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“Then my baby and I must die, for nobody will take us in,” said Fanny, bursting into tears, and gathering her cloak about her.

“Oh, mamma,” said Augusta Emly, “for pity’s sake let her stay. I will answer for h
er.”

“Pshaw! Augusta, how very absurd you are! No respectable lady would take a person of that kind into her house.”

“Then what is their respectability worth, mamma, if it cannot give help to a weak fellow-creature?”

“Miss Augusta,” said a servant, opening the door, “Mr. Sydney is below.”

“Tell Mr. Sydney I am engaged, Daniel.”

“Augusta,” said her mother, “you are not going to send away Russel Sydney in that nonchalant manner. What do you mean? Give the child to its mother, and go down.”It’s a lucky moment for her,” she said, in a whisper to her sister.”She has such a beautiful glow on her cheek.”

It was a beautiful glow—the glow of indignant humanity.

“I cannot go down, mother. Daniel, say I am engaged.”

In another instant, Daniel returned with a request from Mr. Sydney, that Miss Emly would ride with him the following day; ‘he had purchased a charming lady’s horse, and begged she would try it.’

“Oh, what shall I say, mamma? I cannot go.”

Mrs. Emly, without replying to Augusta, opened the door, and brushing by Fanny, who had risen to depart, she called from the head of the stairs, “Mr. Sydney, excuse me; I am in my dressing-gown and cannot come down. Will you come to the staircase? We are so up to our eyes arranging with the dressmaker for Mrs. Davies’, that you must excuse Augusta this morning. She is a little timid, since her accident about riding. Are you sure of your horse?”

“Perfectly. Lord bless me! would I ask Miss Emly, if I were not?”

At the sound of the responding voice, Fanny sprang forward, and then staggering back again, leaned against the door.

“Oh! very well, then,” said the compliant mamma, “she will be ready for you at twelve. Good morning!”

“Good morning!” was answered, and Mrs. Emly turned towards her apartment, elated with having settled the matter according to her own wishes. Fanny grasped her arm,—”For God’s sake, tell me,” she said, in a voice scarcely audible, “where does Mr. Sydney live? he it is that has deserted me. Where can I find him?”

Mrs. Emly’s spirit quailed before Fanny’s earnestness—her unmistakable truth; but after a single moment’s hesitation, she discreetly said—”I don’t know; he lives somewhere at lodgings. You have probably mistaken the person.”

“Mistaken,—oh Heaven!” exclaimed Fanny, and glided down stairs as if there were wings to her feet; but before she could reach the pavement, Sydney had mounted into his very handsome new phaeton, and was driving proudly up the street, gallantly bowing to some ladies at their balcony windows, and poor Fanny crept on she knew not why nor whither.

“What did that poor girl say to you, mamma? Did she mention Sydney’s name?” asked Augusta Emly.

“Sydney’s name? Why should she mention it? I did not hear her. She might, perhaps—she muttered something. She is a little beside herself, I think.”

“Do you, mamma?”

There could not be a stranger contrast, than Miss Emly’s earnest tone and her mother’s flippant one.

“Poor—poor girl—how very beautiful she is! She reminded me of Ophelia. I think she has her senses now, but with that deep dejectedness, I should not wonder if she soon lost them. May God be more merciful to her than we have been. But, mamma, how could you say to Russel Sydney, that I would ride with him?”

“Why, are you going to stay at home and sigh over this lost damsel? You will ride with Sydney, unless you prefer to hurt my feelings, and displease me seriously.”