Without a care to trouble her; abroad or at home, findinginexhaustible varieties of amusement; seeing new places, makingnew acquaintances--what a disheartening contrast did Cecilia'shappy life present to the life of her friend! Who, in Emily'sposition, could have read that joyously-written letter fromSwitzerland, and not have lost heart and faith, for the moment atleast, as the inevitable result?

A buoyant temperament is of all moral qualities the mostprecious, in this respect; it is the one force in us--whenvirtuous resolution proves insufficient--which resists byinstinct the stealthy approaches of despair. "I shall only cry,"Emily thought, "if I stay at home; better go out."

Observant persons, accustomed to frequent the London parks, canhardly have failed to notice the number of solitary strangerssadly endeavoring to vary their lives by taking a walk. Theylinger about the flower-beds; they sit for hours on the benches;they look with patient curiosity at other people who havecompanions; they notice ladies on horseback and children at play,with submissive interest; some of the men find company in a pipe,without appearing to enjoy it; some of the women find asubstitute for dinner, in little dry biscuits wrapped in crumpledscraps of paper; they are not sociable; they are hardly ever seento make acquaintance with each other; perhaps they areshame-faced, or proud, or sullen; perhaps they despair of others,being accustomed to despair of themselves; perhaps they havetheir reasons for never venturing to encounter curiosity, ortheir vices which dread detection, or their virtues which sufferhardship with the resignation that is sufficient for itself. Theone thing certain is, that these unfortunate people resistdiscovery. We know that they are strangers in London--and we knowno more.

And Emily was one of them.

Among the other forlorn wanderers in the Parks, there appearedlatterly a trim little figure in black (with the face protectedfrom notice behind a crape veil), which was beginning to befamiliar, day after day, to nursemaids and children, and to rousecuriosity among harmless solitaries meditating on benches, andidle vagabonds strolling over the grass. The woman-servant, whomthe considerate doctor had provided, was the one person inEmily's absence left to take care of the house. There was noother creature who could be a companion to the friendless girl.Mrs. Ellmother had never shown herself again since the funeral.Mrs. Mosey could not forget that she had been (no matter howpolitely) requested to withdraw. To whom could Emily say, "Let usgo out for a walk?" She had communicated the news of her aunt'sdeath to Miss Ladd, at Brighton; and had heard from Francine. Theworthy schoolmistress had written to her with the truestkindness. "Choose your own time, my poor child, and come and staywith me at Brighton; the sooner the better." Emily shrank--notfrom accepting the invitation--but from encountering Francine.The hard West Indian heiress looked harder than ever with a penin her hand. Her letter announced that she was "getting onwretchedly with her studies (which she hated); she found themasters appointed to instruct her ugly and disagreeable (andloathed the sight of them); she had taken a dislike to Miss Ladd(and time only confirmed that unfavorable impression); Brightonwas always the same; the sea was always the same; the drives werealways the same. Francine felt a presentiment that she should dosomething desperate, unless Emily joined her, and made Brightonendurable behind the horrid schoolmistress's back." Solitude inLondon was a privilege and a pleasure, viewed as the alternativeto such companionship as this.

Emily wrote gratefully to Miss Ladd, and asked to be excused.

Other days had passed drearily since that time; but the one daythat had brought with it Cecilia's letter set past happiness andpresent sorrow together so vividly and so cruelly that Emily'scourage sank. She had forced back the tears, in her lonely home;she had gone out to seek consolation and encouragement under thesunny sky--to find comfort for her sore heart in the radiantsummer beauty of flowers and grass, in the sweet breathing of theair, in the happy heavenward soaring of the birds. No! MotherNature is stepmother to the sick at heart. Soon, too soon, shecould hardly see where she went. Again and again she resolutelycleared her eyes, under the shelter of her veil, when passingstrangers noticed her; and again and again the tears found theirway back. Oh, if the girls at the school were to see her now--thegirls who used to say in their moments of sadness, "Let us go toEmily and be cheered"--would they know her again? She sat down torest and recover herself on the nearest bench. It was unoccupied.No passing footsteps were audible on the remote path to which shehad strayed. Solitude at home! Solitude in the Park! Where wasCecilia at that moment? In Italy, among the lake s and mountains,happy in the company of her light-hearted friend.

The lonely interval passed, and persons came near. Two sisters,girls like herself, stopped to rest on the bench.

They were full of their own interests; they hardly looked at thestranger in mourning garments. The younger sister was to bemarried, and the elder was to be bridesmaid. They talked of theirdresses and their presents; they compared the dashing bridegroomof one with the timid lover of the other; they laughed over theirown small sallies of wit, over their joyous dreams of the future,over their opinions of the guests invited to the wedding. Toojoyfully restless to remain inactive any longer, they jumped upagain from the seat. One of them said, "Polly, I'm too happy!"and danced as she walked away. The other cried, "Sally, forshame!" and laughed, as if she had hit on the most irresistiblejoke that ever was made.

Emily rose and went home.

By some mysterious influence which she was unable to trace, theboisterous merriment of the two girls had roused in her a senseof revolt against the life that she was leading. Change, speedychange, to some occupation that would force her to exert herself,presented the one promise of brighter days that she could see. Tofeel this was to be inevitably reminded of Sir Jervis Redwood.Here was a man, who had never seen her, transformed by theincomprehensible operation of Chance into the friend of whom shestood in need--the friend who pointed the way to a new world ofaction, the busy world of readers in the library of the Museum.

Early in the new week, Emily had accepted Sir Jervis's proposal,and had so interested the bookseller to whom she had beendirected to apply, that he took it on himself to modify thearbitrary instructions of his employer.

"The old gentleman has no mercy on himself, and no mercy onothers," he explained, "where his literary labors are concerned.You must spare yourself, Miss Emily. It is not only absurd, it'scruel, to expect you to ransack old newspapers for discoveries inYucatan, from the time when Stephens published his 'Travels inCentral America'--nearly forty years since! Begin with backnumbers published within a few years--say five years from thepresent date--and let us see what your search over that intervalwill bring forth."

Accepting this friendly advice, Emily began with thenewspaper-volume dating from New Year's Day, 1876.

The first hour of her search strengthened the sincere sense ofgratitude with which she remembered the bookseller's kindness. Tokeep her attention steadily fixed on the one subject thatinterested her employer, and to resist the temptation to readthose miscellaneous items of news which especially interestwomen, put her patience and resolution to a merciless test.Happily for herself, her neighbors on either side were no idlers.To see them so absorbed over their work that they never oncelooked at her, after the first moment when she took her placebetween them, was to find exactly the example of which she stoodmost in need. As the hours wore on, she pursued her weary way,down one column and up another, resigned at least (if not quitereconciled yet) to her task. Her labors ended, for the day, withsuch encouragement as she might derive from the conviction ofhaving, thus far, honestly pursued a useless search.

News was waiting for her when she reached home, which raised hersinking spirits.

On leaving the cottage that morning she had given certaininstructions, relating to the modest stranger who had takencharge of her correspondence--in case of his paying a secondvisit, during her absence at the Museum. The first words spokenby the servant, on opening the door, informed her that theunknown gentleman had called again. This time he had boldly lefthis card. There was the welcome name that she had expected tosee--Alban Morris.