“On Wednesday last died, at Dring Park, a village in Northumberland, the right honourable Countess Elmwood.—This lady, who has not been heard of for many years in the fashionable world, was a rich heiress, and of extreme beauty; but although she received overtures from many men of the first rank, she preferred her guardian, the present Lord Elmwood (then Mr. Dorriforth) to them all—and it is said, their marriage was followed by an uncommon share of felicity, till his Lordship going abroad, and remaining there some time, the consequences (to a most captivating young woman left without a protector) were such as to cause a separation on his return. Her Ladyship has left one child by the Earl, a daughter, about fifteen.” Lord Elmwood had so much feeling upon reading this, as to lay down the paper, and not take it up again for several minutes—nor did he taste his chocolate during this interval, but leaned his elbow on the table and rested his head upon his hand. He then rose up—walked two or three times across the room—sat down again—took up the paper—and read as usual.—Nor let the vociferous mourner, or the perpetual weeper, here complain of his want of sensibility—but let them remember that Lord Elmwood was a man—a man of understanding—of courage—of fortitude—above all, a man of the nicest feelings—and who shall say, but that at the time he leaned his head upon his hand, and rose to walk away the sense of what he felt, he might not feel as much as Lady Elmwood did in her last moments. Be this as it may, his susceptibility on the occasion was not suspected by any one—yet he passed that day the same as usual; the next day too, and the day after. On the morning of the fourth, he sent for his steward to his study, and after talking of other business, said to him; “Is it true that Lady Elmwood is dead?” “It is, my Lord.” His Lordship looked unusually grave, and at this reply, fetched an involuntary sigh. “Mr. Sandford, my lord,” continued the steward, “sent me word of the news, but left it to my own discretion, whether I would make your Lordship acquainted with it or not: I let him know I declined.” “Where is Sandford?” asked Lord Elmwood. “He was with my Lady,” replied the steward. “When she died?” asked he. “Yes, my Lord.” “I am glad of it—he will see that every thing she desired is done—Sandford is a good man, and would be a friend to every body.” “He is a very good man indeed, my Lord.” There was now a silence.——Mr. Giffard then bowing, said, “Has your Lordship any further commands?” “Write to Sandford,” said Lord Elmwood, hesitating as he spoke, “and tell him to have every thing performed as she desired. And whoever she may have selected for the guardian of her child, has my consent to act as such.—Nor in one instance, where I myself am not concerned, shall I oppose her will.” The tears rushed into his eyes as he said this, and caused them to start in the steward’s—observing which, he sternly resumed,