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This text has been proofread but is not guaranteed to be free from errors. Corrections to the original text have been left in place.
Title: Compensation, volume I, an electronic edition
Author: Chatterton, Georgiana, Lady, 1806-1876
Publisher: John W. Parker and Son
Place published: London
Date: 1856
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COMPENSATIONA STORY OF REAL LIFE THIRTY YEARS
AGO.IN TWO VOLUMES. VOL. ILONDONJOHN W. PARKER AND SONWEST
STRAND1856[The Author reserves the right of
translation]Table of contents for the first volume Chatterton's Compensation.Table of contents for the first volume Chatterton's Compensation.COMPENSATION.
CHAPTER I.
THE ENGAGEMENT.'SO Linda is really going to be married! Poor girl; and only just eighteen. Well, I am very sorry.'Why are you sorry, my dear Miss Barton? Surely, when I tell you that her mother is delighted, and every one says Mr. Grant is a most excellent man, you might be pleased.''Well, I suppose, if an old maid like myself expresses any disapprobation, it appears like jealousy and--''Oh no,' said Mrs. Mansfield; 'it is impossible to accuse you of jealousy. Everybody knows you might have been married twenty times if you had chosen, and I have even heard that you refused this beautiful Linda's father, before he married that lovely but rather weak-minded mother; and then you would now be mistress of Delamere Hall and ten thousand a year.''And what she would value much more--Linda's real mother,' said the plaintive voice of Miss Barton's invalid sister Polly, who had been for several years confined to her sofa by a spine complaint. 'Yes, that I do believe she sometimes regrets. And I constantly lament the number of

good offers she refused--partly on my account, too,' continued Polly Barton, with a melancholy smile.'No, for I did not love any of them; so you have nothing to regret on my account' said Miss Barton. 'But, dear Mrs. Mansfield, I do not agree with you in thinking Mrs. Delamere weak minded. What makes her appear so sometimes is, that her affections are stronger than her judgment. She has a noble mind, but it is undisciplined; and her nature is so good that she has had no internal struggles to contend with, and therefore has not acquired that knowledge of human nature which is requisite to obtain an influence over others. Life has been almost too easy and prosperous to develope her character. Yet she was perhaps too good to require many trials.''But what I am afraid of,' continued Miss Barton, 'is, that she is not acquainted with her daughter's very peculiar and original disposition, and is consequently unfit to direct her in the important choice of a husband. The mother and daughter adore each other; yet, from Mrs. Delamere's want of acquaintance with her child's real character, there is much more reserve than there ought to be between them.''Reserve! surely that can't be,' said Mrs. Mansfield, with a look of surprise.'Yes, there is, indeed; for an only child has great disadvantages,' continued Miss Barton; 'and the worst of all is the extreme reserve she generally acquires from having no one in early youth to whom she can impart her thoughts. In boys this disadvantage is m some degree mitigated by their after school-life. But a girl has very little chance, and her solitary education unfits her pecu-

liarly for the exalted station in life an only child, consequently an heiress, is generally destined to fill.''You should put that into your next book,' said Mrs Mansfield, with a smile; 'for the moral of it seems to be that Mrs. Delamere is too good to have an influence over her daughter; yet I should not call her so very good: but I suppose you want to prove that the reason you have great influence over the girl is because you are bad!''Well, that may be, and I wish I were near her now. Are you sure this marriage is quite settled?''Yes, quite. Julia Seaton and Lady Helena Mandeville are to be bridesmaids.''How very strange; and they (the Delameres) were not even acquainted with Mr. Grant before they went to London for the season.''No; and Linda has refused the Marquis of Kilgrogan, and no end of people;--oh! and even that handsome Lord Clanville, I hear,' said Mrs. Mansfield.'Has he proposed, too? Ah, now I think I know,' said Miss Barton. 'However, they were quite right to refuse the rich young roué the Marquis of Kilgrogan; Mrs. Delamere would, of course, not have advised her to accept him, even if Linda had been inclined.''Yet he is a fascinating young man, I hear, and Lady Rochford is most anxious to get him for her daughter, Lady Helena. By the bye, are you not surprised to hear of the violent friendship, Lady Rochford has struck up with Linda? She never was even civil to a girl before, yet she is now never happy unless Linda is with her; and it seems almost hard on her own plain daughter, to be eclipsed by that beautiful heiress. I wonder, too,

that Mrs. Delamere allows such extreme intimacy, even with the queen of fashion.''Yes, that is a pity,' said Miss Barton, 'but I am not surprised at Linda's being fascinated by her, although she has no ambition; for, from what I hear, Lady Rochford is the most artful of human beings; and she must besides have some great and good qualities, in spite of all her errors and worldliness, or she would not have remained so long at the head of London society, one may almost say queen of the great world, in these days, when there is no Court. She has probably some deep motive in obtaining Linda's affection, and I fear this marriage must be her doing.''I can't fathom her motives,' said Mrs. Mansfield; 'if she had a son of her own to marry Linda, it would be more intelligible.''Perhaps she foresees a future rival, and would prefer that Linda should marry a plain Mr. Grant. Was it true that the young boy, the Duke of Dartford, too, was very much captivated by Linda?''Yes, that was positively the case.''Ah, well! it is useless to try to fathom Lady Rochford's motives: but tell me all you have heard about this Mr. Grant.''He is a respectable Scotch gentleman, of old family, and Member of Parliament; and has an estate in Ayrshire of about 5000£ or 6000£ a year, and a beautiful old castle; but I do not hear of any particular attraction, except his goodness.''Well, I trust that is the attraction; but--''But you would have thought Linda, or her mother, would have been more ambitious?''Oh no, certainly not; and it is foolish to be anxious, and fuss oneself, I suppose.''Quite; for I see it has made you really unhappy,

