“In her exemption from hardship, and the education she would receive.” “I grant all that; yet Nature points out, that the interests of a child cannot safely be divided from those of its parents.” “You argue selfishly, Flora. You well know the child would be much better off with me.” “I speak from my heart—the heart of a mother, which cannot, without it belongs to a monster, plead against the welfare of its child. I know how dearly you love her—how painful it is for you to give her up; and that she would possess with you those comforts which, for her sake, we are about to resign. But, if we leave her behind, we part with her ever. She is too young to remember us; and, without knowing us, how could she love us?” “She would be taught to love you.” “Her love would be of a very indefinite character. She would be told that she had a father and mother in a distant land, and be taught to mention us daily in her prayers. But where would be the faith, the endearing confidence, the holy love, with which a child, brought up under the parental roof, regards the authors of its being. The love which falls like dew from heaven upon the weary heart, which forms a balm for every sorrow, a solace for every care,—without its refreshing influence, what would the wealth of the world be to us?” Flora’s heart swelled, and her eyes filled with tears. The eloquence of an angel at that moment would have failed in persuading her to part with her child. Never did these painful feelings press more heavily on Flora’s mind, than when all was done in the way of preparation; when her work was all finished, her trunks all packed, her little bills in the town all paid, her faithful domestics discharged, and nothing remained of active employment to hinder her from perpetually brooding over the sad prospect before her. She went to spend a last day at the old Hall, to bid farewell to the old familiar haunts, endeared to her from childhood. “Flora, you must keep up your spirits,” said her mother, kissing her tenderly; “nor let this parting weigh too heavily upon your heart. We shall all meet again.” “In heaven, I hope, Mother.” “Yes, and on earth.” “Oh, no; it is useless to hope for that. No, never again on earth.” “Always hope for the best, Flora; it is my plan. I have found it true wisdom. Put on your bonnet, and take a ramble through the garden and meadows; it will refresh you after so many harassing thoughts. Your favourite trees are in full leaf, the hawthorn hedges in blossom, and the nightingales sing every evening in the wood-lane. You cannot feel miserable among such sights and sounds of beauty in this lovely month of May, or you are not the same Flora I ever knew you.” “Ah, just the same faulty, impulsive, enthusiastic creature I ever was, dear mother. No change of circumstances will, I fear, change my nature; and the sight of these dear old haunts will only deepen the regret I feel at bidding them adieu.”