As if corrected, the young girl dropped her arms to her sides and stood like a statue. “Be like him in everything, dearest child,” said the old man, “if you would have my heart all your own.” “I must be what I am,” said she, solemnly. “Just so, Josephine; well said, my good girl. Be natural,” said Miss Dinah, kissing her, “and our love will never fail you.” There was the faintest little smile of acknowledgment to this speech; but faint as it was, it dimpled her cheek, and seemed to have left a pleasant expression on her face, for old Peter gazed on her with increased delight as he said, “That was George's own smile; just the way he used to look, half grave, half merry. Oh, how you bring him back tome!” “You see, my dear child, that you are one of us; let us hope you will share in the happiness this gives us.” The girl listened attentively to Miss Dinah's words, and after a pause of apparent thought over them, said, “I will hope so.” “May we leave this, Dinah? Are we free to get away?” whispered Barrington to his sister, for an unaccountable oppression seemed to weigh on him, both from the place and its belongings. “Yes; Josephine has only one good-bye to say; her trunks are already on the carriage, and there is nothing more to detain us.” “Go and say that farewell, dear child,” said he, affectionately; “and be speedy, for there are longing hearts here to wish for your return.” With a grave and quiet mien she walked away, and as she gained the door turned round and made a deep, respectful courtesy,--a movement so ceremonious that the old man involuntarily replied to it by a bow as deep and reverential. CHAPTER XXVIII. GEORGE'S DAUGHTER I suppose, nay, I am certain, that the memory of our happiest moments ought ever to be of the very faintest and weakest, since, could we recall them in all their fulness and freshness, the recollection would only serve to deepen the gloom of age, and imbitter all its daily trials. Nor is it, altogether, a question of memory! It is in the very essence of happiness to be indescribable. Who could impart in words the simple pleasure he has felt as he lay day-dreaming in the deep grass, lulled by the humming insect, or the splash of falling water, with teeming fancy peopling the space around, and blending the possible with the actual? The more exquisite the sense of enjoyment, the more will it defy delineation. And so, when we come to describe the happiness of others, do we find our words weak, and our attempt mere failure. It is in this difficulty that I now find myself. I would tell, if I could, how enjoyably the Barringtons sauntered about through the old villages on the Rhine and up the Moselle, less travelling than strolling along in purposeless indolence, resting here, and halting there, always interested, always pleased. It was strange into what perfect harmony these three natures--unlike as they were--blended!