dear Miss Barton; what a strange creature you are: if you had just been reading a most cutting and abusive review of one of your own works, you would have been all smiles and good humour; and the thoughts of this wedding have made you quite sad. I never saw you look so full of care, no, not when the bank at W-- broke, and your little fortune was in danger of being quite lost. Well, I must say good-bye now, for the girls are waiting for me at the Deanery, and they will be outrageous at my keeping them so long. If I hear anything more, I will drive in some day next week and tell you; but I suppose Mrs. Delamere or her daughter will, of course, write and inform you all about it themselves; I wonder they have not already done so, although I only heard it last night, and I determined I would come and tell you to-day.''I am, too, always glad of an excuse,' she continued, 'to penetrate into this reposeful little room; the very sight of you and your sister, and everything around you, always makes me happy. But I do not allow myself to come and interrupt your most useful labours often, as I know how valuable and important time is to you--and, indeed, to all the world. There, don't get up; I can find my way, and I don't want to trouble your nice little maid to open the door for me.''You are afraid of this marriage, dear Susan, said Miss Barton's sister Polly, when Mrs. Mansfield was gone; 'and you are longing to be in London to see how matters stand, for it does seem all very extraordinary. Why should--why will you not go there, and then see about your own book, too? I can manage very well for a short time. Jane is such a handy little maid, and we could get Sarah Bevis to come and sit with me, and help.'I am afraid it would be of no use, dearest Polly, even if I could make up my mind to leave you alone; I should scarcely even see the Delameres. Besides, how absurd I should appear in my dress of twenty years ago among all those people who are in the height of the fashion.''Surely you would not care for that;--and every one admires and delights so in your writings, I am sure that even the queenly Lady Rochford would be proud to have you at her parties. Besides, I want you to see another publisher; I cannot bear your only getting three hundred pounds for that last novel, when I know Mrs. D-- got six hundred from Colburn for hers''It does not deserve more: three hundred is quite enough for a book which only afforded me amusement. Since our debts are paid, and I write merely for pleasure, I never find any difficulty.''You call pleasure what enables you to afford me luxuries. Was not this comfortable sofa, with its reading-desk and moving table, bought with the produce of your last work; besides those delightful books which I had longed so for, and those flowers, and our nice new carpet with its pretty border, which always makes me happy to look at when I am too ill to read? Have you not made the room quite a little Paradise? besides all that you gave hose poor Bevis's, and sent their boy to study drawing at the school in London--and a thousand delightful things you are always getting for me with the produce of your works! Yet you call that only writing for pleasure! Well, this Mr. Grant is a fortunate man to get such a darling as Linda, with all her beauty and six thousand a year.''I doubt,' said Susan Barton, 'whether many

people would apply the epithet 'darling' to Linda beside yourself''I suppose not, for the Miss Mansfields always provoke me so by calling her cold and reserved. I really believe they think her proud. Everybody seems to have such different impressions of her, that I sometimes think it cannot be the same person; and that there are twenty Lindas, all quite different''So there are,' said Miss Barton, laughing; 'and if she loves Mr. Grant, he is fortunate indeed.''Why should she marry if she does not? I think you might be tranquil on that point, at least, after she has refused so many excellent matches.''Why, indeed! There is the mystery of mysteries,' said Miss Barton.'I see you are really unhappy about it; yet, surely you might have more confidence in her--such a dear, amiable girl as she always appears to me. But you do not quite think so, I see; and I never can fully understand your impressions about her or her mother either. You just now told Mrs. Mansfield the mother was too good!--now, I never thought Mrs. Delamere such a particularly amiable person; she is certainly always very civil, yet she has never shown me half so much kindness as Linda always does.''She is much more natural than her daughter--she acts entirely from impulse; she is not nearly so thoughtful, nor does she possess half the tact or quickness of apprehension which makes Linda so peculiarly pleasant to you--and you have seen Linda to great advantage, for I really believe she is never so happy as in this little old room. Linda is deep, and fearfully thoughtful, for her years; her self-possession often quite startles me.'Yet you always say her character is quite undeveloped; why, then, does she always do so exactly the right thing in society, and, as you tell me, manage everybody so much better than her mother, that one would sometimes almost think she was the mother, and Mrs. Delamere the daughter?'Because she has always lived in the high world since her earliest childhood: not only has she been always with grown-up people, but in the most intellectual society; whereas, her mother did not live much in society until after her marriage. Linda has genius, and a splendid mind, and if she marries a man whom she does not really love, then I tremble for her fate.''I wish you would go and see her,' said Polly; 'and then you--''No, I can't go to London, but I will write to them; I will try to caution both mother and daughter:' and Mrs. Barton laid aside the manuscript which had been on a small table before her when Mrs. Mansfield called, and with a more than usual shade of sadness on her expressive countenance, she began to write a letter.Polly watched her with admiring eyes. But Miss Barton often paused; her pen was not now moving in that quick, decided manner which it did when she was composing. Polly was struck with the contrast. What can Susan fear? she wondered; she looks as if a destiny depended on ever word she wrote. But she would not interrupt her by any questions, and turned to the contemplation of the inanimate objects around. She was suffering rather less than usual, and was able to enjoy the cheerful home-look of everything. It seemed cheerful to her on that day, for a July sun shone

brightly through the wide bow-window, where her sister was writing, and illuminated the dark wainscotted walls; and even the quaint carvings of the black oak chimney-piece, where the grotesque figures, which, in the dusk, always seemed to frown on the beholder, now wore a sort of knowing smile. A soft breeze wafted in sweet perfumes from the roses and jasmines which grew on the walls, and twined along the stone-work of the casement.The room was low and old-fashioned, and possessed that cross-light which our forefathers loved, and modern taste condemns; and the north windows looked on one of the narrowest streets of a dull cathedral town. The south casement opened upon a garden, but that was enclosed by high stone walls, nearly covered with fruit trees. The gable ends of some red-brick houses were seen beyond, and at a little distance the square Norman tower of the cathedral, and the pinnacles and richly-traceried window of its western end. There was no sound, but the occasional chime of church clocks and bells, the hum of bees among the garden flowers, or insects that were dancing in the evening sunshine. But it was all soothing to the invalid, even to the movement of her sister's pen, and its rustling sound, which sometimes irritated her excited nerves.CHAPTER II.
WARNINGS.'HERE is a letter!--here are two letters from Susan Barton, dear mamma; and I am afraid you did not write to her. And I have never written, either,' said Linda Delamere, sadly, as she opened the one addressed to herself.'I have really been so busy,' said Mrs. Delamere; 'but I intended to write and tell her all about it this very morning, while you took your walk in the garden. I shall have more time now that Mr. Grant is gone to Scotland. It was hard work for me while he was constantly coming, as I knew you did not like to be left alone with him. But you do not look well, darling; what is the matter? Does Miss Barton tell you any bad news?''No, nothing particular: but why don't you read the letter she sends you?''I will; but here are one or two notes must be answered, for they were waiting all the time we were at breakfast,' said Mrs. Delamere, as she went to her writing table in the large bow-window of a beautiful house in Park-lane.'Put on your bonnet, and go into the gardens opposite, for you look quite pale and ill It is very fortunate that you will not like to go out much now you are engaged, for you do not look half so well as you did at the beginning of the season. Darling child! I can't bear to see it.''I am quite well, dear mamma,' said Linda, as

