In a few minutes my attention was called from Malcolm, by the appearance of a beautiful apparition, which gliding softly by me, told Lady Maclairn that supper was served. She was retreating with the same light foot, when she hesitated, and courtesying to Sir Murdock, she said with gentle accents, she was rejoiced to see him. “Thank you, my dear Mary,” was his laconic reply, at the same time taking her hand. As the beautiful phantom passed me, she blushed, and quickened her pace. “Good Heavens!” cried I, “why, Sir Murdock, how has it happened that you did not prepare me for the sight of that angelic creature, now gone out of the room! I I never beheld so lovely a girl!” “She is indeed, a very beautiful creature,” answered Lady Maclairn in an under-toned voice. “She is Miss Flint’s niece, and lives with her here.” We moved to the supping room; and I eagerly looked for the niece, recollecting Mr. Woodley’s history. “Do we not wait for the young lady?” asked I. “Oh, dear no,” answered Miss Flint, commencing with a hot lobster, “Mary does not sup with us.” Malcolm pursed up his rosy lips, as if to whistle, and his knuckles gave the tune of “The Babes in the Wood.” I became tired in a minute, and as _dry_ as the dry toast I swallowed. Willing to reserve my petulant humour for this ungracious aunt’s sole use, I retired to my room as soon as the cloth was removed. I found, as I had suspected, the indefatigable Mrs. Allen still engaged in arranging her _pet’s_ clothes. Before I could begin my lecture she eagerly asked me whether I had seen Miss Flint’s orphan niece. “I never was more ashamed of a mistake in my life,” pursued she; “but after you left me I began to unpack what I knew you would want in the morning.” A maid-servant entered to take my orders for supper; she mentioned several things, but I requested a sandwich and a glass of table beer: these were brought and placed on the table. Some little time after, some one tapped at the door, and the prettiest girl I ever saw in my life entered with a small waiter, on which was a tart and some cream. “I have ventured to intrude, Madam,” said she, “in the hopes that you may be induced to add something to your supper.” She glanced her eyes to the sandwich, which had remained untouched. “Permit me to assist you,” added she, placing her dainties on the table, “let me try to uncord that box whilst you take some refreshment.” Thinking from her dress that she was a domestic, I complied and sat down to eat my supper: during this interval I looked at her with admiration; which soon changed to pity, when I saw how delicate she was, and what hands I had employed. “I beg,” said I, “you will cut the cord, you seem no more equal to it than myself. You are not strong, my poor child; your labours, I trust are light here.” She blushed, and her sweet eyes filled with tears. “My feebleness is a misfortune,” replied she, “which I owe in part to the tenderness with which I was reared.