Chapter XII

“I do not know what your opinion may be, Mrs. Weston,” said
Mr. Knightly, “of this great intimacy between Emma and Harriet
Smith; but I think it a bad thing.”--EMMA.

“I think I shall take a drive to-day, Camilla,” Lady Vere remarked one morning to her daughter, about a fortnight after Reginald’s departure.

Camilla was sitting listlessly in the window: a book was in her hands; but her eyes and thoughts were idly wandering in search of that which in vain she sought to find--amusement and excitement. The more than usual happiness of her brother’s visit,--a happiness to which, although without a thought of love on her side, or suspicion of it on his, Ernest’s society had very naturally added,--had left her more lonely and melancholy even than usual. The expression on her countenance was one of mingled sadness and ill-humour.

She replied to her mother’s communication without much interest, or very much respect; for, as the day never came when the drive did _not_ take place, the announcement appeared to her a needless one.

“I shall order the carriage at half-past two,” continued Lady Vere, “as I mean to drive to Carrington.”

“Where, mamma?”

“To Carrington, Camilla. Mitford says a rich man has bought the place, and she says I ought to call.”

“Who is the rich man, mamma? I never heard anything about it.”

“Neither did I till last night. When Mitford was curling my hair, she told me a great deal. She says he _was_ a merchant, but now he is not; and his name is Vincent--Mr. and Mrs. Vincent; and she says everybody is calling; and she says I ought to call.”

Though Lady Vere had a peculiar and rather enviable art of communicating much in few words, this had been a long story, and she was exhausted after it.

Camilla drew up her head a little stately, and there was a little ill-humour still in her words.

“Six miles there and six miles back is rather a long way to go for a merchant, I think. I can fancy Mr. and Mrs. Vincent, the merchant and merchantess! We may be sure, at any rate, that they are dull, or they would not have come to settle in this dull country.”

“Mitford says I should call, so I think I had better call,” was Lady Vere’s languid reply. With more energy she went on:--“And she thinks I had better call to-day, because of my _velour épinglé_. I have only worn it once, so that it is almost as good as new; and she likes me to visit in a new bonnet. Have you got anything you can wear, Camilla?”

“Oh yes, mamma; I think I shall be able to dress myself for Mr. and Mrs. Vincent.”

“There’s a young lady, too; and Mitford says she thinks you will like to make her acquaintance.”

“Why does Mitford say that?” Camilla replied, petulantly. “She knows, or else she ought to know, that I hate young ladies.”

“Do you indeed, Camilla? Dear, how strange!”

“That is to say, I _fancy_ I do,” Camilla corrected herself, laughingly; “for, as Mr. De Grey says, my acquaintance with young ladies is small. But I was born with a horror of the word; and I am sure I hated the Miss Colmans, and the Miss Dennisons, and the Miss Burtons that my governesses used to rave about. If one could meet with Die Vernon or poor Sybil, that would be another thing.”

“Who are they?” inquired Lady Vere.

“Only in books, mamma; but people in books are _much_ nicer than people in real life.”

“Are they, indeed? I used to know a great many young ladies at Bath, and I liked them very much.”

“What did they talk about?” asked Camilla, with curiosity.

“Oh, they used to tell me with whom they danced, and where they got their bonnets; and once I told them that I was going to be married, and they were extremely surprised.”

“That is just what I thought, mamma; and the Miss Colmans talked in just the same way. However, I don’t much mind going to see this Miss Vincent. Perhaps I may like her, after all.”

“Mitford thinks you will, because, she says, she hears she is pretty.”

“Mitford knows nothing about it, mamma. But certainly, after the sight of Mrs. Hervey yesterday, one may perhaps like to see something young and pretty.” And, with a little expectation of pleasure, Camilla prepared for the visit.

On arriving at Carrington, the expectation grew stronger. Camilla had by no means lost her admiration of new places, and a pretty wooded approach to the house excited her envy and admiration. Several times she rose in the barouche to look about her, and each time, in an agony of earnestness, Lady Vere implored her to be still, for the sake of her dress.

“Really, mamma,” she exclaimed, as they drove to the entrance, with a colonnade before it, “if this is to be the end of being a merchant, I have no objection to be a merchant myself.”

Mrs. Vincent was at home, and Mr., Mrs., and Miss Vincent were all in the drawing-room, prepared for the reception of visitors.

They may be rapidly described.

