at the blunders of the post.—What was to be done?—One thing only.—I must speak to my uncle. Without his sanction I could not hope to be listened to again.—I spoke; circumstances were in my favour; the late event had softened away his pride, and he was, earlier than I could have anticipated, wholly reconciled and complying; and could say at last, poor man! with a deep sigh, that he wished I might find as much happiness in the marriage state as he had done.—I felt that it would be of a different sort.—Are you disposed to pity me for what I must have suffered in opening the cause to him, for my suspense while all was at stake?—No; do not pity me till I reached the Highbury, and saw how ill I made her. Do not pity me till I saw her wan sick looks.—I reached Highbury at the time of day when, from my knowledge of their late breakfast hour, I was certain of a good chance of finding her alone—and at last I was not disappointed either in the object of my journey. A great deal of very reasonable, very just displeasure I had to persuade away. But it is done; we are reconciled, dearer, much dearer, than ever, and no moment’s uneasiness can ever occur between us again. Now, my dear madam, I will release you; but I could not conclude before. A thousand and a thousand thanks for all the kindness you have ever shown me, and ten thousand for the attentions your heart will dictate towards her.- If you think me in a way happier than I deserve, I am quite of your opinion.-Miss W. calls me the child of good fortune. I hope she is right.-In one respect, my good fortune is undoubted, that of being able to subscribe myself,

Your obliged and affectionate Son,

F.C. Weston Churchill

This letter must make its way to Emma’s feelings. She was obliged, in spite of her previous determination to the contrary, to do it all the justice that Mr. Weston foretold. As soon as she came to her own name, it was irresistible; every line relating to herself was interesting, and almost every line agreeable; and when this charm ceased, the subject could still maintain itself, by the natural return of her former regard for the writer, and the very strong attraction which any picture of love must have for her at that moment. She never stopt till she had gone through the whole; and though it was impossible not to feel that he had been wrong, yet he had been less wrong than she had supposed- and he had suffered, and was very sorry- and he was so grateful to Mrs. Weston, and so much in love with Miss Fairfax, and she was so happy herself, that there was no being severe; and could he have entered the room, she must have shaken hands with him as heartily as ever.

She thought so well of the letter, that when Mr. Knightly came again, she desired him to read it. She was sure of Mrs. Weston’s wishing it to be communicated; especially to one, who, like Mr. Knightly, had seen so much to blame his conduct.

“I shall be very glad to look it over,” said he, “but it seems long. I will take it home with me at night.”

But that would not do. Mr. Weston was to call in the evening, and she must return it by him.

“I would rather be talking to you,” he replied; “but as it seems a matter of justice, it shall be done.”

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