Adelaide, though possessed of every requisite to grace the most refined circles, appeared yet more lovely in the calmer occupations of the country. In the easy intercourse of her immediate friends her shyness forsook her, and she did justice to the beauty of her character. All he had seen of her, all he had heard of her since she came to Epworth, tended to foster his luckless passion. The poor had already learnt to bless her name. With her wonted enthusiasm she had commenced plans for their improvement; and though her schemes might perhaps be a little visionary, Warenne was not inclined to quarrel with their want of practicability, while they developed the benevolent spirit of their author. Adelaide also had reasons for feeling distressed at the interview. She had perceived her father’s manner to Warenne, and became satisfied that Warenne could not honourably have pursued any other line than that he had chosen; but her conviction on this point, while it took from her the little anger she had conceived against him, made it difficult for her to preserve the coldness of manner which she had latterly assumed; thus both parties felt awkwardly situated. It is true, that one word might have produced a right understanding between them; but that word, Adelaide could not, and Warenne would not, speak. Still the visit could not be passed in silence;—at least so thought Warenne, and acting upon this supposition, in a shy and constrained manner, he asked, “Have you ridden much, Miss Marston, since your return to the country? I am informed there are beautiful rides in this neighbourhood.” “No! not much; my father is not able to ride far, and Henry is always out shooting. He has promised, however, to ride with me in a day or two.” “You must make him keep his promise quickly, or the leaves will be off the trees, and they will have lost their autumnal beauty.” “I fear so.” How gladly would Warenne have offered her his escort, had he dared! how gladly would Adelaide have accepted it! But this might not be; and to check the vivid workings of his imagination, he hastily changed the subject. “I hear we are to have a gay neighbourhood this winter; Frank, who, I believe, has an instinctive knowledge of a ball, as a vulture of a horse that drops in the desert, tells me that the Merivales and Dashworths each mean to have one in the course of the next month.” “I have not the pleasure of knowing them,” observed Adelaide, coldly. “Of course they will call upon you, as an act of civility towards a person newly come into the county.” “Perhaps so; but they have not visited me yet.” Adelaide’s manner did not contribute to restore poor Warenne to serenity of mind.