That moment Lord Elmwood opened the door; the conversation of course that moment ended; but confusion, at the sudden surprise, was on the face of both parties—he saw it, and looked at each of them by turns, with a sternness that made poor Miss Woodley ready to faint; while Rushbrook, with the most natural and happy laugh that ever was affected, cried, “No, don’t tell my Lord, pray Miss Woodley.” She was more confused than before, and Lord Elmwood turning to him, asked what the subject was. By this time he had invented one, and, continuing his laugh, said, “Miss Woodley, my Lord, will to this day protest that she saw my apparition when I was a boy; and she says it is a sign I shall die young, and is really much affected at it.” Lord Elmwood turned away before this ridiculous speech was concluded; yet so well had it been acted, that he did not for an instant doubt its truth. Miss Woodley felt herself greatly relieved; and yet so little is it in the power of those we dislike to do any thing to please us, that from this very circumstance, she formed a more unfavourable opinion of Mr. Rushbrook than she had done before. She saw in this little incident the art of dissimulation, cunning, and duplicity in its most glaring shape; and detested the method by which they had each escaped Lord Elmwood’s suspicion, and perhaps anger, the more, because it was so dexterously managed. Lady Matilda and Sandford were both in their turns informed of this trait in Mr. Rushbrook’s character; and although Miss Woodley had the best of dispositions, and upon every occasion spoke the strictest truth, yet in relating this occurrence, she did not speak _all_ the truth; for every circumstance that would have told to the young man’s advantage, _literally_ had slipped her memory. The twenty-ninth of October arrived; on which a dinner, a ball, and supper, was given by Lord Elmwood to all the neighbouring gentry—the peasants also dined in the park off a roasted bullock, several casks of ale were distributed, and the bells of the village rung. Matilda, who heard and saw some part of this festivity from her windows, inquired the cause; but even the servant who waited upon her had too much sensibility to tell her, and answered, “He did not know.” Miss Woodley however, soon learned the reason, and groaning with the painful secret, informed her, “Mr. Rushbrook on that day was come of age.” “_My_ birth-day was last week,” replied Matilda; but not a word beside. In their retired apartments, this day passed away not only soberly, but almost silently; for to speak upon any subject that did not engage their thoughts had been difficult, and to speak upon the only one that did, had been afflicting. Just as they were sitting down to dinner their bell gently rung, and in walked Sandford. “Why are you not among the revellers, Mr. Sandford?” cried Miss Woodley, with an ironical sneer—(the first her features ever wore)—“Pray, were not you invited to dine with the company?”