inviter.--“Dearest cousin,” said Elinor, answering, for the first time, this affectionate appeal with a faint and ghastly smile--“I have so many enemies within these walls, that I can no longer encounter them with safety to my life.”--“Enemies!” repeated Margaret.--“Yes, dearest cousin--there is not a spot where _he_ trod--not a prospect on which he has gazed--not an echo which has repeated the sound of his voice,--that does not send daggers through my heart, which those who wish me to live would not willingly see infixed any longer.” To the emphatic agony with which these words were uttered, Margaret had nothing to reply but with tears; and Elinor set out on her journey to the relative of her mother, a rigid Puritan, who resided in Yorkshire. “As the carriage was ordered for her departure, Mrs Ann, supported by her female attendants, stood on the draw-bridge to take leave of her niece, with solemn and affectionate courtesy. Margaret wept bitterly, and aloud, as she stood at a casement, and waved her hand to Elinor. Her aunt never shed a tear, till out of the presence of the domestics,--but when all was over,--“she entered into her chamber, and wept there.” “When her carriage had driven some miles from the Castle, a servant on a fleet horse followed it at full speed with Elinor’s lute, which had been forgotten,--it was offered to her, and after viewing it for some moments with a look in which memory struggled with grief, she ordered its strings to be broken on the spot, and proceeded on her journey. “The retreat to which Elinor had retired, did not afford her the tranquillity she expected. Thus, change of place always deceives us with the tantalizing hope of relief, as we toss on the feverish bed of life. “She went in a faint expectation of the revival of her religious feelings--she went to wed, amid the solitude and desert where she had first known him, the immortal bridegroom, who would never desert her as the mortal one had done,--but she did not find him there--the voice of God was no longer heard in the garden--either her religious sensibility had abated, or those from whom she first received the impression, had no longer power to renew it, or perhaps the heart which has exhausted itself on a mortal object, does not find its powers soon recruited to meet the image of celestial beneficence, and exchange at once the visible for the invisible,--the felt and present, for the future and the unknown.