After an evening, passed in conversation, cheerful at least, though little worth recording, and a night consumed in sleep, of which no record can be taken, Robert De Lancaster rose with the sun, and, after about five hours travel, was set down in safety with his friend the colonel at his castle door, where Cecilia met him with a smiling welcome, and a happy report, that all was well. This report was in a few minutes after confirmed by Mr. Llewellyn, who had the health of the lady above stairs under his care. Mr. Philip also presented himself, and our hero John, (though last and least) exhibited his person, and seemed perfectly well satisfied with the reception, that was given him. Llewellyn was a man of information, and had a spirit of enquiry, by which he became to the full as deep in the secrets of the families he visited, as in those of the medicines he administered. To Sir Owen at all times, sick or well, he had free access, and he paid him more than professional attendance: he now brought the news of Mrs. David Owen’s arrival at Penruth Abbey. He had seen her, and being as usual in a communicative vein, he proceeded to launch out into many of those trivial particulars, which are of easy carriage, and with which gentlemen of his vocation are apt to enrich their conversation to the great edification and amusement of their employers. Mr. Llewellyn would not positively pronounce Mrs. David Owen to be a beauty, yet he was aware that many people would call her pretty; she was not however to his taste: there was a want of sensibility and a certain delicacy of expression, which in his conception of the female character (and here he addressed himself to Cecilia) was the very _crisis_ of all that is charming in woman. You mean _criterion_, my friend, said De Lancaster, but you are _in the shop_, and there errors are excepted; so go on; proceed with your description.