Lord Sotheron was waiting below, and before they entered the carriage Maria wished to know if he approved of his daughter’s dress and appearance. As she held a candle that he might examine some ornaments he had just given her, he was forcibly struck by the contrast between the glowing cheek; the sparkling eye, the fresh _parure_ of the blooming young girl, and the neglected dress, the homely morning cap, and, above all, the fearful expression of countenance of the mother. A pang of remorse shot through him, and he inquired if she felt ill, in a tone of unusual tenderness. “I am quite well,” she answered, hurriedly, and they went down stairs. She remained suspended till she heard their carriage drive away, when her over-strung nerves gave way, and she flung herself on the sofa, in an agony of tears. She could not go to bed. She felt it impossible to try to sleep while thus constrained to desert the natural duty of a mother. Sick at heart, she sat expecting her daughter’s return, and listening to the eternal carriages rolling in endless succession to scenes where she could not be admitted to watch over her child. At length she heard the growing sound of approaching wheels, and the clatter of the horses’ feet stopping at the door. Emily was surprised to find her still up, but was hastening to describe all the brilliant scene she had witnessed, when her attention was arrested by the woe-worn countenance, and swollen eyes of her mother. “Mamma,” she said, “I will never go out again. I see it makes you unhappy. These foolish flowers, these fine necklaces—how you must have suffered while you were decking me out in them! And I! giddy thing, only thought of the unknown wonders I was going to see. Oh, mamma! how cruel, how unfeeling of me!” “My child, my child,” interrupted Maria; “it is true I have acutely felt seeing you launched on the dangerous and stormy sea of life without my watchful eye to guard you. I should deceive you if I attempted to disguise my pangs of mortified affection, of mortified pride; but believe me, I should suffer far, far more, if I thought my fault condemned my innocent child to a life of seclusion; if I thought she was to be cut out from all society, because I have forfeited my own place in it. I am not so selfish! Mix with the world, dearest Emily, and trust me, that to see you and your brothers good and happy, can now alone give this aching heart one throb of pleasure;” and she pressed her hand to her left side, where she had of late felt considerable pain and uneasiness; “and now, good night, my love, I do not feel quite well.” Habit did not deaden the keenness of her mortification. Every night when Emily returned home, Maria underwent the same ever new sufferings. To her sensitive feelings which were morbidly alive to every the most indifferent circumstance, scarcely a day or an hour passed in which something did not occur which wounded them.