"No; she and Miss Harcourt were talking much too soberly to suit me this evening. Then I went to tease papa but he let me do just what I pleased, being too engrossed with some disagreeable farmers, to notice me, so in despair I came here. Why, Ellen, you look as if this were any day but what it is; unless you cry because you are getting old, which I am very often inclined to do; only think, I am sixteen next December--how dreadful! I do wish my birthday were in June." "And what difference would that make?" "A great deal, mamma; only look how lovely every thing is now; nature is quite juvenile, and has dressed herself in so many colors, and seems to promise so many more beauties, that, whether we will or no, we must feel gay and young; but in December, though it is very delightful in the house, it is so drear and withered, without, that if born in such a season, one must feel withered too." "When do you intend to speak in prose, Emmeline?" "Never, if I can help it mamma; but I must learn the lesson before I go to London, I suppose; that horrid London! that is one reason why I regret the years going so fast; I know I shall leave all my happiness here." "You will be more ungrateful, than I believe you, if you do," replied her mother. "So pray banish such foolish fancies as fast as you can; for if you encourage them, I shall certainly suppose that it is only Oakwood you love; and that neither your father nor myself, nor any member of your family, has any part in your affections, for we shall be with you, wherever you are." "Dear mamma, I spoke at random, forgive me," replied Emmeline, instantly self-reproached. "I am indeed the giddy brain papa calls me; but you can not tell how I love this dear old home." "Indeed I think I can, my dear child, loving it as I do myself; but come, we shall have no time for our visit, if we do not go at once."