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such a handsome letter in his life.”
    It was indeed a highly prized letter. Mrs Weston had of course formed a very favourable idea of the young man, and such a pleasing attention was an irresistible proof of his great good sense, and a most welcome addition to every source and every expression of congratulation which her marriage had already secured. She felt herself a most fortunate woman, and she had lived long enough to know how fortunate she might well be thought, where the only regret was for a partial separation from friends whose friendship for her had never cooled, and who could ill bear to part with her.
    She knew that at times she must be missed, and could not think, without pain, of Emma’s losing a single pleasure, or suffering an hour’s ennui, from the want of her companionableness—but dear Emma was of no feeble character. She was more equal to her situation than most girls would have been, and had sense and energy and spirits that might be hoped would bear her well and happily through its little difficulties and privations. And there was such comfort in the very easy distance of Randalls from Hartfield, so convenient for even solitary female walking, and in Mr Weston’s disposition and circumstances, which would make the approaching season no hindrance to their spending half the evenings in the week together carrying on their discourse as was custom.
    Her situation was altogether the subject of hours of gratitude to Mrs Weston, and of moments only of regret. Her satisfaction—her more than satisfaction, her cheerful enjoyment—was so just and so apparent that Emma, well as she knew her father, was sometimes taken by surprise at his being still able to pity ‘poor Miss Taylor’ when they left her at Randalls in the centre of every domestic comfort or saw her go away in the evening attended by her pleasant husband to a carriage of her own. But never did she go without Mr Woodhouse giving a gentle sigh, and saying, “Ah, poor Miss Taylor! She would be very glad to stay.”
    There was no recovering Miss Taylor—nor much likelihood of ceasing to pity her, but a few weeks brought some alleviation to Mr Woodhouse. The compliments of his neighbours were over, he was no longer teased by being wished joy of so sorrowful an event, and the wedding-cake, which had been a great distress to him, was all eaten up. His own stomach could bear nothing rich, and he could never believe other people to be different from himself. What was unwholesome to him he regarded as unfit for anybody, and he had therefore earnestly tried to dissuade them from having any wedding-cake at all, and when that proved vain, as earnestly tried to prevent anybody’s eating it. He had been at the pains of consulting Mr Perry, the apothecary, on the subject. Mr Perry was an intelligent, gentlemanlike man, whose frequent visits were one of the comforts of Mr Woodhouse’s life, and upon being applied to, he could not but acknowledge—though it seemed rather against the bias of inclination—that wedding-cake might certainly disagree with many, perhaps with most people, unless taken moderately. With such an opinion in confirmation of his own, Mr Woodhouse hoped to influence every visitor of the newly married pair, but still the cake was eaten, and there was no rest for his benevolent nerves till it was all gone.
    There was a strange rumour in Highbury of all the little Perrys being seen with a slice of Mrs Weston’s wedding-cake in their hands, but Mr Woodhouse would never believe it.
     
     
 
 

Chapter Three
     
     
     
    Mr Woodhouse was fond of society in his own way. He liked very much to have his friends come and see him, and from various united causes—from his long residence at Hartfield, and his good nature, from his fortune, his house and his daughter—he could command the visits of his own little circle, in a great measure, as he liked. He had not much intercourse with any families beyond that circle. His horror of late hours,