Emily Rainscourt was, at this period, little more than sixteen years old; but it is well known that, in some families, as in some countries, the advance to maturity is much more rapid than in others. Such was the case with our heroine, who, from her appearance, was generally supposed to be at least two years older than she really was, and in her mind she was even more advanced than in her person. Seymour returned to the library, where he found Emily upon the sofa. Her bonnet had been thrown off; and the tears that were coursing down her cheeks were hastily brushed away at his entrance. He perceived it, and felt his case to be still more embarrassing. "When do you go, William?" said Emily, first breaking silence. "To-morrow morning. I have called to return my thanks to your mother, and to you, for your kindness to me;--I shall ever remember it with gratitude." Emily made no answer, but a deep sigh escaped. "I shall," continued Seymour, "be away perhaps for years, and it is doubtful if ever we meet again. Our tracks in life are widely different. I am an orphan, without name or connection--or even home, except through the kindness of my friends: they were right when, in my childhood, they christened me the `King's Own,' for I belong to nobody else. You, Miss Rainscourt," (Emily started, for it was the first time that he had ever called her so, after the first week of their acquaintance), "with every advantage which this world can afford, will soon be called into society, in which I never can have any pretence to enter. You will, in all probability, form a splendid connection before (if ever) we meet again. You have my prayers, and shall have them when seas divide us, for your happiness." Seymour was so choked by his feelings, that he could say no more--and Emily burst into tears. "Farewell, Emily! God in Heaven bless you," said Seymour, recovering his self-possession. Emily, who could not speak, offered her hand. Seymour could not control himself; he pressed her lips with fervour, and darted out of the room. Emily watched him, until he disappeared at the winding of the avenue, and then sat down and wept bitterly. She thought that he was unkind, when he ought to have been most fond--on the eve of a protracted absence. He might have stayed a little longer. He had never behaved so before; and she retired to her room, with her heart panting with anguish and disappointment. She felt how much she loved him, and the acknowledgment was embittered by the idea that this feeling was not reciprocal. The next morning, when the hour had passed at which Seymour had stated that he was to leave the spot, Emily bent her steps to the cottage, that she might, by conversation with her friend Mrs McElvina, obtain, if possible, some clue to the motives which had induced our hero to behave as we have narrated.