she kissed her mother. 'I will go and enjoy my walk this lovely morning in the gardens.'Linda was saddened by the letter she had read: it made her think deeply, and she felt extremely dissatisfied with herself. She crossed Park-lane, and walked quickly through the green alleys of Hamilton-place Gardens. 'It seems as if Susan Barton read my inmost feelings,' thought Linda. 'Can she suspect the truth? Yet, is it so--did I love? Why have I never asked myself this question before? Why have I shrunk so weakly from the thought? Perhaps because my pride would not stoop to acknowledge that I loved without return. Yet, was it without return? Susan seems to think that if I loved really, it must be returned. Yet he never gave the slightest indication, only I was so happy--oh! so happy when he was there. But that was because he was so superior to everybody else. There is no one in the world who at all approaches his high standard, except Susan Barton; and I am always so happy with her, because she seems to give me faith--faith in goodness. She almost makes m3 believe; and he--he is so perfect. He could have made me believe anything he liked. Oh, it would have been too great happiness!' And Linda looked quite radiant as she thought of bygone days, and the friends of her early youth.'Ha! stop; let me in, and tell me what makes you so happy. I never saw you look so the whole season,' said a pale old gentleman, who was walking in the Park. 'And yet I hear you are going to be married!' he continued, with a pleasant but rather nasal voice, and a slightly sarcastic smile. 'Does that make you so happy, eh?''I am so glad to see you; that is what makes

me happy always,' said Linda, as she unlocked the gate. 'Dear Mr. Roland, I never enjoy anything so much as your breakfasts.''And what have you done with Mr. Grant? and what did you find to love in him, eh?'Linda blushed, and the happy look was almost gone; but she endeavoured to resume her cheerfulness as she said, 'He is very good--very.''Very good, is he? Well, then, I hope, you will be very, very happy,' he said, with a sort of playful malice, as he imitated her tone and emphasis on very. 'I hear he is indeed very good, but so is that plain girl, Lady Helena Mandeville, who is coming into the garden, I see  They tell me she is very good, and never misses church every morning; but I do not love her. However, I hope have done wisely,' he continued, as he took her hand with a look of kind affection.'Here comes Lady Helena, so I will go away, for I don't like her; but you must come and breakfast with me on Friday, and bring her mother, if you like, but not that girl.''And am I to ask Lady Rochford?''Yes, for I like her; and she is never so pleasant as when she has you with her. There, now let me out, she said quickly, as Lady Helena approached.'He sees into us all, too, just like Susan Barton,' thought Linda. 'Oh how delightful genius is. What a happy world this would be if all were like them! How quickly that dear Mr. Roland saw I was thinking of something that made me happier than he had ever seen me before!''So you have been flirting with the old poet,' said Lady Helena. 'Now, come and tell me all about this match. Ah! we shall be interrupted,

for there is Julia, I see, coming out of our house, and, good Heavens! there is mamma too. What on earth can bring her out here at this time of the morning?''Dearest Linda,' said Lady Rochford, with one of her most fascinating smiles, 'I want to talk to you about something important. Go,' said she, turning to her daughter with rather a severe look, 'go and talk with Julia, and try to convert her, if you like, for I must have Linda to myself. Now,' she continued, when the girls had gone some little distance, 'now, I went you to help me, and no time must be lost; for the end of the season is coming, and you must go with me to the opera to-morrow night''How is that to help you--and what can I do?' said Linda, with a smile.'You can do as you like with everybody; and there is that unfortunate Kilgrogan so dying of love for you still, that I am sure he will commit suicide, if you do not marry him to somebody at once. Now, I want him to marry Helena; she is so steady, it will be the very best thing he can do; and after breaking his heart, you ought at least to try to put him in a right path. Besides, that girl is really in love with him, and before he saw you, I had great hopes she would succeed.''Oh, if that is the case; and you really think it would turn out well, but--''I am sure it would,' said Lady Rochford, quickly. 'Besides, you know, she must marry, and he is one of the best 'partis' of the day--unencumbered estates and 12,000£ a year: I cannot think why you refused him.'Linda looked up with surprise, and said, 'Surely, his character is not good; and I have even heard

he gambles. Besides, I should not have liked him at all.''And who did you like better, eh?' said Lady Rochford, looking full into her eyes with a searching glance that was accustomed to penetrate most persons' inmost thoughts.'Many people, perhaps,' said Linda, readily, and with a most impassive smile upon her countenance, which betrayed no inward emotion.'You are a wonderful girl,' said Lady Rochford, 'and sometimes you puzzle me completely; I cannot make you out''Well, I puzzle myself to, very often,' said Linda, with a dejected look.'But you will help me about this match, dearest Linda, at all events?''If you will tell me what to say or do; but I cannot go to any more parties, I am so dreadfully tired of them.''You need not, but you would not dislike the opera. Fodor sings in La Gazza Ladra tomorrow, and I know you always enjoy music. Lord Kilgrogan shall be there, and you must try to persuade him to propose Helena shall not go, for, poor man, it would never do for him to see her plain face while he is luxuriating in the sight of yours; but I will call at home afterwards and take her to Lady Derwent's ball. You must make him promise to go there and propose at once.''And is he likely to obey me, do you think?' said Linda, laughing. 'By the bye, what strange person Lady Derwent must be! We had such an odd note from her this morning. She said nothing would induce her to believe the report of my intended marriage, but she was most anxious to see me, and to know what had given rise to it. She

particularly wished me to go to her ball to-morrow night; but if I would not be persuaded to do that, I must drive with her on Friday to her villa, where she has got some new pictures, by a young artist, she was sure I should admire. She would take no refusal: if that day did not suit, I was to fix any other. It is so very odd, because we have seen so little of her; we never fancied her much.''And what answer did you give?' said Lady Rochford, musing.'Oh, of course, I would not go. Besides, since that foolish Mr. Stuart tried to carry me off, dear mamma has been too frightened to let me go anywhere without herself or you; and she will not even allow me to walk across Park-lane to this garden without old fat Henry; and she makes him wait at the gate all the time I am here.''She is quite right; and I know it is her extreme fear that something of the kind may happen again makes her so anxious you should be married as soon as possible. What an escape you had! And are you going to Lady Derwent's?''Oh, no; but I do not know what mamma has said, for I left her to write the answer. Poor dear mamma, she always answers all my notes; it is very kind of her, for they are dreadfully troublesome in London.'And does she always read all your notes, too?' asked Lady Rochford, with another of her quick and penetrating glances.But Linda's face remained impassive, as before.'She is quite right to take all that sort of labour off your hands, when your time is always so profitably employed in drawing and music, and everything that is beautiful''As for the profit, I am afraid there is not much

