Miss Milner looked with surprise that any thing so lightly said, should be so seriously received. The kind Miss Woodley ejaculated a short prayer to herself, that heaven would forgive her young friend the involuntary sin of religious ignorance—while Mrs. Horton, unperceived, as she imagined, made the sign of the cross upon her forehead as a guard against the infectious taint of heretical opinions. This pious ceremony Miss Milner by chance observed, and now shewed such an evident propensity to burst into a fit of laughter, that the good lady of the house could no longer contain her resentment, but exclaimed, “God forgive you,” with a severity so different from the idea which the words conveyed, that the object of her anger was, on this, obliged freely to indulge that impulse which she had in vain been struggling to suppress; and no longer suffering under the agony of restraint, she gave way to her humour, and laughed with a liberty so uncontrolled, that soon left her in the room with none but the tender-hearted Miss Woodley a witness of her folly. “My dear Miss Woodley,” (then cried Miss Milner, after recovering herself) “I am afraid you will not forgive me.” “No, indeed I will not,” returned Miss Woodley. But how unimportant, how weak, how ineffectual are _words_ in conversation—looks and manners alone express—for Miss Woodley, with her charitable face and mild accents, saying she would not forgive, implied only forgiveness—while Mrs. Horton, with her enraged voice and aspect, begging heaven to pardon the offender, palpably said, she thought her unworthy of all pardon. CHAPTER V. Six weeks have now elapsed since Miss Milner has been in London partaking with delight all its pleasures, while Dorriforth has been sighing with apprehension, attending to her with precaution, and praying with zealous fervour for her safety. Her own and her guardian’s acquaintance, and, added to them, the new friendships (to use the unmeaning language of the world) which she was continually forming, crowded so perpetually to the house, that seldom had Dorriforth even a moment left him from her visits or visitors, to warn her of her danger:—yet when a moment offered, he caught it eagerly—pressed the necessity of “Time not always passed in society; of reflection; of reading; of thoughts for a future state; and of virtues acquired to make old age supportable.” That forcible power of genuine feeling, which directs the tongue to eloquence, had its effect while she listened to him, and she sometimes put on the looks and gesture of assent—sometimes even spoke the language of conviction; but this the first call of dissipation would change to ill-timed raillery, or peevish remonstrance, at being limited in delights her birth and fortune entitled her to enjoy.