All nature seemed to respire more freely as well as myself, after Mr. Snughead’s departure. The evening was indeed an Italian one, and Lady Maclairn contrived to impart to it the charms which so often embellished those at Heathcot. We had a regale of fruit in the avenue, and every one was freed from constraint, and disposed for enjoyment. No, your poor Rachel was not in harmony with the scene. My spirits had been exhausted, and I felt unusually languid. I found a luxury in tears, and I sauntered from the circle. I could not check my imagination: it fondly traced our happy days. The regales of strawberries in the root-house; our Bacchanalian revelries under the mulberry trees, where we retaliated the mischief done to our frocks, by smearing Horace’s face with the impurpled juice; our dear father’s plots and contrivances, at hide and seek, and our mother’s tales of wisdom and wonder! Oh, days of innocence and of peace! how soon departed! whilst the remembrances of your pure joys serve but to heighten the contrast of those hours of my existence which are now lost to me! What has Rachel Cowley in common with such beings as those who have tormented her to-day, thought I! There are those who maintain, that in order to love virtue, we must know vice: but far be from me such experiments! I want no hideous contrasts to shew me her genuine work! I have witnessed that all her “paths are pleasantness,” and all her purposes gracious! What, under her benign influence, has been done with that turbulent self-will which, when a child, menaced me with destruction! of that ignorance and presumption which would have rendered me pernicious to my fellow-creatures! “What had I been, Lucy, had I not been sheltered in the very bosom of virtue? and am I a companion for a Miss Flint, or a Mr. Snughead?” I was roused from a train of thoughts like these by the sweet Mary. She approached me. “Are you indisposed, my dear Miss Cowley? You look fatigued,—take my arm: we will retire to the house.” I raised my tearful eyes; the very image of pity binding up the wounded foot of the pilgrim, met them. I recollected myself. I remembered it was _Mary’s_ holiday; and that my dejection clouded her hour of satisfaction. I pressed her hand, and joined my friends with assumed alacrity. She understood me, and I was recompensed for my exertions. Gaiety gave place to a rational conversation. Captain Flint talked of America, and my spirits settled into composure; but I have been too busy to-day for sleep, and you have to read my nightly labours. It is now the hour when the disturbed spirits are recalled home. I will obey the voice of chanticleer, and go to bed. Sleeping or waking, I shall ever be your affectionate, RACHEL COWLEY. NOTE TO THE READER.