CHAPTER VII.

"Friendship, which once determined, never swerves ; Weighs 'ere it trusts, but weighs not 'ere it serves ; And soft-ey'd pity, and forgiveness bland,

And melting charity with open hand;

And mercy stretching out, 'ere want can speak,
To wipe the tear which stains affliction's cheek;
These ye have never known-then take your part
Of sordid joy, which never touch'd the heart."

HANNAH MOORE.

On the following Thursday, Mrs. Rundle, accompanied by her son, Henry Rundle, came to dinner. It was a wearisome day to Mrs. Somerville; her heart, filled with anxiety, hope, and fear, was ill attuned to entertain a heartless woman, who had no consideration whatever, but such as tended to her own selfish gratifications, and who dreaded nothing so much as to see the amiable Mrs. Somerville again prosperous and happy. As usual she engrossed all the conversation to herself; and as long as she

could talk she was happy; her forte was satire, not that which is content to ridicule folly, and vice, but that which vents itself in detraction; she therefore began to quiz poor Captain Mackintosh, who every body knew she very much admired, almost loved; but he was going to be married, and therefore, as it was plain he was not in love with her, she made him her tool for ridicule; Miss Angela too, his bride elect, did not escape of course; she was a poor, insipid creature; and then she could never speak without a sigh preceding it, and though she would not tell tales, she knew one thing, which was, that she had recourse to artificial roses on her lily face. This scandal might have suited some company, but in the present, the sagacious Mrs. Rundle perceived it did not accord; she therefore changed her tone to one of plaintive pity for POOR Mr. Somerville; "Indeed I never can express my extreme compassion for your POOR husband, but however, I hope now he will soon be liberated, and be set up in the world again. I suppose you must give up this elegant little villa; oh,

that will be a thousand pities too! but perhaps you will keep it still.”

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Decidedly not ;" returned Mrs. Somerville, "I shall no longer be a dependant on my un

cle than is requisite, and have already written to him to tell him of our unlooked-for good fortune."

"Well, and where will you settle?" "Indeed I cannot tell exactly," returned Mrs. Somerville," our generous friend will settle every thing for us, his plans no aoubt will perfectly accord with the benevolence and liberality he has hitherto shewn."

"Oh! I dare say," replied Mrs. Rundle, “the good old man will settle all, comme il fáut; though I confess myself, (no disparagement to his want of taste,) I should not quite choose a man of 70 to furnish my house; but my dear," continued Mrs. Rundle, turning to Geraldine, to escape an answer from Mrs. Somerville, "shew me your drawings; ah! this is very well done, and this oak, my dear, there's great boldness in your style! But have you seen Henry's pencilling? I will find them one day

when you come to my house; they are beautiful!" said Mrs. Rundle in a whisper. Geraldine, rather discouraged than encouraged, by the appellation of beautiful attached to Henry Rundle's drawing, cooly thanked Mrs. Rundle, and hastened to put away her portfolio, despairing of ever arriving at the perfection Henry Rundle had acquired in that art. But it was not the only art this young genius had attained to such perfection: the art of quizzing had received culture sufficient to enlist him among some of the unfeeling bon ton of the present day. The art of flattery too, he had acquired, but that he rarely used; it was too much trouble, except indeed where he thought to please some wealthy lady by it; then it was practised to perfection. But Geraldine, poor Geraldine, was only to be treated with one art, that of quizzing; she certainly bore it with very great good humour, though now and then she was on the point of saying what she thought; and perhaps if she had spoken, our hero, something too audacious, might have been silenced into good behaviour. There was one whose

praises pleased, even delighted the innocent Geraldine, and she too readily believed what he said, because she imagined he could not speak an untruth: this one was Peter Woodville, her partner at Mrs. Rundle's. But Geraldine was but young; sixteen is not an age to forget compliments; yet, from the sense and nice discrimination of Mrs. Somerville, there was little reason to fear that Geraldine would suffer from vanity, which her mother was at so much pains to correct. She was clever, and possessed of genius, and a judgment far above her years; but she was a rustic,

"Content and careless of to-morrow's fare;

Her form was fresher than the morning rose,
When the dew wets its leaves; unstain'd and pure,
As is the lily, or the mountain snow."

THOMSON.

Geraldine's eyes brightened as the parting words "good night," were repeated by Mrs. Rundle, who declared what a happy day she had spent, and hoped her dear friends, and dear little Tommy, and you of course, pretty Geraldine, she said, will soon return my visit.