Poor Fanny’s thoughts were soon called off to real and actual sorrow, in which all other griefs were absorbed; and she almost wondered how she ever could have felt so much about any thing that did not concern her mother. Lady Elmsley’s health declined rapidly; and the whole family repaired to Clifton, in hopes that she might derive benefit from the springs. In vain! Fanny was doomed to endure that sorrow, to which, as being in the due course of nature, some say the mind reconciles itself with more calmness than to many others. But notwithstanding all the arguments of cool philosophy, the loss of a parent is one of the most acute and lasting griefs to which human nature is liable. It often befals the young and the prosperous, and, coming upon them in the midst of health, strength, and happiness, finds their minds unprepared and unchastened by any previous suffering. Moreover, it is a loss, absolutely irremediable, which, though time may soften, can in no length of time, ever, ever be replaced. During the whole of her mother’s illness, Fanny was so occupied in her anxious attendance upon her, that every other thought was banished from her mind. When Lady Elmsley once, and once only, alluded to the state of Fanny’s affections, and spoke favourably of an amiable young man, of excellent connexions, and fair prospects, whose attentions had been unequivocal, she was able to assure her mother, with truth, “That although Mr. Lisford had not succeeded in making himself agreeable to her, all prepossession for another was quite over.” It is vain to dwell on the melancholy details of gradual decay. Suffice it to say, that Fanny watched, with agonised feelings, the last moments of a beloved parent; and only conquered her own emotions, to alleviate those of her father. After the funeral, they returned to their desolate home. Their hearts sank within them as they drove along the well-known avenue, which led straight to the front of the house, on which the hatchment met their eyes, for the last half-mile of their approach. Fanny supported her father into the drawing-room, where every object which met their eyes was but a renewal of grief. The easy chair, with cushions of every shape, to procure ease to a frame wearied and worn out—the invalid sofa-table, the footstool, just where Lady Elmsley had last used it—the portable book-case, containing her favourite authors, stood on the table as usual—the large basket of carpet-work, which was deemed too cumbrous to be taken to Clifton—the glass vase, which Fanny always kept replenished with the choicest flowers, and which the gardener had now filled with care, that the room might look cheerful, and which the housemaid had placed on the accustomed spot, all combined to make their return more painful, if possible, than they had anticipated.