As soon as they reached home, Fanny rushed to her room, and there paced the apartment in an agony of mind which frightened herself. She envied Isabella the interest she had excited, while she felt she would rather have died than have betrayed such emotion: yet she was angry with herself for having appeared cold and unfeeling. Presently she heard footsteps approaching her door; and hastily composing her looks, she seized a book, and appeared buried in its contents. It was Lady Elmsley, who came to tell her there was some company expected at dinner. She longed to open her heart to her mother, who, she was sure, by the increased tenderness of her manner, had read the state of her feelings: but Lady Elmsley never sought, or encouraged confidence upon the subject. She saw that Isabella had superseded her Fanny in Lord Delaford’s heart, and that her child’s hopes were blighted—she knew that an acknowledged preference was far more difficult to eradicate than one which had never been confessed—that pride, and constancy, and consistency, had induced many a girl to persevere in a devotion which, if it had never been avowed, would have died away; and she judged of Fanny by the rest of the world. The end of this day passed off as many succeeding ones did—in sad and bitter calmness on the part of Fanny—in flattered vanity, and growing love, on the part of Isabella—in gratitude, admiration, amusement, and pique, which were fast ripening into love, on the part of Lord Delaford. CHAPTER III. Though Marian’s frolic mirth so gay The sultry hay-field cheer, Say, when the short, cold, sunless day, Shall close the parting year, Will her gay smile then beam as bright, And beam for only thee? Will winter’s toils to her seem light As they had seem’d to me? Say, will she trim thy evening hearth? Duteous, thy meal prepare? Nor know, nor dream, a bliss on earth, Save but to see thee there? _Unpublished Poems._