Whilst they were at breakfast the next morning in Lady Delacour’s dressing-room, Marriott knocked at the door, and immediately opening it, exclaimed in a joyful tone, “Miss Portman, they’re eating it! Ma’am, they’re eating it as fast as ever they can!” “Bring them in; your lady will give you leave, Marriott, I fancy,” said Miss Portman. Marriott brought in her gold fishes; some green leaves were floating on the top of the water in the glass globe. “See, my lady,” said she, “what Miss Portman has been so good as to bring from Oakly-park for my poor gold fishes, who, I am sure, ought to be much obliged to her, as well as myself.” Marriott set the globe beside her lady, and retired. “From Oakly-park! And by what name impossible to pronounce must I call these green leaves, to please botanic ears?” said Lady Delacour. “This,” replied Belinda, “is what ‘Th’unlearned, duckweed--learned, lemna, call; and it is to be found in any ditch or standing pool.” “And what possessed you, my dear, for the sake of Marriott and her gold fishes, to trouble yourself to bring such stuff a hundred and seventy miles?” “To oblige little Charles Percival,” said Miss Portman. “He was anxious to keep his promise of sending it to your Helena. She found out in some book that she was reading with him last summer, that gold fishes are fond of this plant; and I wish,” added Belinda, in a timid voice, “that she were here at this instant to see them eat it.” Lady Delacour was silent for some minutes, and kept her eye steadily upon the gold fishes. At length she said, “I never shall forget how well the poor little creature behaved about those gold fishes. I grew amazingly fond of her whilst she was with me. But you know, circumstanced as I was, after you left me, I could not have her at home.” “But now I am here,” said Belinda, “will she he any trouble to you? And will she not make your home more agreeable to you, and to Lord Delacour, who was evidently very fond of her?” “Ah, my dear!” said Lady Delacour, “you forget, and so do I at times, what I have to go through. It is in vain to talk, to think of making home, or any place, or any thing, or any person, agreeable to me now. What am I? The outside rind is left--the sap is gone. The tree lasts from day to day by miracle--it cannot last long. You would not wonder to hear me talk in this way, if you knew the terrible time I had last night after we parted. But I have these nights constantly now. Let us talk of something else. What have you there--a manuscript?” “Yes, a little journal of Edward Percival’s, which he sent for the entertainment of Helena.”