The last of a house whose branches have dropt off one by one,—whose records are filled with those who died in their youth,—child of a brother in whom I once cherished all the active hopes I never indulged for myself, judge how precious you are in my sight. I must have you in my own care again,—I must have my child home."
Long and bitterly did Emily weep over this letter,—she started with horror from herself. Was it possible that she could feel the faintest wish for delay? She recalled the many happy hours she had passed among the old trees, or reading aloud to her uncle some book whose delight was too great to keep to herself,—she thought of favourite walks; but in the midst of all these recollections she found herself holding her breath to catch a distant sound of Lorraine's step, or a tone of his voice; and her heart sank cold and dead, when she remembered that in a few days she should listen for them in vain. It was with a feeling of atonement she hurried her preparations; and yet when the morning of departure came, it seemed scarcely possible it could have come so soon.
No time passes so rapidly as that of painful