Mr. Vincent looked vulgar, and was so, and was either unconscious of it or indifferent about it. Mrs. Vincent was rather handsome, and looked less vulgar, but was more so; for she was conscious of it, and endeavoured to conceal it. Miss Vincent was very handsome indeed, with bright eyes, a brilliant complexion, and a quantity of dark hair. Her appearance, too, was very different to that of her father and mother. She looked what, perhaps, is most concisely expressed by the word “fashionable,”--notwithstanding (or perhaps, having used the word “fashionable,” the word “notwithstanding” is out of place) she was, could her heart have been searched, more thoroughly vulgar in its true sense than any other member of her family. It was, however, the deeply-rooted, not the apparent vulgarity.

A great fuss was made with Lady Vere by Mr. and Mrs. Vincent, and she was pleased with it; though the flutter of receiving thanks and the exertion of answering questions somewhat overcame her.

She was a little puzzled also by a peculiar habit for which Mr. Vincent was remarkable,--a habit, namely, of asking a question, receiving an answer, and repeating the answer he received in the form of a question, or else of narration to some invisible auditor. She was once or twice put to the serious inconvenience of making a second response.

“It is a long drive, I understand, from here to Clare Abbey,” said Mr. Vincent. “I am afraid we have given your ladyship a great deal of trouble.”

“Oh dear, no, Mr. Vincent; it was no trouble; and the drive is exceedingly pretty.”

“Your ladyship found the drive exceedingly pretty?” he repeated, with a slight accent of interrogation.

“Oh dear, yes, exceedingly pretty,” she returned, politely, but languidly.

“Your ladyship is, perhaps, in the habit of taking long drives?”

“Oh yes; we drive every day.”

“Your ladyship drives every day?” in a slow, measured tone.

“Oh dear, yes; don’t we, Camilla?” endeavouring to draw her daughter to her aid.

“This appears to be a most populous neighbourhood,” remarked Mrs. Vincent. “I am sure we have every reason to be satisfied with our purchase. Sophia--my daughter, Sophia--was rather afraid of the country: she likes society, as all young people do, and her papa had prepared her to find it rather dull, especially at first; but, I assure you, we have only been here a week, and we have had visitors to luncheon every day.”

“Dear, how strange!” exclaimed Lady Vere, opening her eyes. “We never see anybody at Clare Abbey.”

“Your ladyship never sees anybody at Clare Abbey?” repeated Mr. Vincent, with a strong mark of interrogation.

“No, indeed, we never do--do we, Camilla?” again appealing to her daughter.

“What, mamma?” replied Camilla, breaking off her more flowing conference with Miss Vincent.

But Lady Vere only yawned: a third repetition was beyond her powers.

Miss Vincent approached, and asked Lady Vere’s leave to show Camilla the grounds about Carrington, as she appeared to admire them.

Lady Vere paused to reply, struck by the extreme tastefulness of Miss Vincent’s dress. When she had surveyed her from head to foot, she returned to recollection, and very civilly gave the desired permission; and a few minutes afterwards they wandered out together.

“You are not at all accustomed to the country, then?” Camilla said, in answer to some remark of Miss Vincent’s.

“No, not at all. I am a thorough cockney. Our only change from London used to be to Brighton; and that, you know, is a little London.”

“Don’t say ‘you know’ to me, Miss Vincent; for I know nothing. I thought Brighton was a _sea-side_ place.”

“So it is,” replied Miss Vincent, her manner losing the very slight shade of flattery which had tinged it, and assuming in its place a very slight shade of patronizing superiority; “but such a favourite sea place, that houses can hardly be built fast enough. It is quite a large town now, and a very delightful town, too.”

“Then I suppose you are accustomed to a great deal of society? Do you go to a great many balls and plays?”

“Not much to the play--once or twice a year; but people don’t go to the play now-a-days. There is the opera, you know: we hardly ever miss that; and other nights there are balls, or concerts, or parties, or dinners. We always had something to do all the year round; for there is as much society at Brighton, in its way, as there is in London.”

“Well, Miss Vincent, I don’t know what you think, but I think that must have been rather too much.”

“One gets used to everything,” she replied. “I assure you, it is as strange to me to stay at home as it is to you to go out.”

“Then what will you do here? How dreadfully dull you will be.”

“I certainly feel it a little, but I am not entirely dependent on society; I draw pretty well, and I am very fond of reading, and music I like passionately. Besides, we have a large circle of acquaintance, and this neighbourhood seems a good one--when once we are settled and found out, I shall not be much afraid. I dare say we shall have the house always full, and I am told there is no society so agreeable as the society of a country house.”

