Perhaps many would not understand the emotion which made both their hearts beat even to pain, when they entered the well-known scenes of Arlingford;—but, again I repeat it, I address myself only to those who have known the deep feeling of tried affection, the wild enchantment of love. Emmeline fancied she saw sympathetic joy in every countenance, and as she returned the congratulatory salutations of the country people, (who, smiling, took off their hats as the carriage passed,) she could scarcely restrain her tears. At how many a turn in the road, or well-remembered path or ride, recalling moments and feelings of past unhappiness, did they almost involuntarily look at each other; and how often did Fitzhenry clasp Emmeline’s hand in his, and entreat her again and again to forgive him! Thus buoyant with joy and gratitude, they at last drove up to the door of their own home. Fitzhenry’s spirits had been so much beyond his bodily strength, that they had quite exhausted him; so that when he left the carriage, it was with difficulty he reached the drawing-room. As the servants all eagerly pressed forward to give him their assistance, “Poor Reynolds!” he exclaimed, tears starting into his eyes, “I wish I had his arm to lean on now, for how happy he would have been!” When he was assisted to the couch in the drawing-room, he looked round the apartment for several minutes in silence, and when the door had closed on the attendants, he held out his arms to Emmeline. They could neither speak—but they did not need words to express their feelings; both knew what was passing in the mind of the other, and Emmeline secretly thanked the giver of all good for her present happiness. We poor mortals do well to catch at each passing moment of joy, and feed on them while ours; for alas! how soon do they fade away! and how wretched the condition of those who, weak in faith, see not the bounty of God in every blessing, and cannot “lift the adoring eye e’en to the storm that wrecks them,” relying on the wisdom and mercy of his unsearchable providence. Fitzhenry had a restless night of cough and fever; and although Emmeline attributed both to the fatigue and agitation of the preceding day, yet she sent off an express for an eminent physician residing at Winchester; and on his arrival, with a beating heart, led him into her husband’s apartment. Doctor Harrington, who had formerly often seen Fitzhenry, appeared much struck with the alteration in his appearance: he questioned him minutely as to his cough, and other symptoms of his complaint; then, drawing out his watch, he repeatedly counted his pulse. Emmeline, who in breathless anxiety watched every look and word, could not help taking fright at his manner; and her alarm was increased, when, on pretence of writing a prescription, he followed her into the adjoining room, and addressed her with—“Pray, Lady Fitzhenry, do I remember right, was not the late Lady Arlingford consumptive?”