The ball was over, and the breakfast was soon over too; the last kiss was given, and William was gone.

Mr.Crawford had, as he foretold, been very punctual, and short and pleasant had been the meal.
After seeing William to the last moment, Fanny walked back to the breakfast-room with a very saddened heart to grieve over the melancholy change; and there her uncle kindly left her to cry in peace, conceiving, perhaps, that the deserted chair of each young man might exercise her tender enthusiasm, and that the remaining cold pork bones and mustard in William's plate might but divide her feelings with the broken egg-shells in Mr.Crawford's.

She sat and cried _con_ _amore_ as her uncle intended, but it was _con_ _amore_ fraternal and no other.

William was gone, and she now felt as if she had wasted half his visit in idle cares and selfish solicitudes unconnected with him.
Fanny's disposition was such that she could never even think of her aunt Norris in the meagreness and cheerlessness of her own small house, without reproaching herself for some little want of attention to her when they had been last together; much less could her feelings acquit her of having done and said and thought everything by William that was due to him for a whole fortnight.
It was a heavy, melancholy day.

Soon after the second breakfast, Edmund bade them good-bye for a week, and mounted his horse for Peterborough, and then all were gone.