'But hast thou well studied the subject on which thou hast decided? Yet, alas! to thee how vain must be the voice of admonition!' (she continued, her countenance kindling into strong expression as she spoke)—'From the poor victim of passion and persuasion, penitence and amendment might be rationally expected; and she, from the path of frailty, might turn again to that of virtue: but for one like thee, glorying in thine iniquity, and erring, not from the too tender heart, but the vain-glorious head,—for thee there is, I fear, no blessed return to the right way; and I, who would have tarried with thee even in the house of sin, to have reclaimed thee, penitent, now hasten from thee, and for ever—firm as thou art in guilt.'

As she said this she reached the door; while Adeline, affected by her emotion, and distressed by her language, stood silent and almost abashed before her.

But with her hand on the lock she turned round, and in a gentler voice said, 'Yet not even against a wilful offender like thee, should one gate that may lead to amendment be shut. Thy situation and thy fortunes may soon be greatly changed; affliction may subdue thy pride, and the counsel of a friend of thine own sex might then sound sweetly in thine ears. Should that time come, I will be that friend. I am now about to set off for Lisbon with a very dear friend, about whom I feel as solicitous as thou about thy Glenmurray; and there I shall remain some time. Here then is my address; and if thou shouldest want my advice or assistance write to me, and be assured that Rachel Pemberton will try to forget thy errors in thy distresses.'

So saying she left the room, but returned again, before Adeline had recovered herself from the various emotions which she had experienced during her address, to ask her Christian name. But when Adeline replied, 'My name is Adeline Mowbray,' Mrs Pemberton started, and eagerly exclaimed, 'Art thou Adeline Mowbray of Gloucestershire—the young heiress, as she was called, of Rosevalley?'

'I was once,' replied Adeline, sinking back into a chair, 'Adeline Mowbray of Rosevalley.'

Mrs Pemberton for a few minutes gazed on her in mournful silence: 'And art thou,' she cried, 'Adeline Mowbray? Art thou that courteous, blooming, blessed being, (for every tongue that I heard name thee blessed thee,) whom I saw only three years ago bounding over thy native hills, all grace, and joy, and innocence?'

Adeline tried to speak, but her voice failed her.

'Art thou she,' continued Mrs Pemberton, 'whom I saw also leaning from the window of her mother's mansion, and inquiring with the countenance of a pitying angel concerning the health of a wan labourer who limped past the door?'

Adeline hid her face with her hands.

Mrs Pemberton went on in a lower tone of voice,—'I came with some companions to see thy mother's grounds, and to hear the nightingales in her groves; but' (here Mrs Pemberton's voice faltered) 'I have seen a sight far beyond that of the proudest mansion, said I to those who asked me of thy mother's seat; I have heard what was sweeter to my ear than the voice of the nightingale; I have seen a blooming girl nursed in idleness and prosperity, yet active in the discharge of every Christian duty; and I have heard her speak in the soothing accents of kindness and of pity, while her name was followed by blessings, and parents prayed to have a child like her. O lost, unhappy girl! such was Adeline Mowbray: and often, very often, has thy graceful image recurred to my remembrance: but, how art thou changed! Where is the open eye of happiness? where is the bloom that spoke a heart at peace with itself? I repeat it, and I repeat it with agony. Father of mercies! is this thy Adeline Mowbray?'