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two words with me this winter; however, Captain Aubrey is not without troubles of his own. One ship at least has sunk under him, and he has been a prisoner of the French; there is some muttering, as well, regarding debts and a recklessness at cards. We may assume that Mrs. Aubrey avoids us out of sympathy for my husband's case, or horror at the threat of commiseration. She is a proud creature, Mrs. Aubrey—but not one of those who would laugh behind their hands as I attempt to pass. I assure you, Miss Austen, that there are many who would! Captain Seagrave may not chuse to regard the abuse— or perhaps he does not perceive it; he hears them call him Lucky,' and believes the word to be hurled without enmity. But I have quite given up promenading alone. I do not wish to invite insult. The women of Portsmouth forget whose daughter I am!”
    She possessed intelligence, for all her self-absorption; a woman possessed of less might have suffered less pain.
    When the rain commenced to fall, we hurried up the street, rejecting several sailors' taverns before achieving a pastry shop of Mrs. Seagrave's preference. She had fallen silent by the time we turned into it and secured a table; her gaze was fixed on the street beyond the window. Such a description suggests an attitude of placidity, however, and that would entirely mistake the case. My companion's fingers moved restlessly over the surface of our table, and her grey eyes were grown feverishly bright I almost suspected a hectic fit, or the onset of fever. Certainly, from the aspect of her thin face, her mind was much disturbed.
    “Are you unwell, Mrs. Seagrave? Have we attempted too great an exertion?” I enquired, as she pressed one shaking hand to her lips, and closed her eyes.
    “A faintness—there is a bottle? in my reticule—”.
    I reached for the embroidered bit of silk, and withdrew a flask of elixir— Dr. Wharton's Comfort. “I shall fetch you a glass.”
    “With water, if you would be so good—”
    She poured a quantity of drops into the water I procured, and drank it down entire. I surveyed her countenance with some anxiety, but forbore from interrogation; and in a few moments, she had recovered herself. Her skin was still as sallow, but the restless activity of body and brain had eased.
    She did not replace the bottle of medicine in her reticule; but neither did she speak of her indisposition. “A little refreshment is all I require. Will you take tea?”
    “With pleasure.”
    “Mrs. Huddle! A pot of tea and some fresh cakes, if you please!”
    She was determined to proceed as though nothing untoward had occurred; and as her guest, I could not do otherwise than to oblige her.
    “I understand that Captain Seagrave has been lately much at sea,” I ventured. You must have endured long periods of confinement with your children. How do you pass the hours, Mrs. Seagrave?”
    “I read.” She glanced at me swiftly, as though in expectation of mockery; the naval wives of Portsmouth, I must assume, could not regard a patron of the circulating library as worthy of their notice.
    “And which do you prefer—prose, or poetry? Letters, or horrid novels? For my part, I find littleto choose between Mrs. Radcliffe or Madame d'Arblay, and the verse of Scott; they are all words enough to surfeit on. Were I to face extinction by flood or fire, I should spend my final moments immersed in a book.”
    “I could not admire The Lay of the Last Minstrel, tho' everyone would be talking of it; I far prefer Southey to Sir Walter Scott. What think you of Coleridge?”.
    “He is a poet more to a gentleman's taste,” I replied, “and I cannot like his habit of eating opium. But Southey's Madoc is certainly very fine.”
    “Do you believe so?” she enquired with an air of penetration. “I enjoyed the first quarto; but I detect a falsity in the Azteca girl—who in aiding the White Man, destroys her husband, her father, and herself. Such cataclysmic vengeance cannot be credited.