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Emma Woodhouse[1], beautiful, clever, and rich, had lived nearly twenty-one happy years in a comfortable home. She was the youngest of the two daughters of a most loving father; and had, since her sister's marriage, been mistress of his house from a very early age. Her mother had died long ago.
Sixteen years had Miss Taylor[2] been in Mr. Woodhouse's family, less as a governess than a friend, very fond of both daughters, but particularly of Emma with whom they were very close. Then Miss Taylor married-that was the first grief. It was on the wedding-day of this beloved friend that Emma first sat in mournful thought. The wedding was over, and Emma's father and herself were left to dine at home together. Her father had gone to sleep after dinner, as usual, and she had then only to sit and think of what she had lost.
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“It is very pretty,” said Mr. Woodhouse. “So prettily done! Just as your drawings always are, my dear. I do not know anybody who draws so well as you do. The only thing I do not like is, that she seems to be sitting out of doors, with only a little shawl over her shoulders-and it makes one think she must catch cold[36].”
“But, my dear papa, it is supposed to be summer; a warm day in summer. Look at the tree.”
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