difference,' said Linda. 'How eagerly those girls are talking,' she continued, as they passed near them in the walk.'Trying to convert each other. Those two are the very personifications of High and Low Church! I am glad Helena took the high, while she was about it, for if she had become like her cousin Julia, with her prejudice against all kinds of balls or amusements, it would have been extremely inconvenient, much more so than her going every morning to early church, which she now will always persist in.''I wish I had the faith either of those two possess,' said Linda, sadly, 'I have no religion.''Well, there is time enough; don't be in a hurry, for, if ever you take to it, you will become most tremendously religious, and I am glad you have put it off for this season, at any rate.''I am afraid 'the convenient season' will never come,' said Linda, with increased gloom.'Perhaps not for me,' said Lady Rochford, with a grave and thoughtful. look, which was most unusual on her sunny countenance. 'But, if ever it does come, it will be your doing, I think; for I never feel to have so little evil in me as when near you, and I do think that is why I like you so much.''But one has never time to think--and this world is very pleasant,' continued Lady Rockford, trying o shake off the gloom; 'and certainly my lot has been most prosperous. But you are more sad than usual, dear Linda,' said she, with a look of real affection.'Yes, for I have had a letter that has made me think more deeply than I have done for many months. It is from Susan Barton,' she continued,

in answer to Lady Rochford's look ,of extreme curiosity. 'You have never seen her, I think, but I know you admire her writings. I often wish you could know herself''I daresay I should be disappointed; for authors who write really well, always disappoint me when I see them.''Miss Barton would not, I am sure; it always does me good to see her; and even the thought of her sitting in her quiet old room, in a narrow street at W--, makes me happier than the sight of all the grandeur of S-- House.''Her writings ought to do one good,' said Lady Rochford, thoughtfully, 'but they make me rather sad; they show me how bad I am. You see, her letter has made you melancholy also.''But have you any idea what Lady Derwent really wanted?' continued Lady Rochford, again trying to shake off serious thoughts. 'No! well, I, will try to discover when I see her next; for she is sometimes inclined to be mischievous, and is at present quite a slave to another of your rejected lovers, George Randal. I am afraid that you have made that man your enemy for life.''How could I help it?' said Linda, with a shudder; 'I am sure I never gave him any encouragement.''Yet I often wonder how you escaped being fascinated by him; for no one ever did before. His course has been one uninterrupted triumph, and he never condescended to speak to a young lady until he saw you; and then, I really believe he became quite your victim, and, from being always the conqueror, he became the conquered. You are a wonderful little person, if you remained insensible, for he never exerted his fatal art of

pleasing so powerfully before, because he never was inspired by real love. Yes, though he is quite ruined, and overwhelmed with debt,' continued Lady Rochford, 'I do believe that he loved you for yourself alone, and would even have proposed, if you had had no fortune; I will do him the justice to say that. You are a strange creature, and so far I ought to be obliged to him, for it was your refusal of him that first drew my attention towards you; for I was sure that the captivator of George Randal's heart must be a most original and wonderful person. And then, to find you not the least conceited or set up by all your conquests! You always seem to think yourself the person of least consequence in the world!'This was true, for among the varied and ever-changing expressions depicted on Linda's speaking countenance, the one generally predominating was humility; and it seemed to cast a sort of subdued mellow tint or veil over her dazzling beauty. Yet this expression was, by persons who did not quite like or appreciate her, supposed to proceed from indifference, or a want of animation, and even some thought it a sort of proud reserve,--so differently was she judged.'Yes; it is a perfect miracle to me how you escaped George Randal,' resumed Lady Rochford, after a pause. 'But I am afraid he will never forgive you the humiliation of his failure. You were quite right, however; for though wonderfully clever and brilliant, he is innately bad--a most dangerous man!''Then why is he tolerated in society? I never can understand, said Linda.'Because he is so witty and amusing; and besides, he knows everybody's secrets, and conse-

quently has many influential people under his power. I should be sorry to be obliged to make him my enemy, though I do hate him,' she said, with a look of horror. 'It would be very inconvenient. Well, I will call for you to-morrow evening at eight o'clock, for, if you go, I know you like to hear the opera.''Yes, I will be ready, if mamma does not object. Oh, and dear Mr. Roland told me to ask if you will come and breakfast with him on Friday--but he does not want to have Helena.''No, he does not like her; but, how excellent, his asking me through you! How quickly he penetrates into one's character, without ever appearing to observe! I shall be delighted to go, and hope he will ask Sidney Elwards to meet us; but, I suppose, he would rather have us to himself, and I am always quite satisfied to meet no one else.''So am I; for the last time I breakfasted with him, he was full of pleasantness and poetry.''Yes,' said Lady Rochford, 'he is very differently agreeable to different people; and I always like him best with you.''And so do I; for with me he is neither bitter nor very witty, but seems in the frame of mind which is most natural to him--poetic, intellectual, reflective, and kind.''Yet his London society reputation,' continued Linda, 'has been made chiefly by his brilliant wit and bitterness  Though his poetry is in the same strain of tenderness and good feeling as his conversation with me; I think, therefore, I have the best of him.''That is quite true,' said Lady Rochford; 'and I remember being struck last year, the first time

he met you, with the instinctive penetration which made him feel that you were more worthy of his sentimental and metaphysical ideas, though you were not yet out, than I was, for he never gives me anything but his wit.''What a pleasant morning that was, and how well I remember it,' said Linda, 'and his observation on German and Italian music. He said some of Mozart's melodies were so graceful, they seemed to be always dancing minuets de la cour in the skies. I was much struck by his supernatural appearance. The sound of his voice and the movement of his lips (no other feature seemed to stir) were a constant surprise to me: his face so colourless and deathlike, that I felt as much amazed at those positive signs of life as if I saw a marble statue move and talk.'CHAPTER III.
THE TWO PORTRAITS.'HOW very beautiful she is!' said Mrs. Grant, as her son showed her a miniature of Linda Delamere. 'And how happy she looks, too; there is quite a bounding joyousness in those laughing brown eyes,--but how they would flash if she were angry!--and that playful smile--she must be full of fun. Yet the broad forehead, and its expression of calm repose, shows a large and deep-thinking mind, and is full of hope. Yes! I trust that happy as she now is, she can realize still greater joy in a world to come. I think--I think she has full confidence in the goodness of God! I am very glad to see this, dear John; but you never led me to think she was so very lovely.''Did I not? Well, perhaps because I think her beauty the least of all her attractions. I believe I scarcely know the colour of her eyes, she has such an indescribable charm! The tone of her voice, her every movement, is so full of unconscious grace, and she seems to think so little of her own appearance, I sometimes feel as if she wished to make one forget her surpassing loveliness, as if she regretted to outshine her companions, and to appear so much more perfect than all of us poor mortals.''But I do not think she looks generally so happy as she appears in that picture. It was done when she was just seventeen, before I saw her, and she was so afraid you would be disap-

