During a visit to some relatives in London, Emily became acquainted with Philip Hayforth; and his agreeable manners and person, his intelligent conversation and devotion to herself, had quickly made an impression upon feelings which, though susceptible, were fastidious, and therefore still untouched. Then, too, the romantic ardor with which his attachment was expressed, the enthusiasm he manifested for whatever was great, good, or beautiful, aroused in Emily all the latent poetry of her nature. Naturally imaginative, and full even of passionate tenderness, but diffident and sensitive, she had hitherto, from an instinctive consciousness that they would be misunderstood or disapproved, studiously concealed her deeper feelings. Hence had been generated in her character a degree of thoughtfulness and reserve unusual in one of her years. Now, however, that she beheld the ideas and aspirations she had so long deemed singular, perhaps reprehensible, shadowed forth more powerfully and definitely by a mind more mature and a spirit more daring than her own, her heart responded to its more vigorous counterpart; and at the magic touch of sympathy, the long pent-up waters flowed freely. She loved, was beloved, and asked no more of destiny. It was not, it may be supposed, without some reluctance that Colonel Sherwood consented to the demolition of the aerial castles of which his beautiful Emily had so long been the subject and the tenant, and made up his mind to see her the wife of a man who, though of respectable parentage, could boast neither title nor pedigree, and was only the junior partner in a mercantile firm. But then young Hayforth bore the most honorable character; his prospects were said to be good, and his manners unexceptionable; and, above all, Emily was evidently much attached to him; and remembering the days of his own early love, the father's heart of the aristocratic old colonel was fairly melted, and he consented to receive the young merchant as his son-in-law. The marriage, however, was not to take place till the spring of the following year. Meanwhile the lovers agreed to solace the period of their separation by long and frequent letters. Philip's last words to Emily, as he handed her into the postchaise in which she was to commence her homeward journey, were, "Now write to me very often, my own dearest Emily, for I shall never be happy but when hearing from you or writing to you; and if you are long answering my letters, I shall be miserable, and perhaps jealous." She could only answer by a mute sign, and the carriage drove away. Poor, agitated Emily, half happy, half sad, leaned back in it, and indulged in that feminine luxury--a hearty fit of tears. As for Philip, he took a few turns in the park, walking as if for a wager, and feeling sensible of a sort of coldness and dreariness about every object which he had never remarked before. Then he suddenly recollected that he must