It was several days after their arrival at Walbourne before they were visited by any of the De Courcy family. Undeceived in his hopes of Laura's regard, Montague was almost reluctant to see her again. Yet from the hour when he observed Lady Pelham's carriage drive up the avenue, he had constantly chosen to study at a window which looked towards Walbourne. Laura, too, often looked towards Norwood, excusing to herself the apparent neglect of her friends, by supposing that they had not been informed of her arrival. Lady Pelham was abroad superintending her gardeners, and Laura employed in her own apartment, when she was called to receive De Courcy. For the first time since the wreck of all her hopes, joy flushed the wan cheek of Laura, and fired her eye with transient lustre. 'I shall hear the voice of friendship once more,' said she, and she hastened down stairs with more speed than suited her but half-recovered strength. 'Dear Mr De Courcy,' she cried, joyfully advancing towards him! De Courcy scarcely ventured to raise his eyes. Laura held out her hand to him. 'She loves a libertine!' thought he, and, scarcely touching it, he drew back. With grief and surprise, Laura read the cold and melancholy expression of his face. Her feeble spirits failed under so chilling a reception; and while, in a low tremulous voice, she inquired for Mrs and Miss De Courcy, unbidden tears wandered down her cheeks. In replying, Montague again turned his eyes towards her; and, shocked at the paleness and dejection of her altered countenance, remembered only Laura ill and in sorrow. 'Good Heavens!' he exclaimed, with a voice of the tenderest interest, 'Laura--Miss Montreville, you are ill--you are unhappy!' Laura, vexed that her weakness should thus extort compassion, hastily dried her tears. 'I have been ill,' said she, 'and am still so weak that any trifle can discompose me.' Montague's colour rose. 'It is then a mere trifle in her eyes,' thought he, 'that I should meet her with coldness.' 'And yet,' continued Laura, reading mortification in his face, 'it is no trifle to fear that I have given offence where I owe so much gratitude.' 'Talk not of gratitude, I beseech you,' said De Courcy, 'I have no claim, no wish, to excite it.' 'Mr De Courcy,' cried Laura, bursting into tears of sad remembrance, 'has all your considerate friendship, all your soothing kindness to him who is gone, no claim to the gratitude of his child!' Montague felt that he stood at this moment upon dangerous ground, and he gladly availed himself of this opportunity to quit it. He led Laura to talk of her father, and of the circumstances of his death; and was not ashamed to mingle sympathetic tears with those which her narrative wrung from her. In her detail, she barely hinted at the labour by which she had supported her father; and avoided all allusion to the wants which she had endured. If any thing could have exalted her in the opinion of