It was a thoroughly wet day; even the gentlemen could not go out—and, to pass the morning, Lady Saville proposed practising some songs, in which one of them took a part. Poor Emmeline, who could not rally her spirits at all, felt little inclined to sing—but she complied, till at length, fatigued and harassed, she gave up her place at the pianoforte to Selina, and went to her own room. There on the table she found a note addressed to her, in Fitzhenry’s handwriting. She trembled as she opened it—it contained her own brooch, and these words:— “I return you, what I suppose to be yours; how it came into my possession, I know not. I have kept to my promise—I do all in my power to promote your happiness—do then the same by me, and respect feelings which I have honestly confessed to you. “FITZHENRY.” Emmeline read this over and over, scarcely knowing what the latter words could refer to; so perfectly innocent did she feel of any infringement of their agreement, and so satisfied that she had never, directly or indirectly, to him or others, hinted at her cruel situation. However, at last, calling to mind the way in which Selina had that morning so provokingly entertained the company with her silly remarks, she felt convinced, in spite of Fitzhenry’s well-known contempt for the person who made them, that they had raised suspicions in his mind of her having taken advantage of his absence to invade his apartment, and pry into his secrets; perhaps had even led him to imagine that she had stolen his favourite brooch with the foolish intention of wantonly tormenting him. Wounded tenderness, and offended pride, alternately wrung her heart. To clear herself was impossible, without confessing feelings, which she could not bring herself to avow to one who evidently despised and abhorred her. In total despair at the cruelly unfavourable light in which untoward circumstances always placed her before him, whom it was the first, almost the only wish of her heart to conciliate and please, poor Emmeline wept in bitterness of soul. Some explanation on her part, however, was absolutely necessary, but it was long before she could resolve on what to say. At length, entering into no particulars, she wrote merely these words. “You do me great injustice, and totally mistake me: explanation, however, is impossible—indeed, would probably be only uninteresting and irksome to you, and therefore I shall not attempt any. “EMMELINE.” How to give this to Fitzhenry unnoticed was the next difficulty, without the risk of a _tête-à-tête_ interview, which in the present nervous and irritated state of her feelings, she had no courage to seek. She heard him in his room, which joined to hers, and there he remained all the morning alone.