Though Emily’s marriage afforded a pretext for selling off the English property according to the _letter_ of General Douglas’ will, his sister considered that to delay its sale was more in agreement with the _spirit_ of his intentions, and she had consequently no hesitation in determining that Frederick should try the experiment of remaining in Hampshire for some time, while her son, implicitly relying on the counsels of his mother, acquiesced with alacrity in whatever she thought right. Marsden became the abode of whatever most exalts human nature, and the Douglas family possess the art of rendering virtue and knowledge attractive in such a degree, that their anxiety is to avoid, not to court acquaintance with the great. Their society is universally sought after, and none can exceed it. Emily and her husband, as the _avant couriers_ of Mrs. Douglas, accompanied Mr. Otway to Ireland, and have purchased Mount Prospect, to which they have given its ancient Irish appellation of Cairndruid, and which they are altering and beautifying, for their future home, when the family of Glenalta shall return to their dearly-loved abode. Mr. Oliphant, who is a perfect pattern of what every clergyman ought to be, and aided in his pious labours by an excellent sister, lives but to do good and make his parishioners happy. When he saw the circle of those friends, so justly valued, once more in their accustomed places, his glistening eye and uplifted hands seemed to say with old Simeon, “Let thy servant now depart in peace.” The Sandfords, Stanleys, Mrs. Fitzroy, and various other agreeable people have had happy meetings at Marsden; and I will venture a prophecy, that Frederick, who longs to regain his native shores, will one day prevail upon the elegant Julia Sandford to bear him company thither. If strongly tempted, too, to lay a wager, though I do not consider _bets_ to be the most convincing arguments, I might be persuaded to risk a few pounds upon the probability of two other matches, viz. one between Charlotte Douglas and Algernon Stanhope, and the other between an elder brother of Stanley’s and Louisa Howard. As to my own loves, if I have any, my dear Reader, you cannot expect me to divulge them: “Sink or swim, I carry my secrets with me,” which was the sagacious resolve of Mrs. Faulkner, wife to the celebrated George, of editorial memory, who asked her, on her death-bed, whether or not she had been a faithful _sposa_. You will be glad to hear that Lawrence cleans the gravel walks still at Glenalta, and is never weary of recounting stories to his young mistress when she walks in the shrubbery, of all that had happened in her absence, Lisfarne looks glad once more, and the Beacon Hill is burned to brown from all the fires that have spread their glow over the beautiful bay which it overlooks.