Then, stretching herself upon a couch, she motioned me to a capacious easy-chair that stood opposite—not before the fire, but before a wide open window; for it was summer, be it remembered; a sweet, warm evening in the latter half of June. I sat for a moment in silence, enjoying the still, pure air, and the delightful prospect of the park that lay before me, rich in verdure and foliage, and basking in yellow sunshine, relieved by the long shadows of declining day. But I must take advantage of this pause: I had inquiries to make, and, like the substance of a lady’s postscript, the most important must come last. So I began with asking after Mr. and Mrs. Murray, and Miss Matilda and the young gentlemen. I was told that papa had the gout, which made him very ferocious; and that he would not give up his choice wines, and his substantial dinners and suppers, and had quarrelled with his physician, because the latter had dared to say that no medicine could cure him while he lived so freely; that mamma and the rest were well. Matilda was still wild and reckless, but she had got a fashionable governess, and was considerably improved in her manners, and soon to be introduced to the world; and John and Charles (now at home for the holidays) were, by all accounts, “fine, bold, unruly, mischievous boys.” “And how are the other people getting on?” said I—“the Greens, for instance?” “Ah! Mr. Green is heart-broken, you know,” replied she, with a languid smile: “he hasn’t got over his disappointment yet, and never will, I suppose. He’s doomed to be an old bachelor; and his sisters are doing their best to get married.” “And the Melthams?” “Oh, they’re jogging on as usual, I suppose: but I know very little about any of them—except Harry,” said she, blushing slightly, and smiling again. “I saw a great deal of him while we were in London; for, as soon as he heard we were there, he came up under pretence of visiting his brother, and either followed me, like a shadow, wherever I went, or met me, like a reflection, at every turn. You needn’t look so shocked, Miss Grey; I was very discreet, I assure you, but, you know, one can’t help being admired. Poor fellow! He was not my only worshipper; though he was certainly the most conspicuous, and, I think, the most devoted among them all. And that detestable—ahem—and Sir Thomas chose to take offence at him—or my profuse expenditure, or something—I don’t exactly know what—and hurried me down to the country at a moment’s notice; where I’m to play the hermit, I suppose, for life.” And she bit her lip, and frowned vindictively upon the fair domain she had once so coveted to call her own. “And Mr. Hatfield,” said I, “what is become of him?” Again she brightened up, and answered gaily—“Oh! he made up to an elderly spinster, and married her, not long since; weighing her heavy purse against her faded charms, and expecting to find that solace in gold which was denied him in love—ha, ha!”