pointed, that she drew a masterly sketch of herself the day I left London, which I will show you also.But Mrs. Grant's eyes were riveted on the miniature, and tears of joy ran down her pale cheeks, as she continued to ponder over it.'There is much decision in that short upper lip; and the eyebrows show strong determination; but the well-rounded under lip expresses good humour, too, and is full of love: she must be a most affectionate creature.''Oh, I hope she loves you, John,' continued Mrs. Grant, as she paused in her scrutiny, to wipe the tears which had dimmed her spectacles.'What a delightful thing a picture is! and it is so pleasant to be able to look and read all the different expressions at one's ease; one can seldom look at a person's real face in this way! There are great contrasts in it though; and the eyes and eyebrows are darker than the hair, which is very unusual.''Yet her hair sometimes looks quite dark,' said Mr. Grant, 'and then, at others, when a ray of sunshine or bright light falls on it, it shines like gold, and reminds me by its soft waviness of my poor dear sister Annie's  Then again it reminds me of the beautiful landscape we see from this window, on a showery April day, when gleams of sunshine bring to view the distant mountains, and ever-changing effects of light and shade.''But now you must look at this,' he continued, as he opened a portfolio, 'for I think this is the most like. But you are unwilling to take your eye from the miniature, I see, dearest mother; you have not done studying it yet. How deeply you are reading her inmost thoughts; you are begin-

ning to look quite anxious. Oh, I hope you will continue to be as pleased with her, for I often think you really have our Scotch gift of second sight.'Mrs. Grant was silent for some minutes, then laid down the portrait. 'It is an unwritten page,' she said, gravely; 'there are all the elements of good and evil--great powers, great talent, but no such predominating expression as to give me any certainty as to her character. It is quite unformed. Oh, John, you have undertaken a great responsibility.''Yes, that is very true; but now look at this, for it is exactly what she now is.'Mrs. Grant gazed on the drawing intently, and then said,--'Ah, this is very different Poor child! poor child! the good has been checked; she has met with some disappointment. What can it have been? Yet I think this is even more--no, not beautiful, but splendid, perhaps. But it is an awful face; she looks as if she could not pray! The faith which that broad and still reposeful forehead ought to have, has been eclipsed. There is no hope. She is not happy. Oh, no! not even so happy as I am after the loss of my dear husband, and our six darling children.''You do look more calm, dearest mother,' said Mr. Grant, as he turned from the portrait to gaze on her still handsome face; 'and all your cares and deep sufferings have left but few traces of sorrow. No, for your faith has never wavered--never. You are always able to realize the intense happiness of our dear ones who are gone before.''Yes; but perhaps I looked so when in early youth I doubted for a short time of your dear

father's affection, and everything went wrong. She has a resigned expression, which is very touching, very--and sad too; for I see it is the resignation of reason--the tranquillizing power of a strong will: but, without faith, without hope, there is no peace. Oh, dearest John, you have undertaken more, far more than you are aware of. But if she loves you, all will be well; and I pray--oh, I pray that we may make her happy, poor dear child! I fear much,' and she clasped her hands with a solemn expression.'How strange you are to be able to see all that, dear mother. If she does not love, why did she accept me after refusing so many men much more attractive, and with much greater worldly advantages?''She would not care for worldly advantages; I cannot trace a particle of ambition in her countenance. But, after all, they are but portraits, and it may be foolish in me to read the expression as if I were looking at the real person,' continued Mrs. Grant, with an attempt at cheerfulness, as she saw her son began to look anxious. 'You are a child of many prayers, and no doubt all is for the best, and she will be a blessing to you; if not in this world, all will be right in the next. Now go and see if you like the way I am preparing her room, for there is a great deal to be done still and very little time.''And will you not have some new furniture in this library? these old chairs look so out of date, don't they?''I think she will like them,' said Mrs. Grant; 'and I should be sorry to alter this room, where everything reminds me of those who are gone.''Well, perhaps it could not be better, and I am

no judge of these things,' said Mr. Grant. 'I should be sorry, too, that anything were altered here,' he continued, as he gazed fondly round the room.It was a long and rather narrow room, with a low but finely-carved old ceiling, and everything in it had a homelike and almost venerable appearance. On one side of the door the dark oak bookcases were filled with large old volumes, chiefly on divinity. But the other side contained books of more motley hue and description.Some old family portraits hung at the two ends, and the south side had three windows, or rather casements, looking upon a flower garden, which sloped down in old-fashioned terraces to the river. At that point the stream was broad and deep, and looked almost like a lake, but after passing a grove of fine beech trees it rushed over a narrow ledge of rocks, and dashed in a cascade down into the valley Achone, where its windings might be seen in the distance, with many villages and the towers of old castles on its banks. Then farther still in the distant horizon the Highland mountains could be seen, with their fantastic peaks glistening in the sunshine, or frowning in the shade.The middle window was a sort of oriel, and contained a long library table; and here, in an old high-backed chair of ebony, inlaid with ivory, sat Mrs. Grant.She was dressed in black, and wore a close widow's cap, and over it a long black veil. She had been reading a large old Bible, which was supported on a desk, when her son came in, and there she still remained, the two portraits lying on the table near her. But her eyes and thoughts were again fixed on the volume, and the

troubled look which had disturbed the serenity of her beautiful brow was gone as she read from the fiftieth chapter of Isaiah, 'Who is among you that feareth the Lord, that obeyeth the voice of his servant, that walketh in darkness and hath no light? Let him trust in the name of the Lord and stay upon his God.'Now and then she clasped her hands in prayer with an earnest, anxious look, and then read on calmly as before.Then she again looked on the portraits, as if she wished to reconcile herself to their expression. 'Poor child! so young too--only eighteen; just the age of dear Annie when she died! Well, I shall do my best to make her happy, and maybe she will love us and be a daughter to my old age. Dear John,' she continued, again looking at Linda's sketch of herself, 'she has loved, I feel sure; but alas! it could not be John; maybe he's dead, or disgraced, or changed. But no, such a creature as that could not have loved in vain. Yet if he were dead, if he died in faithful trust of future happiness, she would have more hope. She would then have found trust in future bliss, but I see none in this last portrait. No, he must be unworthy. Poor girl! and so she may have thought to find peace and comfort in the devoted love of such a character as John! And I trust she will find it too, in time; for I am sure he will do his best to ensure her happiness--ay, even if it were to cause the loss of his own! But, poor John! he little knows what he has undertaken. He is too good, too simple, to have much insight into such a mind as that, I fear. With all her talents, how will she ever bear this dull old place, and our simple neighbours? Perhaps John is right, and this room should be altered

