Henry. Far from it, uncle. I very soon took an aversion to her for being so totally unlike. Besides, I set off to join my regiment in Spain, you know.

Sir G. The land of dark eyes and glowing tints; they made a sad fool of you there, I suppose.

Henry. Why, yes, uncle, Donna Seraphina did make an arrant fool of me, I confess. Not that I loved her, but she piqued me so! and tormented me so! I don't know how it was, but I did not fairly extricate myself from her little clutch for three weeks. It was like the clinging hold of a cockchafer.

Sir G. (laughing, and shaking his fingers.) And how did you shake the insect off at last?

Henry. A fine stout English Amazon came to the rescue. She was so ruddy, and hardy, and fearless, and frank, I fancied myself pleased with the contrast.

Sir G. Aye, aye, an honest healthy country-woman is the thing!

Henry. Yes; but Donna Seraphina pointed out her splay foot, while she was fastening a rosette on one of her own fairy slippers. Besides, I found my Amazon was making a dead set at me, and no man can bear that, uncle.

Sir G. Not if he finds it out, nephew, but that his own vanity generally prevents.

Henry. Well, fortunately, I did; so, the campaign being over, I left them all without a regret, and went to Florence.

Sir G. What happened then?

Henry. Why, the third Miss Smilesbury (the beauty of the family) was stung by a mosquito?

Sir G. What was that to you?

Henry. She fainted away on my shoulder.

Sir G. Poor girl! and then you flung cold water in her face, and all that?

Henry. No-her closed lids were furnished with such eye-lashes! Her cheek was so delicately fair! something -like-in short, I did not wish to put an end to her

swoon.

Sir G. You cruel dog! How long did you leave her in that pitiable state?

Henry. Oh! some people came in, and then she opened her eyes languidly, and sighed! It was charming, I assure you.

Sir G. Very well! very well! I see how it is-I give my consent.

Henry. But I don't ask it, uncle; for her eldest sister told me she had had the same accident the day before, when young Lord Debourse sat next to her.

Sir G. Aye, I find you take after me, Harry. You are afraid of the tricks and the nonsense of women, and you are right, you may live long enough without finding such an one as I am going to marry.

Henry. You, uncle, you going to be married?

Sir G. Yes, why not? I am only sixty-two.

Henry. Certainly; but so averse to marriage as you have always been.

Sir G. Yes, while I lived in London, and had an office to occupy my mornings, and was sure of well-lighted, well-furnished rooms every where in the evening; but now that I am out of office, and am come to the family estate in Devonshire, the case is different. I shall want to get

all the comforts around me that I have been used to. I have been engaged this twelve-month; there's no occasion for hurry in these matters.

Henry. You take your time, certainly, but why this delay?

Sir G. Oh! the alterations and repairs, and expenses of every sort on coming into possession, have employed the first year, and now I must furnish the house.

Henry. And the first meuble required is a wife?

Sir G. If not the first, a very essential one in a country house. You may ruin yourself in paper, and paint, and gilding, and carpets, and ottomans, and after all your rooms won't look warm and comfortable, and bien etoffé, as the French call it, without women in them. They come next to window curtains.

Henry. And what may be the age of my future aunt? Sir G. Oh! a very proper age-eighteen, or perhaps nineteen.

Henry. And may I ask how you came to choose so young a lady?

Sir G. Why, all my other furniture is spick and span new; how would an old woman look among it?

Henry. And I suppose you are desperately in love with her.

Sir G. No, no; sincerely attached, that is the expression at my age.

Henry. So you have lost all those terrors with which you viewed the vanity, pride, extravagance, dissipation, coquetry, and a list as long as my arm, of the besetting sins of the fair sex?

Sir G. Yes, for my bride elect is free from them all

so meek, so gentle, so submissive! no opinions! no sentiments! no tastes! none of those troublesome things that worry a man to death. Acquiescing so prettily in all I say! so contented to wait my leisure for our marriage! When the workmen at Highwood House delayed, I had no difficulty in delaying; when they showed more alacrity I pressed the celebration of our nuptials. But now, all is really completed, except the last finish of the furnishing, and I am going to announce to Emma that I have fixed to-morrow for the ceremony.

Henry. (starting.) Emma! Emma! did you say her name was Emma?

Sir G. Yes, Emma, and a very pretty name, too.
Henry. I find no fault with the name, only—
Sir G. Only what?

Henry. Only-it put me in mind-of what-I had-I thought-entirely forgotten. (sighs.)

Sir G. (looks at his watch.) Faith, I am an hour after my time. But she won't mind, she never observes anything. Hark ye, Harry, you shall follow me. I will introduce you to your aunt; but give me half an hour. I must find a few gallant things to say to-day, I suppose; but, thank heaven, after to-morrow there will be no occasion to put myself out of my way. I'll send the carriage back for you.

Henry. I'll be ready. [Exit SIR GEOFFREY.] Fool that I was, to start so at a name! But how different is the creature he describes, to the Emma I once knew! She, who could shut her door against me-return my letters unopened! What am I about?-have I not travelled all over the Continent, and flirted with fifty girls I did not

care for, in order to forget her? And I have-yes, I have —at length-banished her, for ever, from my thoughts.

[Exit.

SCENE II.

EMMA and MRS. KINDWAYS.

Mrs. K. You seem in better spirits this morning, my dear Emma, perhaps you will give me a little music while I work, you have not sung a note for ages.

Emma. Willingly, Cecilia-for-I know not whybut I do feel more cheerful than usual. It is all your kindness, I believe-will you have- -or- -or- -oh!

here is a favorite of yours. (names different songs, an turns music about, then sings.)

Shall this pale cheek no pity claim,

That thou wert wont to swear
Might opening damask roses shame ?
Ah! if that hue no more it wear,

Thine, cruel, be alone the blame,
Who hung wan lilies there.

And is this eye, with tears o'erfraught,
To thine no longer known?

This eye that read the tender thought
Erewhile soft trembling in thine own,
To weep, alas! by thee since taught,
And all its lustre flown.

Oh! thou, who clouding with despair,

My joyous break of day,

Hast blighted what to thee seem'd fair,

Youth's mantling bloom and smile so gay,

Tear from my heart, in pity, tear

The power to love away.

Mrs. K. Thank you, thank you, you are in excellent voice, and I am glad to see that your spirits are not affected by the repeated postponings of your wedding-day.