“That must depend a good deal on what the society is,” Camilla said, with a slight nod of her head, “I would rather live in a desert than have to talk all day to people I don’t care about.”

“Oh! of course, Miss St. Maur, _cela va sans dire_; but we have a very agreeable, as well as a very numerous acquaintance. I know several authors, and composers, and poets.”

“Do you really?” and Camilla looked at her with surprise and interest. “What are they like? are they like other people?”

“I dare say they are not like any of the neighbours about here,” said Miss Vincent, with a slight laugh; “but still they are men.”

“Did you ever see Sir Walter Scott? No, I beg your pardon,” she added with a blush, “I ought not to ask that when you must be as young as I am.”

“You may ask it, indeed, and I am very happy to tell you that I did see him once, and that he patted my head. I was a very little girl, but I remember it quite well; he looked so venerable.”

“No, Miss Vincent, you don’t mean to say that?” Camilla exclaimed, looking at her companion with profound veneration. “Now, I envy you for that more than for all your balls and parties.”

“I do feel a little proud of it, certainly.”

“Have you read all his novels?” Camilla inquired.

“Oh! yes, I had read them all before I was seventeen, and that I am sorry to say is seven years ago.”

“So have I--but I read them over and over again because I like them so much.”

“I like them very well,” Miss Vincent replied, “but I have not time to read books more than once; it is difficult enough to keep pace with the books of the day.”

“I like them better than the new novels; I don’t so much care about stories of every day life; I like more excitement and adventures, and even fights and battles. Have you read the ‘Last of the Barons?’ I have just finished it, and I put that with Sir Walter Scott’s.”

“Yes, I read it when it came out. I read a good many novels, but it is not my favourite style of reading; I like poetry better.”

“Well, I can’t quite say that, but I like some poetry very much. I wonder whether we should agree; do you like Shakspere?”

“No,” said Miss Vincent, hesitatingly, “I am afraid I must say I don’t. It is very fine I dare say, but it is not my style. I like something a little more intellectual.”

“I don’t know what you mean by intellectual, Miss Vincent,” exclaimed Camilla, kindling. “My brother, who is very clever indeed, says, he thinks Shakspere must have had the greatest intellect of any man that ever lived.”

“Oh! yes, pray don’t think I mean to doubt his cleverness; it is all my own folly, I dare say. I only mean that it does not please me, I like something that goes deeper--more knowledge of the human heart.”

“What do you like, I wonder? Do you like Sir Walter Scott’s poems?”

“Not much; I like Byron best of all.”

“I am afraid we don’t agree at all. I read some of his poems last year, and I did not care about them. I expected to like them; I flew to the ‘Corsair’--but I was very much disappointed. I did not care about his gloomy characters. I liked the ‘Doge of Venice,’--that fiery old Doge--but not many of the others.”

“I don’t care about the characters or the stories at all. What I like are the meditations and reflections; those I do read twice, or twenty times. Every day, almost, I read some of them.”

“There we disagree again,” Camilla said, laughing, “for I hate reflections. I am very sorry that we disagree so much.”

“We shall soon agree, I have no doubt. Perhaps you don’t quite understand what I mean by reflections. If you will come with me to my room, I will show you some of the pieces I have copied from Lord Byron, and Moore, and Tennyson, and other favourite poets. I have a great collection, and when you have seen it, I think you will begin to admire my style of poetry. You have seen all the prettiest part of the garden; will you come in?”

“I should like it very much, but it must be another day. Mamma is not very fond of long visits, and though I am sure this has not seemed a long one, I suppose we have been out a good while. What a pretty place this is!” she exclaimed, pausing on the steps to admire; “it is a thousand times prettier than Clare Abbey.”

“Oh! Miss St. Maur,” Miss Vincent said, playfully, “I am afraid that is not a true compliment. I have heard that Clare Abbey is a very magnificent place.”

“I don’t think it is at all; but if it were, that would make no difference; one gets tired of a thing one sees every day of one’s life--at least I do. I am sure I often wish I lived in some of the poor people’s cottages--they look so bright and so picturesque; and still more in some of the farms--such a bustle seems to be going on! I often wish I were a farmer’s daughter.”

Miss Vincent laughingly took up the idea, and having a number of pretty things always at her fingers’ ends, did not suffer the opportunity to pass without some slight and playful flattery.

Camilla smiled and blushed, and very amicably the new friends entered the drawing-room.