as well as the others. Yet how could I take away the table where Annie last sat,' thought Mrs. Grant, as she looked at a small table in one of the other windows, 'with all her books and drawings, and work just as she left them; and Mary's little book-stand, too! Yet, perhaps this Turkey carpet does appear too faded, only I could not bear to look on any other, for I sometimes think I can almost see their dear footmarks on it;--and that piece more worn than the rest, where my dear husband used to sit. I'll tell Linda all this, and maybe she'll forgive its shabbiness, and feel for us; and then all the other rooms will be new and modern, and perhaps she will even like the look of this, for it would make a much better picture than if it were filled with gaudy modern furniture. And then the old China jars in the corners, full of the pot pourri made of the flowers Annie and Mary picked when they were children; and the time-worn books and old cabinets have such a venerable look. Perhaps, after all, this will be a greater contrast; she may like it better than all the elegant litter and costly furniture they now crowd the rooms with. Poor thing! she looks too unhappy also to care much about any of these kind of things; for real sorrow makes us very indifferent, or at least it would enable her to understand us more.'Mrs. Grant had indeed experienced many sorrows: besides the loss of an adored husband, four of her boys had died young, and the two girls who had lived to grow up and requite her care with their goodness and loveliness, had both died of consumption. She had been a just and deep thinker, though she was not highly cultivated, and knew no other language than her own; but there was a sort of natural poetry of disposition and refinement

which, without much cultivation, raised her to a level with the most deeply-read minds;--perhaps because she had studied the Bible, and that had taught her the varieties of human nature, and given her that quick intuition which could always make allowance for the faults of others, as well as that real charity of feeling which constitutes the highest breeding.It had given her that rare spirit that 'hopeth all things--seeketh not its own, and therefore she had accepted her trials, and not rebelled against them. Christian humility had prevented her countenance from ever 'falling.' She had never indulged in that Cainlike spirit, which produces, by distorting the features, a premature old age, and prevents the trials sent by a kind Father from developing our good qualities, and beautifying us for eternity.She had suffered long and was kind; she loved others better than herself, and took pleasure in their hopes and joys; and so she was youthful-minded, and her countenance was lovely to behold.And there is no sight more interesting or comforting, or more
suited to inspire hope, than a person who has undergone much real
suffering, and yet retains a youthful expression of peace and hope;
or, perhaps, I should rather say, acquires it. Thus says Jean
Paul:--Von Natur stillen, oder von Religion
gestillten Frauen, bleibt im Gesichte ein Nachfrühling und
später ein Nachsommer ihrer schönsten zeit
zurück.*Chap. xxiii. § 5, Gesammelte Aufsätze und Dichtungen:--'Upon the faces of women who are by nature serene and peaceful or those whom religion has made so, we can trace an abiding youth; a sort of reflex, or living once again of their spring and summer,--of the heyday of their bloom.To look upon such a face is one of our greatest earthly comforts, for it must give a hope and confidence in the goodness of the God who alone can impart that 'peace which passeth all understanding.' It must encourage us to strive to attain it, and lead us to indulge the hope that when our time of trial comes we may be supported with the like peace and joy.CHAPTER IV.
HOPE.'I WISH you would tell me about her mother, John. I wish you had brought me a portrait of her too,' said Mrs. Grant, when, some hours afterwards, she was walking with her son on the South terrace.'Mrs. Delamere is a very lovely woman, and very amiable, I believe; and her predominating sentiment seems to be a devoted love for her daughter.''But has she much control over her, and do you think it could have been to please her mother that she accepted you?''I should think not; yet, certainly, I think that poor Mrs. Delamere was so much frightened by an attempt made about six months ago to carry Linda off, that she was very anxious her daughter should marry.''And you say she is very intimate with Lady Rochford; but I have heard that lady is one of the most worldly of London's great people. How is this?''She is an old friend of theirs; and certainly, if Linda were like any other young lady, I should not approve of the intimacy; but somehow I never can bring myself to fear that anything can do her harm I only feel sure that she must do everyone good.''But how will she ever put up with our neigh-

hours, poor Mrs. Johnstone and the Dumsdens, after all these fine people?''I know that she is fonder of Miss Barton, a poor authoress, an elderly lady who has lived all her life in the dull old town of W--, than of any one else in the world, except her mother; so, you see, she is not an exclusive admirer of fashionable people,' said he, triumphantly.'What! Miss Barton, the authoress of Forest Castle! Oh, I could fancy that quite, and I am very glad to hear it; for I am sure the author of that book must be exactly the kind of person to influence for good such a mind as those portraits show me Miss Delamere must have. It is not fashionable people she would want; I am sure Lady Donville and the Marchioness of Wentwood, whom I met in Edinburgh, were what I thought quite vulgar; but you must know, John, that the Dumsdens and Johnstones are rather tiresome. Why it appears just a loss of time when they come, for nothing seems to interest or amuse them that one can do or say.''Perhaps you are right, dear mother; for you see I am no great observer of these things; and, at all events, she will have you, and she need not see any more of the neighbours than she likes.''No, that is true. Then the Gordons I am sure she will like, and the Stuarts of Dundrum; and with all her talents there will be plenty of occupation. And I am sure the view from these windows is enough to prevent anyone from feeling lonesome. No one could ever tire of watching the light and shadows on yonder mountains.'Craggie Castle was an old castellated mansion of the time of Mary Stuart. There were no large rooms or particularly grand features in it, but it

was situated, a woody height, and on all sides commanded lovely views. The gardens had been enlarged, but their old-fashioned character remained unchanged. In the days of extreme bad taste, which reigned thirty or forty years ago, this was a most unusual occurrence.'I think she will like the old style best,' said Mrs. Grant, as they walked along the broad terrace. 'To my mind, most of the places I see have been spoilt with all those modem improvements There's Dunlucan, where they pulled down the old house and built that great plain mass, which looks to me like a barrack, and where there are no corners or projections to catch the sun, and give those blocks of shade which look so pretty in a drawing.''Yet you surely do not see any beauty in this uneven old building, with those little towers like pepperboxes at the corners, and no two windows in the same line-all angles and turns? said Mr. Grant.'Ah, but I do though; and if you saw this in a picture, you would like it much better than those splendid mansions of Dunlucan and Trevenion. Though I never tried to draw, I always like to see what I know looks well in a picture; and as Miss Delamere is such a wonderful artist, she will be sure to like this best as it is.''At all events,' continued Mrs. Grant, 'let her see it first; and then if she likes to make any change, well and good. But I am thinking that, even in the house, she will bring down those beautiful old carved chairs you have sent-up into the lumber room, and have them instead of the new ones. Those ugly, plain, low, square, modern things, that look as if the workmen could have had no pleasure in making them. Now, I think they

