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was just the end of July, and one of those tremendously hot weeks, which, once in a summer, remind our island that heat is as good for grumbling as cold. It passed as weeks do when all is hurry, confusion, and packing—when there are a thousand things to do, and another thousand left undone. It is amazing how long such a week seems—events lengthen the time they number: it is the daily and quiet round of usual occupation that passes away so quickly; it is the ordinary week which exclaims, "Good gracious! it is Saturday again."

The human heart is something like a watch; and Emily's advanced not a little in its usual pace, when, one morning, Lady Mandeville, on her return from a drive, said, "I have been