I went to church to-day; but the heat is now so over-coming, that I must discontinue my out-door exercise, while it lasts, till the cool of the evening. As I passed Mrs. Ringwood’s, there was she at the open window with her baby, and she nodded and smiled, and cried, “How d’ye do, how d’ye do! You did me so much good! More than a glass of wine!” She was not in low spirits just then, at any rate. And really I don’t believe I could bear her peculiar trials as well as she does—even with a glass of wine! * * * * * Cooler weather again. I went to-day, in the donkey-chair, to call on Mrs. Prout in her new house. It is small but cheerful, with everything clean and fresh. A good deal of her old, heavy furniture has been supplied by less expensive but more modern articles, which are more suitable to the papering and fitting-up of the house; and yet I looked with partiality at a few things that had been rescued from the sale—the old bureau, easy-chair, work-table, &c. When I entered, little Arthur and Alice were the only occupants of the drawing-room, playing, in a corner of it, at “Doctor and Patient.” What imitators children are!—“Well, mum, what is the matter with you, to-day?”—“Oh,” says little, lisping Alice, coughing affectedly, “I have the guitar! (catarrh!)” After shyly exchanging a few words with me, they ran off, just as their mother entered. She is an excellent little woman; there was no display of grief, but deep affliction beneath the surface; and now and then a tear strayed down her cheek, while yet she thankfully spoke of “many alleviations—many mercies.” “But,” as she truly said—“her loss was irreparable.” All the while, there was Mr. Prout’s good-tempered countenance looking down on us from the picture-frame, as if he approved of all she said. It almost startled me when I first went in; and I sedulously avoided looking at it, or even towards it, when his widow was in the room; yet she evidently had gazed on it so continually, that she could now do so without shrinking; and I often observed her eyes turning in that direction, as if the portrait afforded her a sad consolation. She told me, it was quite arranged that Emily should spend the holidays with the Pevenseys; and asked me somewhat anxiously, whether I thought there could be any hopes of its leading to a permanent engagement. As I was not authorized to communicate what Mrs. Pevensey had mentioned in confidence, I only spoke hopefully, and said, I could see no reason why it should not. “Emily is rather afraid of undertaking Miss Pevensey,” said Mrs. Prout. “She thinks she looks too womanly, and probably knows already more than she does herself. But I, who know what is _in_ Emily, have no fears on that score; only, to be sure, she does look—and _is_—very young.” “I don’t think looks much signify,” said I, “if there be self-possession, and a temperate manner.” “And Emily has both,” said Mrs. Prout.