must have enjoyed carving those flowers, and birds, and crowns, on the old chairs; and I am sure she must like whatever is beautiful. Yes, she will enjoy this view. But, John, I. cannot help wishing she were not so very lovely, nor so rich.''And, I am sure, so do I, dear mother; and that kept me back for more than two months after I saw and loved her. It seemed so presumptuous, when all the rich and great men were running after her; and I am certain I did not want her fortune; thank God, we have quite enough to keep up my father's house, and not let any of our poor suffer. And her beauty, I am almost afraid I never value it as I ought; I quite reproach myself often for not thinking about it more. But, mother, I can't help her being so beautiful and rich; so do not look so anxious and sad about it''It is indeed very foolish in me,' said Mrs. Grant, with a cheerful smile; 'and wrong, too,--making me ungrateful for the bounty God is bestowing on you. But you know what a sadly apprehensive disposition I have always had. And then, alas! how often have my worst fears been realized. My beautiful girls!' she continued, as the tears started to her eyes; 'to see them grow up so good and joyous, and then to know that the fatal malady was beginning to attack them. Dear Annie! to see her at sixteen so healthy and strong, bounding over the heather, and already giving her young heart to one who loved her dearly; and looking forward to a long life of bliss in this world! Yet, even then, I felt sure she would die--that she would never live to see her wedding-day. No wonder they say I have the second sight.'Perhaps you have it, indeed, and that God has graciously given this foreknowledge or presentiment

to prepare you gradually for the real trial when it comes, dear mother,' said Mr. Grant, much moved; 'with your loving heart, a sudden blow would have killed you.''Well, perhaps it is so; for I have been almost happier since they are gone. The worst is over, an like dear old nurse, Eleanor, I feel as if I lived in their present and eternal joy, and participated in the rest into which they have entered.''Yes, you do, indeed; you live with them, I know; your spirit is already in Heaven; yet God in his mercy has allowed you to remain in this world to comfort and cheer me, and every one who comes near you. Yes, I know Linda will be happy when she sees you, and will do her best to supply the place of those dear ones who are gone!'CHAPTER V.
TEMPTATION.ONE morning, Lady Rochford was sitting in her boudoir, which every one said was the most beautiful room in London; and the chair she sat in was the easiest, and it was covered with the richest brocaded satin.On the pietra dura table near her were some of the newest and best publications of the day, and she was endeavouring to read, or, at least, she tossed over the pages; and occasionally cut a few leaves, and glanced through them. But they did not seem to interest her much, for now and then she yawned and looked round ma the beautiful flowers, and vases, and pictures, a if in search of something she could not find.It was early in Lady Rochford's morning, for she had only just breakfasted, and she generally came into her boudoir afterwards for an hour or so of quiet reading, before she entered into the tumultuous engagements of the day; and no one was allowed to disturb her there, nor any notes or letters to be brought in.
But this morning her groom of the chambers ventured to open the door, and with a look of humble apology to ay, as he held out a card,--'This gentleman wishes so particularly to say a few words to your Ladyship, that I hope you will excuse me for coming in. I told him it was quite impossible you could see him, and that it was not even the hour for taking in any note.'Lady Rochford looked at the card, and then said,--'Show him into the drawing-room; or--no, you may bring him here.'A shade of anxiety clouded her brow, and when the gentleman groom had withdrawn, she leant her head on her hand, and seemed to ponder deeply.'I know, now, why he comes,' she said to herself, after a few moments. 'I shall have a fearful scene. What can I do?'As the door opened, the anxious look passed away, but her features assumed rather an air of coldness, as she slightly bowed to the handsome man who was ushered in.'I have to apologise for intruding on you at this early hour,' he said, with an air of assurance, almost bordering on effrontery; 'still more must I ask your pardon for requesting you to answer candidly a few questions In the first place, will you tell me why you made up this match between Miss Delamere and Mr. Grant?''I did not make it up. It was their own doing,' said the countess, with a proud look; 'but by what right do you put such a question to me?' she said, with a slight degree of anger.'Because, as you know very well, I want to marry her myself; and I am determined to do so. I have always intended it; you know I am a relative of her father's, and I came home from abroad last year on purpose--for I know she has loved me from her earliest childhood. Now, you can help me if you choose; and in the first place, you must tell me who she is in love with, for nothing will induce me to believe that she cares for her intended husband. But why she consented to marry him, baffles even my penetration,' said he, with a laugh.'I cannot think why you do not ask her yourself, if you are so anxious to know,' said Lady Rochford, with a contemptuous smile.'I think I have discovered why you are glad she is engaged to Mr. Grant--for I see you are pleased at this marriage; and you like the girl very well, too, perhaps better than your own daughters; but you do not wish her to be Duchess of Dartford.--Oh! that's your motive,' he continued, as he darted his piercing glance full on Lady Rochford's countenance. 'You are a good actor, and would deceive most people, if you chose; but I think I know you, in spite of that impassive look. You are trying hard to be civil, I know, but you are boiling with anger yet you may as well have the gratification of showing it.''Are you mad? or do you come here on purpose to insult me? If so, I have nothing more to say,' continued the countess, moving towards the bell.'Wait an instant--you must listen,' he exclaimed, waving his hand; and, approaching near her, he whispered a few words in her ear.For a moment she became deadly pale, and her lip quivered with suppressed emotion. Then, putting her hand before her eyes, she seemed to consider deeply.'Yes, think well,' he said, with an exulting smile; 'think what it will be to lose your position in society; to be hurled down from the throne of fashion, where you have so long reigned in glory.''I have thought,' she exclaimed, drawing herself up with an air of proud determination--'I have thought; I will not consent to aid your diabolical design. No; Linda shall not fall into your hands; no, not even if I do lose everything I value most. I will not betray her. No; on the contrary, I shall

even warn her and Mrs. Delamere of your designs, and--''That is useless,' he said, with a bitter smile; 'for, since that fool, Jack Stuart, tried to carry her of, it is impossible to approach her. But I will give you until to-morrow to consider,' he continued, with a less bitter and more persuasive smile; 'if before then you consent to do as I require, nothing shall be said.''I require no time for consideration; my mind is made up, and you may do your worst.'Her visitor looked perplexed, as if this resistance on her part was quite unexpected.'Think' he said, 'what it will be, not only to lose your position, but you will be expelled from all this scene of luxury and splendour, deprived of your children, despised and slighted by those over whom you have domineered for so many years. What a triumph for your rivals, Lady Derwent and the Duchess of S--. Ha!' he continued, as he saw that she trembled, 'on the other hand, you can remain in your present proud position, indulged and feted by an unsuspecting husband; who, though he really loves, never inconveniences you by over-watchfulness--you the adored of all. Your daughter soon will be married to a marquis--I hear Kilgrogan has been caught already, by Miss Delamere's assistance,--and the next will marry the Duke of Dartford; and this will add to your power, without their becoming rivals to your sway; and you may have all this--at what cost?--merely to say a word to these women. And I am sure Linda will be quite as happy with me, and have a still better position in society. Besides,' he continued, watching her attentively, 'I really think she loves me! Ah! you may start, but it is true,' he added,

