Matilda and Miss Woodley sat down to dinner, but did not dine. Sandford dined as usual, with Lord Elmwood. When tea was brought, Miss Woodley asked the servant, who attended, if he had seen his Lord. The man answered, “Yes, Madam; and he looks vastly well.” Matilda wept with joy to hear it. About nine in the evening, Sandford rang at the bell, and was admitted—never had he been so welcome—Matilda hung upon him, as if his recent interview with her father, had endeared him to her more than ever; and staring anxiously in his face, seemed to enquire of him something about Lord Elmwood, and something that should not alarm her. “Well—how do you find yourself?” said he to her. “How are you, Mr. Sandford?” she returned, with a sigh. “Oh! very well,” replied he. “Is my Lord in a good temper?” asked Miss Woodley. “Yes; very well,” replied Sandford, with indifference. “Did he seem glad to see you?” asked Matilda. “He shook me by the hand,” replied Sandford. “That was a sign he was glad to see you, was it not?” said Matilda. “Yes; but he could not do less.” “Nor more:” replied she. “He looks very well, our servant tells us,” said Miss Woodley. “Extremely well indeed,” answered Sandford: “and to tell the truth, I never saw him in better spirits.” “That is well—” said Matilda, and sighed a weight of fears from her heart. “Where is he now, Mr. Sandford?” “Gone to take a walk about his grounds, and I stole here in the mean time.” “What was your conversation during dinner?” asked Miss Woodley. “Horses, hay, farming, and politics.” “Won’t you sup with him?” “I shall see him again before I go to bed.” “And again to-morrow!” cried Matilda, “what happiness!” “He has visitors to-morrow,” said Sandford, “coming for a week or two.” “Thank Heaven,” said Miss Woodley, “he will then be diverted from thinking on us.” “Do you know,” returned Sandford, “it is my firm opinion, that his thinking of ye at present, is the cause of his good spirits.” “Oh, Heavens!” cried Matilda, lifting up her hands with rapture. “Nay, do not mistake me,” said Sandford; “I would not have you build a foundation for joy upon this surmise; for if he is in spirits that you are in this house—so near him—positively under his protection—yet he will not allow himself to think it is the cause of his content—and the sentiments he has adopted, and which are now become natural to him, will remain the same as ever; nay, perhaps with greater force, should he suspect his weakness (as he calls it) acting in opposition to them.” “If he does but think of me with tenderness,” cried Matilda, “I am recompensed.” “And what recompense would his kind thoughts be to you,” said Sandford, “were he to turn you out to beggary?” “A great deal—a great deal,” she replied. “But how are you to know he has these kind thoughts, if he gives you no proof of them?” “No, Mr. Sandford; but _supposing_ we could know them without proof.”