This was a triumph so agreeable to her, that she immediately pardoned the offence; but the offender did not so easily pardon her. “Good morning, ladies,” said Lord Elmwood, rising to go away. “My Lord,” said Miss Woodley, “you promised Miss Milner to accompany her one evening to the opera; this is opera night.” “Will you go, my Lord?” asked Miss Milner, in a voice so soft, that he seemed as if he wished, but could not resist it. “I am to dine at Mr. Fenton’s to-day,” he replied; “and if he and his sister will go, and you will allow them part of your box, I will promise to come.” This was a condition by no means acceptable to her; but as she felt a desire to see him in company of his intended bride, (for she fancied she could perceive his secret sentiments, could she once see them together) she answered not ungraciously, “Yes, my compliments to Mr. and Miss Fenton, and I hope they will favour me with their company.” “Then, Madam, if they come, you may expect me—else not.” He bowed and left the room. All the day was passed in anxious expectation by Miss Milner, what would be the event of the evening: for upon her penetration that evening all her future prospects she thought depended. If she saw by his looks, by his words, or assiduities, that he loved Miss Fenton, she flattered herself she would never think of him again with hope; but if she observed him treat her with inattention or indifference, she would cherish, from that moment, the fondest expectations. Against that short evening her toilet was consulted the whole day: the alternate hope and fear which fluttered in her heart, gave a more than usual brilliancy to her eyes, and more than usual bloom to her complection. But vain was her beauty; vain all her care to decorate that beauty; vain her many looks to her box-door in hopes to see it open—Lord Elmwood never came. The music was discord—every thing she saw was disgusting—in a word, she was miserable. She longed impatiently for the curtain to drop, because she was uneasy where she was—yet she asked herself, “Shall I be less unhappy at home? Yes; at home I shall see Lord Elmwood, and that will be happiness. But he will behold me with neglect, and that will be misery! Ungrateful man! I will no longer think of him.” Yet could she have thought of him, without joining in the same idea Miss Fenton, her anguish had been supportable; but while she painted them as lovers, the tortures of the rack are but a few degrees more painful than those which she endured. There are but few persons who ever felt the real passion of jealousy, because few have felt the real passion of love; but with those who have experienced them both, jealousy not only affects the mind, but every fibre of their frame; and Miss Milner’s every limb felt agonizing torment, when Miss Fenton, courted and beloved by Lord Elmwood, was present to her imagination.