MRS. JERNINGHAM spent her autumn at Spa, where Mrs. Colton, the amiable dragon, drank the waters with the patient regularity of a valetudinarian, and wondered at the Continental toilettes with the pious wonder of a well-bred provincial Englishwoman, to whom these daring eccentricities of custom--these _bottes à mi-jambe, en cuir de Russie_, these dainty braided jackets _à la Rigolboche_, these robes _à queue-sans-fin_, and _chapeaux à l’infiniment petit_--were all so much confusion, the climax of horror and infamy foreshadowed by the Prophet, the abomination of desolation sitting in the high places. For Emily Jerningham, life at Spa seemed a very dull business. She had no pet ailment to be subjugated by the mineral waters. The pine-woods and stately avenues were very beautiful on fine summer mornings, or beneath the broad glory of the harvest moon; but she had seen them before. It seemed to her as if she knew every pine on the steep hillside, every branch of the lofty oaks in the valley, every hard, worldly face that was to be seen in the Kursaal. Was there not something wanting in her life, a something for lack of which she must needs be lonely and purposeless wherever she went? All the pleasures and luxuries that wealth can buy; all the consideration that a good old name can exact; all the respect that a reputation which, despite an occasional shrug from some Rochefoucauld of this generation, may fairly be called stainless, can command--were at the disposal of this fortunate lady, and yet she was not happy. She had too much, and too little. If she had been an utterly selfish and narrow-minded woman, she might have found the perfection of bliss in splendid toilettes and well-appointed equipages, an elegant house and distinguished acquaintance; but something more than these was necessary to complete the sum of Mrs. Jerningham’s happiness. “Of what use am I in the world?” she asked herself, wearily, as she drove her graceful pony-carriage through the crowd which admired and envied her. “I am an expense to my husband; a burden and a restraint for Laurence, who no doubt would have married before this, if it were not for me; and a weariness to myself.” Perhaps this unspoken lament might have been translated thus; “I have been here a month, and Mr. Desmond has not found time to come to me. He writes me a hurried letter once in ten days, in which, under an unlimited amount of respect, I perceive the lurking poison of indifference; and I am too proud to tell him how intensely I wish to see him, too proud to confess even to myself the pain I suffer because of his absence.” In bidding adieu to Mrs. Jerningham and her companion at the London Bridge station on the morning of their departure, the editor of the _Areopagus_ had declared that, if he could give himself a holiday, he would take that holiday at Spa; and the eyes of the younger lady had said “Do!” and the proud line of her lips had softened into a grateful smile.