As the porter opened the gates of the avenue to the carriage that brought them, Matilda felt an awful, and yet gladsome sensation, which no terms can describe. As she entered the door of the house this sensation increased—and as she passed along the spacious hall, the splendid staircase, and many stately apartments, wonder, with a crowd of the tenderest, yet most afflicting sentiments, rushed to her heart. She gazed with astonishment!—she reflected with still more. “And is _my father_ the master of this house?” she cried—“and was my mother once the mistress of this castle?” Here tears relieved her from a part of that burthen, which was before insupportable. “Yes,” replied Sandford, “and you are the mistress of it now, till your father arrives.” “Good God!” exclaimed she, “and will he ever arrive? and shall I live to sleep under the same roof with my father?” “My dear,” replied Miss Woodley, “have not you been told so?” “Yes,” said she, “but though I heard it with extreme pleasure, yet the idea never so forcibly affected me as at this moment. I now feel, as the reality approaches, that to be admitted here, is kindness enough—I do not ask for more—I am now convinced, from what this trial makes me feel, that to see my father, would occasion emotions I could not survive.” The next morning gave to Matilda, more objects of admiration and wonder, as she walked over the extensive gardens, groves, and other pleasure grounds belonging to the house. She, who had never been beyond the dreary, ruinous places which her deceased mother had made her residence, was naturally struck with amazement and delight at the grandeur of a seat, which travellers came for miles to see, nor thought their time mispent. There was one object, however, among all she saw, which attracted her attention above the rest, and she would stand for hours to look at it. This was a whole length portrait of Lord Elmwood, esteemed a very capital picture, and a perfect likeness—to this picture she would sigh and weep; though when it was first pointed out to her, she shrunk back with fear, and it was some time before she dared venture to cast her eyes completely upon it. In the features of her father she was proud to discern the exact mould in which her own appeared to have been modelled; yet Matilda’s person, shape, and complexion were so extremely like what her mother’s once were, that at the first glance she appeared to have a still greater resemblance of her, than of her father—but her mind and manners were all Lord Elmwood’s; softened by the delicacy of her sex, the extreme tenderness of her heart, and the melancholy of her situation. She was now in her seventeenth year—of the same age, within a year and a few months, of her mother, when she became the ward of Dorriforth. She was just three years old when her father went abroad, and remembered something of bidding him farewell; but more of taking cherries from his hand, as he pulled them from the tree to give to her.