I do not remember mentioning to you the noble apartments which Mrs. Heartley occupies in the Abbey. But her taste has given to them an appearance of comfort, light, and cheerfulness, which in my opinion more than supplies the absence of the magnificence, which gave the finish to dark and richly carved wainscoting and bow windows, half glazed with painted glass. A good selection of books, in handsome glass-cases, gay chintz furniture, and an excellent musical instrument, assuredly suited better the assembled party, and are much more congenial with the love of neatness and order of the present inmates of the house. But should it happen that any of the departed spirits of the “Ingram” race still hover near the spot of their glory, they must, if they be placable, acknowledge, that although cumbrous greatness is fallen, hospitality still retains her empire in the house; and that those vices which ruined themselves and half the county, are buried in the fallen fabric of Gothic ignorance and superstition. After dinner we had music, which at least vied with the lute and virginal of former times. The Heartleys, I find, are all gifted with a taste for harmony. The mother is an excellent performer on the harpsichord; and her daughter shews that skill in the science so necessary in the teacher, to produce a pupil like Alice. Mary was pressed for a song. “I have forgotten all I know for want of practice,” said she with a suppressed sigh. “I will sing with you, my love,” replied Mrs. Heartley, “and we shall manage very well.” She was encouraged, and timidly sung the little ballad of Prior’s, “In vain you tell your panting lover,” with taste and expression. “Bravo, my sweet Mary,” observed Mrs. Heartley with a smile, “you have not forgotten that song at least. You would recover in a month all you have lost.” Elated by this commendation, she turned towards me, and with eagerness observed, that Henry Heartley had taught her not only to sing that song, but to admire the poetry and composition; “for,” added she, “Henry was an Orpheus, even in his cradle! I have heard Mrs. Heartley say, that she used to quiet him when a baby, by playing upon the piano-forte. How happy we used to be when he was here!” Mrs. Wilson’s calling her away prevented Mary from proceeding on a subject which seemed to have placed her heart on her lips. I forgot not to deliver the counsellor’s letter to his old favourite; Mrs. Heartley ran it over with apparent satisfaction, and give it me to peruse. “I will thank him myself,” said she, “for this proof of his remembrance; I needed none of his candour and justice. He knew me before I was a wife, he knew me as one, and he _knows_ that Heartley’s widow lives to honour his memory, and to perpetuate his virtues in his children.” She pressed my hand with emotion, and smiling through the tears which escaped her, observed that she was yet selfish and weak.