"In this way, Madam, does Zorilda pour out her grief to me. You know nothing of it, for she thinks it her duty not to broach a subject which you have never touched upon with her. She is wretched as she is lovely and virtuous! Spare her, I conjure you, and let not her feelings be wounded; you may have to answer for her life. When I leave Henbury, I may be able to devise some scheme for the future. I have a sister who lives in Switzerland, and I will----" Just as Mr. Playfair uttered these words, the door opened, and Zorilda entered the room, radiant with bloom, such as the breath of morn dapples on the velvet cheek of youth. Her long dark eye-lashes were moistened by a tear, and looked like the silky grass which waves on the streamlet's verge before the sun has smiled away the dew-drop which glitters through its graceful fringes, while with light and gentle step she pressed forward to Mrs. Hartland, holding in her hand a bunch of half-blown roses. "Here is my first offering from the little tree which Algernon brought me last year, from Marchdale Court; I have kept it secret to surprise dear Mamma." It was an unlucky moment, and the association of ideas produced by the few words which Zorilda had spoken, was at that instant peculiarly unfortunate. Mrs. Hartland forced a reluctant smile, accompanying a frigid "Thank you," which chilled Zoé to the heart. "What is the matter, dearest Mamma? are you ill? or has any thing happened to displease you?" "Do not tease me, Zoé; I was speaking on business of importance with Mr. Playfair; and, my dear, you are growing too old to say _Mamma_. I wish that you would begin to call me Mrs. Hartland." Zorilda had an intuitive delicacy of character which gave her sufficient command over her feelings to prevent a _scene_. Mrs. Hartland was too unlike her in almost every respect to have ever been the friend of her choice; but she was the only one who had occupied the place of Mother to her, and her whole soul was formed to gratitude and affection; but she had now for the first time experienced repulse, and minds of sensibility do not require to be told what misery may be inflicted on a confiding spirit, by the rejection of its tender sympathies. Zorilda was stung to the quick, but restraining every expression of excitement, she glided hastily from the apartment, carrying with her the unwelcome flowers, which she perceived afforded no gratification.