Nor did she repine, like Mr. Sandford and Miss Woodley, at her father’s inattention to her during his malady, for she did not hope like them—she did not hope he would behold her, even in dying. But notwithstanding his seeming indifference, while his indisposition continued, no sooner was he recovered so as to receive the congratulations of his friends, than there was no one person he evidently showed so much satisfaction at seeing, as Miss Woodley. She waited upon him timorously, and with more than ordinary distaste at his late conduct, when he put out his hand with the utmost warmth to receive her; drew her to him; saluted her, (an honour he had never in his life conferred before) with signs of the sincerest friendship and affection. Sandford was present; and ever associating the idea of Matilda with Miss Woodley, felt his heart bound with a triumph it had not enjoyed for many a day. Matilda listened with delight to the recital Miss Woodley gave on her return, and many times while it lasted exclaimed, “She was happy.” But poor Matilda’s sudden transports of joy, which she termed happiness, were not made for long continuance; and if she ever found cause for gladness, she far oftener had motives for grief. As Mr. Sandford was sitting with her and Miss Woodley, one evening about a week after, a person rang at the bell and inquired for him: on being told of it by the servant, he went to the door of the apartment, and cried, “Oh! is it you? Come in.” An elderly man entered, who had been for many years the head gardener at Elmwood House; a man of honesty and sobriety, and with an indigent family of aged parents, children, and other relations, who subsisted wholly on the income arising from his place. The ladies, as well as Sandford, knew him well, and they all, almost at once, asked, “What was the matter?” for his looks told them something distressful had befallen him. “Oh, Sir!” said he to Sandford, “I come to intreat your interest.” “In what, Edwards?” said Sandford with a mild voice; for when his assistance was supplicated in distress, his rough tones always took a plaintive key. “My Lord has discharged me from his service!” (returned Edwards trembling, and the tears starting in his eyes) “I am undone, Mr. Sandford, unless you plead for me.” “I will,” said Sandford, “I will.” “And yet I am almost afraid of your success,” replied the man, “for my Lord has ordered me out of his house this moment; and though I knelt down to him to be heard, he had no pity.” Matilda sighed from the bottom of her heart, and yet she envied this poor man, who had been kneeling to her father. “What was your offence?” cried Sandford. The man hesitated; then looking at Matilda, said, “I’ll tell you, Sir, some other time.” “Did you name me, before Lord Elmwood?” cried she eagerly, and terrified. “No, Madam,” replied he, “but I unthinkingly spoke of my poor Lady who is dead and gone.” Matilda burst into tears.