CHAPTER I

    Emma Woodhouse,
           handsome,
         clever,
           and rich,
         with a comfortable home
               and happy disposition,
           seemed to unite
               some of
                   the best blessings of existence;
        and had
             lived nearly twenty-one years
                   in the world
                 with very little to distress
              or vex her.

    She was the youngest
           of the two daughters
               of a
           most affectionate,
         indulgent father;
        and had,
           in consequence
               of her sister's marriage,
         been mistress of his house
               from a very early period.

    Her mother
        had died too long ago
               for her
              to have
                   more than an indistinct remembrance
                       of her caresses;
        and her place
            had been
                  supplied by an excellent woman
                       as governess,
           who had fallen
             little short
                   of a mother in affection.

    Sixteen years
        had Miss Taylor
            been in Mr. Woodhouse's family,
           less as a governess
               than a friend,
         very fond of both daughters,
           but particularly of Emma.

    Between them it
        was more
               the intimacy of sisters.

    Even before Miss Taylor
        had ceased
              to hold the nominal office
                   of governess,
           the mildness of her temper
            had hardly allowed her
                  to impose any restraint;
        and the shadow of authority
            being now long passed away,
           they had been living together
               as friend
                   and friend very mutually attached,
         and Emma doing just
             what she liked;
     highly esteeming Miss Taylor's
                  judgment,
           but directed chiefly
               by her own.

    The real evils,
           indeed,
         of Emma's situation
            were the power of
               having rather
                   too much her own way,
           and a disposition
              to think a little
                   too well of herself;
        these were the disadvantages
              which threatened alloy
                   to her many enjoyments.

    The danger,
           however,
         was at present so unperceived,
           that they
            did not by any means
                   rank as misfortunes with her.

    Sorrow came
         --a gentle sorrow--
           but not
               at all
             in the shape of
                   any disagreeable consciousness.

    --Miss Taylor married.

    It was Miss Taylor's loss
          which first brought grief.

    It was
           on the wedding-day
               of this beloved friend
         that Emma first
            sat in mournful
                  thought of any continuance.

    The wedding over,
           and the bride-people gone,
         her father and herself
            were left to dine together,
           with no prospect
               of a third
              to cheer a long evening.

    Her father
          composed himself
              to sleep after dinner,
           as usual,
         and she
            had then only
                  to sit and think of
             what she had lost.

    The event
        had every promise of happiness
               for her friend.

    Mr. Weston
        was a man of
             unexceptionable
                character,
           easy fortune,
         suitable age,
           and pleasant manners;
        and there was some satisfaction
               in considering with
             what self-denying,
           generous friendship
             she had always
                  wished and promoted the match;
        but it
         was a black morning's
                work for her.

    The want of Miss Taylor
        would be
              felt every hour
                   of every day.

    She recalled her past kindness
         --the kindness,
               the affection of sixteen years--
           how she had taught and
             how she
                had played
                       with her
                     from five years old
          --how she
            had devoted all her powers
                  to attach
                      and amuse her in health--and
             how nursed her
                through the various illnesses
                            of childhood.

    A large debt of gratitude
        was owing here;
           but the intercourse
               of the last seven years,
           the equal
              footing and perfect unreserve
            which had soon
                  followed Isabella's marriage,
         on their
            being left to each other,
           was yet a dearer,
         tenderer recollection.

    She had been a friend
           and companion
         such as few possessed:
        intelligent,
           well-informed,
         useful,
           gentle,