“What pleasant people,” remarked Lady Vere yawning, as they drove away; “but I wish they had not sent for cake, because I did not want it.”

“You should learn to resist, mamma, as I do.”

“My dear Camilla, it is not civil.”

“Did you like Mrs. Vincent, mamma?--did you find her agreeable?”

“I thought her very pleasant. Her gown was rather short--I saw her petticoat; and her stockings were a little coarse--but she was very pleasant. Miss Vincent looked exceedingly neat.”

“Neat, mamma? I called her smart,--rather too smart for me.”

“I thought she looked exceedingly nice,--and her sleeves were particularly pretty;--I shall tell Mitford about them. I hope you liked her, Camilla?--and then she may perhaps give me her pattern some day.”

“Yes, mamma, I think I did like her. She is _rather_ a young lady, but not so bad. Yes, I did like her, and she seems to know everything; I am sure she will amuse me very much.”

The visit was returned by Mrs. Vincent and her daughter, in a very few days; and Miss Vincent in the course of the visit, criticised so merrily and satirically some of Camilla’s favourite aversions in the neighbourhood, that, convinced she did not fulfil her shadowy and despised ideal of a young lady, Camilla determined to see more of her, and invited her to spend the afternoon with her on the next day but one. Having overcome her first prejudice against admitting a young lady to her acquaintance, it was not strange that she caught eagerly at any amusement offered to her in her dull and uniform life.

On this occasion, Miss Vincent having expressed a wish to visit the Cranleigh milliner, they obtained Lady Vere’s leave, and set forth together, and on the way the former made some inquiries of Camilla, on subjects in which she felt an interest.

“Are you fond of dancing, Miss St. Maur?” she said, as they walked along.

“That is one of the questions I can’t answer, for I don’t know. I used to hate my dancing lessons, but that I suppose is not very uncommon. My brother Reginald dislikes dancing, so I never think about it. I fancy, however, that I should like it pretty well, but not so much as riding; I am very fond of riding. Do you like it?”

“I think, like dancing, it depends on others. I like a riding party very much.”

“I like riding in itself,” Camilla said, “the party would have nothing to do with it.”

“But you do have riding parties?”

“No, indeed. I ride with my brother Reginald; and if I might ride by myself I should like it still.”

“Now, Miss St. Maur,” said Miss Vincent, laying her hand playfully on her arm, “you are so close and reserved, that if I wish to find out what things interest you most deeply, I am obliged to make direct inquiries. Can you guess what I am going to ask?”

“No, indeed, I can’t,” Camilla said, and said truly. “What _do_ you want to know? I will tell you whatever you like.”

“Well then, I wish to ask a question of great importance. Who is the hero of these parts?--there must be one.”

“None that I know of,” Camilla said, with some coldness, though she blushed as she spoke.

“Don’t deceive me,” replied Miss Vincent, looking smilingly in her face; “it would be impossible to persuade me that such a flower as this was doomed to blush unseen.”

“I don’t quite know what you mean,” said Camilla, with some impatience; “but if you mean what I think you mean, you are quite wrong. Reginald and I don’t care for heroes and heroines.”

“Well, Miss St. Maur,” she replied, still playfully, “I will be as discreet as you are, and ask no questions; but I shall make use of my eyes, and if I make any discoveries I shall not spare you.”

“You will make none, for there are none to make;” Camilla spoke coldly and shortly. She thought Miss Vincent extremely impertinent.

“Have you no wish to be liked and admired, Miss St. Maur?” Miss Vincent asked, after a silence of a few seconds. “You are very unlike girls, or, I might say, the world in general, if it is so.”

“Oh, I don’t say that,” replied Camilla, laughing. “If I might choose, I should like to be a queen, and to have all the world kneeling admiringly at my feet.”

“I dare say,” said her companion, laughing also; “but that was not quite the kind of admiration I meant. I meant admiration of a more homely kind. In plain words, have you no wish to be _loved_?”

“I suppose I should have no particular objection to it; but if you mean to ask me whether I sit at home pining for a hero--I don’t. I don’t much care about that sort of thing for myself. I am not sentimental, nor more is Reginald.”

“Well, Miss St. Maur, I believe you now; for if there _was_ a hero in these parts, I don’t think you would speak as you do. You are very young and fresh, I see, and you don’t understand the pleasures and excitements of ... what shall I call it? But it will come, depend upon it. One doesn’t live very long in the world without it. I speak from experience!”

