When Mr. Herbert returned to his seat, he resumed his story, but with less alacrity of language. Some regretful reminiscence had come across his mind; he spoke more heavily, and appeared to feel a weight upon his spirits that could not be shaken off. There was, as it were, stiffness, pain, and swellings, in his faculties.

“The recollections of an old man's first love,” said he, with a faint smile, “will please but few auditors. I shall therefore abstain from attempting to describe my feelings, when I beheld Sophia Devereux, in the glow of the evening, sitting in the midst of her playful children on the lawn in front of their residence. Her heart was bound up in them; she had no thought for the world, nor for the inclemency of its strictures. She had been so long estranged from it, that she had ceased to take any interest in its proceedings. And she added, with a sigh, after having so explained her contentment, ‘It is fortunate I have acquired this taste for retirement and tranquillity. The wilderness cannot be more friendless than the excommunication in which we live here.’

“You will not suppose that I was inclined at that moment to touch any jangling string. Mr. Cockspur was about some twenty or thirty yards off, looking at one of the plants in the shrubbery, and beyond hearing. ‘But what does he think?’ said I, looking towards him.

“‘He endures it bravely,’ was her answer, ‘but not with my composure: I am but a poor wife for an ambitious man; I can neither resent nor resolve with sufficient determination.’

“By this brief speech, but more by the manner than the words, I persuaded myself she was less happy than she affected to be: but nothing farther passed that evening; for Mr. Cockspur came to us with a remarkable leaf in his hand, and the conversation became a babble about buds and blossoms.

“Next morning, some of his agricultural experiments called him early abroad, and he was not returned when I entered the breakfast-parlour, where Mrs. Cockspur was sitting alone.