, for it is quite a law case in his line, and much beyond me.” “Pray give it me,” said Emmeline, in a low voice, inexpressibly annoyed. “The brooch is mine,” said Fitzhenry, holding out his hand for it, and apparently not much less discomposed. “Hold, if you please,” said Moore; “I have not studied the law, up three pair of stairs in Lincoln’s Inn, and poured over musty books for nothing. I must have proofs and witnesses before I adjudge the disputed prize. Let us call into court the letters at the back, they may throw some light on the subject—Let me see,” continued he, putting on his nose the spectacles of one of the company, and affecting an important, legal tone, “_Fi_ is very easily distinguished, but what the deuce is it that comes between that and _z e_, which are plainly the letters at the end. _F i_ looks a little as if it really did belong to one Lord Fitzhenry, I must own; (if he is so unsentimental as to wear his own name next his heart;) but even under that extraordinary supposition, I can’t turn _z e_ into _r y_ by any trick of law or logic—so I am still at a loss; for do what I will, I cannot, with these letters, spell _fidele_, or _fidelità_, or any of those pretty words.” Emmeline said no more; she tried to busy herself with the breakfast-things, but poured out every thing wrong, and made all sorts of strange mistakes. Fitzhenry got up, and went to Mr. Moore.