Camilla felt a little curiosity as to the nature of Miss Vincent’s experience, but she was afraid and ashamed to ask. Such conversation was new to her. She was shrinkingly reserved on subjects of a like kind, even in idea, partly by nature, partly from Reginald’s distaste.

“I don’t mean only my own experience,” Miss Vincent began again, after a pause, “but I have seen such strange things--watched the progress of such strangely interesting stories. I am sure _I_ can say that ‘truth is stranger than fiction.’”

“I wish you would tell me some of your stories. I should like to hear a real, true story, from an eye-witness, very much.”

“I will some day, if I may; but you know one must be discreet. Things are confided to me, and I must not repeat them.”

“Oh, of course not,” Camilla said, vehemently; “I would not hear a betrayed confidence for the world!”

“How very fresh and unsophisticated you are,” observed Miss Vincent, looking at her with a smile; “how you would be admired in London!”

“Don’t talk nonsense, pray, Miss Vincent,” she said, blushing like a rose at the compliment.

“Well, I won’t, for I see you are not like girls in general. But to give you an idea of the kind of excitements I mean, and which occur every day in the world, I will tell you a funny thing that happened last summer. A young girl, very fresh and very pretty, came from the country for two months, to go out with mamma. She went to a ball the first night and made a few acquaintances, but she was tired and soon begged to go home. The next morning early, a large bouquet was left for her at our house. The same thing happened every morning for two months; and by no means or inquiries could we discover whence the bouquet came. She went out a great deal and was very much admired, but rather in a general than a particular way. We could not fix on anybody. You may fancy how curious we were. I really could think of nothing else.”

“Yes,” Camilla said, with some interest, “it must have been rather exciting. A mystery would always take my fancy; but is it a mystery still? I hope you discovered the author of such pretty attentions at last?”

“Yes, I discovered it at last, and in rather a funny way. One day the bouquet was so very beautiful and _recherché_, that I examined it with more attention than usual, and I happened to remark among the flowers a carnation of a very peculiar kind and colour. We went to a ball the same evening; and suddenly, while I was thinking of other things, my eyes happened to fall on a flower in a gentleman’s coat,--the very same rare and peculiar carnation. He was the last person whom I should have suspected of such a thing; rather an old person--I mean old, compared to Ellen Vivian--giving up dancing, and that sort of thing. However, I felt there could be no doubt; and soon after, when he came up to speak to Ellen, I joined them, and pointed out the discovery I had made. You have no idea how foolish they both looked.”

“Oh! Miss Vincent, I call that cruel. I couldn’t have done such a thing.”

“It was wrong, I allow, and I repented of it at first; for they seemed so much embarrassed. But I don’t repent of it now; for I am sure I helped them to an understanding. I heard this morning that they were engaged to be married.”

“Well, it is a pretty story, certainly;--but now here we are at Mrs. Pope’s. Do you really want anything?”

“Oh yes; I always want bows and ribbons--one requires such a variety. Pray, let us go in.”

Miss Vincent became excited in her purchases (a country shop is certainly very taking), and Camilla stood by her side in some amusement for a few minutes; but growing tired, and a little annoyed at the gossiping conversation into which she entered with Mrs. Pope, she retired to the doorway, and looked up and down the pretty rambling street of Cranleigh.

While she stood there, Ernest De Grey came from a cottage opposite, and, with a start of pleasure, approached her.

“Oh! Mr. De Grey,” she exclaimed, with her cordial manner, “how glad I am to see you!”

He was so extremely glad to see _her_, that he did not dare to trust himself to say so. He shook hands with her in silence, then said,

“It is more than ten days since I have even _seen_ you. You were not even at church on Sunday.”

“No; and I dare say you think it was my wickedness that kept me away; but it was not, indeed. I should have gone if I could; but mamma had a cold; and you know, or perhaps you don’t know, that when she has a cold she fancies that all the world must have the same. She would not let me go.”

“I did not suspect you of wickedness, indeed,” he said. “I _thought_ you would come if you could, because it is right; but if not that, I _knew_ you would come for your brother’s sake.”

“Right, Mr. De Grey, quite right. But, besides, since you have been here, I really like to go to church. Though, I dare say, you don’t see it, and though I am sure nobody else sees it, you have done me a little good already. And where are you going now?” she inquired, after a pause.

“I am going home directly, to an appointment. Have you been buying any more ribbons?”

“No, not to-day. But you see I have got my blue ribbon on my bonnet.”

