"Happy! Miss Vernon: do you think happiness is to be found in the stagnation that some dignify with the name of tranquillity? My least distinct idea of happiness is the hopeful exertion of every faculty—mental and physical—in search of what we never find; but inaction is misery."
"There is some truth in what you say," replied she, "but all my ideas of happiness here and hereafter, are concentrated in the word 'peace!'"—and she paused, and gazed out into the sunshine with such an expression of calm,—of harmony, if I may so term it—that I felt tempted to ask her what spell had stilled her heart into such deep repose.
"Did you make any sketches this morning?" she asked, rousing herself from her thoughts.
"One or two rough outlines; but I think I could make a very good picture from this spot," said I, rising to look through the window.
"Then," said Miss Vernon eagerly, "pray, pray do, Captain Egerton, and give it to me; it will be an inexpressible pleasure to me to have some memento of this quiet, happy spot, when I am, perhaps, far away."
"I will set about it to-morrow; but have you any notion of leaving A——?" I asked.
"Oh no,—I only spoke from a presentiment I often feel, that we will not always rest calmly in this quiet nook; the waters of life will rise some day, and sweep us out again into the noise and tumult of the world!"
Here the old dog, disturbed by my movement, slowly raised himself, and entering by the window, laid his large stern head, with a sort of sigh, on his mistress's arm.
"Ah, Cormac, good old friend," said she, putting her arm caressingly round him, "no tumult, however rough, shall separate us; you and I, and grandpapa, and nurse, a goodly company, n'est ce pas?"—