“Yes, I see; I think it is very pretty.”

He looked at her with a gaze of such extreme admiration, that an unenlightened person might have supposed it was excited by some less inanimate object than the ribbon.

“I put it on, to show Miss Vincent the wonders of Cranleigh. Miss Vincent is a new acquaintance of mine. Do you know her?”

“No, not at all.”

“Then I will introduce you to her.”

She turned round to see if her companion was ready, and found her standing a few steps behind her within the doorway, with a smile upon her face. She apologised for having kept her waiting, and then, with her usual ease and grace, begged to be allowed to introduce Mr. De Grey.

Ernest bowed; and, after a moment’s pause, bowed again, and retreated. He had, like Camilla, a shadowy ideal of a young lady,--a being with whom he had nothing in common; and something in Miss Vincent’s air and appearance proclaiming her to be one of the species, he instinctively withdrew.

Camilla laughed, for she read the thoughts that passed through his mind.

“Now, Miss St. Maur,” Miss Vincent said, as they re-entered the gates of the park, “I cannot help reproaching you. I had hoped you meant to allow me the privilege of being your friend.”

“Oh, yes!” Camilla said. She felt inclined to add, “in a degree,” for she certainly was not quite prepared to swear an eternal friendship; but she refrained.

“Then, why have you deceived me?”

“I have not deceived you; I never deceive. What _do_ you mean?”

“I thought you said there was no hero in these parts.”

“There is none,” she replied, impatiently, but blushing as she spoke.

Miss Vincent shook her head at her, with a playful smile. “Oh, Miss St. Maur!”

“I wish you had not such fancies, Miss Vincent,” Camilla said, blushing still more deeply.

“I am very sorry for my fancies, but really I cannot help them. I think you must be very fastidious indeed, if you do not allow that young man to be good enough for a hero.”

“A hero, Miss Vincent! Why, that was Mr. De Grey, the clergyman of the parish.”

“So I supposed, from a part of your conversation, which I overheard. But what of that? Do you think all clergymen are blind? _He_ is not blind, at any rate.”

“Blind about what?” with a little impatient stamp of her foot.

“Oh! Miss St. Maur, you _are_ deceiving me now. I see you know what I mean. No!” as Camilla shook her head; “well, I will tell you then. I have seen a great many people in love--a very great many--but I never, no _never_, saw any one so deeply in love as that young man is.”

“How can you talk such nonsense?” Camilla said, angrily, turning away her head as she spoke, to conceal her crimson cheeks; but a moment afterwards, with a pathetic tone, which in some degree reproached her companion, she went on:--“I wish you had not such fancies, Miss Vincent. I dare say you did not mean to do it; but you have spoiled all my pleasure and happiness. We have been very great friends; but now, how am I ever to talk to him comfortably again? I never shall; I never can!”

“My dear Miss St. Maur,” Miss Vincent said, in apology, though she could hardly help laughing, “I am sure I am very sorry to have annoyed you. But I had no idea that you would dislike my remarks. You are so different to most of my acquaintance.” Seeing that Camilla’s brow did not clear, she went on: “I am really very, very sorry--but I cannot believe that you did not see what is as clear as day?”

“I did not, Miss Vincent,” she said, angrily; “but never mind now. Let us talk of something else.”

Instead, however, of talking of something else, she walked in profound silence to the house. New ideas had been put into her head.

On reaching Clare Abbey, Miss Vincent was told that her carriage was waiting. She hurried to take leave of Lady Vere; then approached Camilla, who was standing at one of the drawing-room windows.

“My dear Miss St. Maur,” she said, holding out her hand and retaining Camilla’s when it was given to her, “what shall I say to make you forgive me? I would not for worlds have spoken as I did, if I had supposed it would annoy you. I am afraid I have a habit of foolish and indiscreet speaking; but don’t be angry with me. I did not mean to offend, and you must teach me to correct myself.”

Camilla relaxed. “Pray don’t say any more,” she said, smiling; “I am not _very_ angry; only I must say, I think it very foolish speaking--and I don’t like it at all.”

“Well, but I am forgiven--and you will not avoid me for the future. Pray do not punish me so much!”

Camilla smiled again; and, pleased to be so much liked by Miss Vincent, rewarded her with a degree of affection much greater than before.

They became friends, and were often together; and Miss Vincent (though much inferior to Camilla in natural talent), having the advantage of her in age, shrewdness, and knowledge of the world, she it was who influenced, and imparted her own mind to her youthful companion.