with more confidence; 'before she heard those confounded reports about my gambling, and other peccadilloes, I know she loved me; and if I could obtain her I know I should become a different person,' he continued, with much feeling. 'Her love--her--''I will never believe it!' interrupted Lady Rochford; 'I know you too well--and you do not believe it yourself. No, Linda would be miserable; besides, I know she dislikes you.''Perhaps she told you so herself,' he said, with a smile; 'but have you yet to learn how often love is disguised in a semblance of hate, and how easy it would be for a person of Linda's wonderful powers to deceive even you.'Lady Rochford remembered how she had been baffled by Linda's impassive countenance, one morning when she had endeavoured to discover the secret of her love, during that walk in the garden which has been described.'Can it be possible ? she thought; 'after all, she may love this man; he is most fascinating, and has broken more hearts than any one I know; and, if so, I am risking such a fearful sacrifice for nothing; for, if she really loves him--but, poor girl! what a dreadful fate will be hers; I cannot force it upon her.'While these thoughts were rapidly passing through Lady Rochford's mind, her face remained quite calm--he could read nothing in it; but the delay gave him hope, and he continued, in the same persuasive strain--'Yes, I am sure she loves me; and I vow, by all that is sacred, to make her happy. I shall reform; I shall relinquish all my evil courses; and she will--oh, I know she will be happy. Can you

not see that she is miserable now? Every one remarks the difference in her when she first came out in the world, the end of last season, Then she was a joyous creature, indeed; and can you not see that love has worked this sad change? Her principles were shocked; she has a most powerful mind; and she was therefore determined to conquer the feelings which her judgment condemned. And she will die in the attempt,' he continued, with much feeling; 'nothing will induce, her to recal me. But when once she finds herself mine, then all struggle will have ceased; then she will be intensely happy--yes, and grateful, most grateful to you, for having been the means of giving her a destiny for which she would give worlds! Her bliss would be complete. This you can do, and you will,' he said, throwing himself with an air of real humility, at her feet. 'I now stoop to persuade--to implore--when I might command. Yes, I know you will consent, for you loved me once,' he said, taking her hand. But Lady Rochford drew it away with a look of horror.'No, I never loved you!' she exclaimed; 'but I was thoughtless and foolish, and I must pay the penalty,' she continued, sadly. Then, in a more calm tone, she continued, 'If you really think Linda loves you, why do you not speak to her, or write?''I am forbidden the house, and my letters are always returned unopened.''Then I can do nothing; for I am still resolved not to be instrumental to her ruin,' she said, resuming her firm and haughty air.'I will give you twenty-four hours to consider,' he said; 'to-morrow, at this hour, I will call and bear your final determination. But you will learn

nothing from Linda--of that I warn you--if you use every art to discover her secret.'After he was gone, she remained some time leaning her head on her hand, and seemed to ponder deeply. At one moment she thought of sending for him again; the next she thought, 'I will not, I will be firm; he shall not intimidate me;--but what can I do? What a diabolical man he is. But he must not, he shall not succeed in his endeavour to entrap that beautiful Linda. Poor girl! it would be such a dreadful fate; and, after all, will my husband--will anybody, believe him? No,' she continued, starting up, while a ray of joy reappeared on her face; 'no, they will surely not believe him. I will see Rochford at once, and tell him what this man threatens; and, if I see that he is determined not to give ear to these infamous stories, then I can bid defiance to the world.' She ran into the library, but Lord Rochford had gone out. 'Alas! and he will not return until dinner-time;' and how dreadful the suspense she must endure for so many hours.But it was some comfort to reflect that she had resisted the temptation, and was really prepared to relinquish all the advantages she valued most, rather than be the means of giving Linda to such a libertine.'I knew she called out my best qualities always,' thought Lady Rochford; 'and certainly there is not one in the whole world but herself for whom I would incur such a risk. For even if Rochford can be persuaded not to believe what that man says, yet such dreadful things will be said, for which there is some little shadow, alas, of truth, that it will be very, very disagreeable. How could I ever be so foolish, so very thoughtless?' she

reflected, with a shudder, as some bitter recollections forced themselves into her mind, and the words she had heard in early youth, before the snares and pleasures of the world had choked the good seed, 'What fruit had ye then in those things whereof ye are now ashamed?' sounded like a knell in her ears!CHAPTER VI.
THE CONFESSION.'HERE is a note from Lady Rochford, and she wishes me to go there directly. What can it be, at such an early hour?' said Linda to her mother, just as they were going to breakfast.'Something about the wedding dresses, I suppose,' said Mrs. Delamere. 'So Lady Helena is really going to be married; and it is all your doing, Lady Rochford tells me!''Yes; I hope I have not done wrong,' said Linda, sadly. 'I had quite a scene with poor Lord Kilgrogan. I was not aware that he cared for me so much! I hope Helena will make him happy.''No doubt, no doubt,' said Mrs. Delamere, with a pleased smile; 'for everything you do is right, and I am sure Lady Helena is a good girl; and you are a dear little thing to have managed it so well.'' On the contrary, I am afraid it was foolish and thoughtless of me. I did not give it the consideration such an important thing requires. However, Helena seems delighted; so I trust all will be well.'Linda had written a long letter to Miss Barton, but she was not satisfied with it, nor with herself, and as she walked across the gardens she felt more than usually depressed and sad.'How dark and dreary everything is in this world, and how little I can imagine any happiness

here or hereafter: only endless woe,--eternity seems a dull void;' and as if on purpose to increase her gloom, she heard one of the favourite airs of her early childhood played on a melancholy barrel-organ.Its droning yet plaintive tones haunted her as she proceeded through the gardens, and only died away in the distance as she reached the private garden entrance of Lady Rochford's splendid house. She was shown at once into Lady Rochford's own boudoir, where she found the countess looking very ill, and with an expression of sadness and anxiety she had never before seen on her beautiful countenance.Lady Rochford had waited in the greatest anxiety for her husband's return all the preceding day, but he, most provokingly, never came home to dinner, nor in the evening; and she had not been able to see him yet.In this dilemma, and after a sleepless night, she had sent for Linda. She was now resolved to tell her part of the affair, and to endeavour to discover whether there was any truth in George Randal's assertions of Linda's attachment.'What has happened? you are ill, dear Lady Rochford.''No, I am quite well.''Then has Helena--''Oh, she is well, and gone to church, as usual; I wish I were there too. I wish I could pray, for I am very miserable, dearest Linda.''Can I do anything to comfort you,' she said, with a look of kind affection.'You will despise me so, I scarcely know how to begin; but, first, I want you to answer one question candidly,' said Lady Rochford, with a solemn

air, 'for much depends upon my knowing the exact truth. Do you love George Randal?''How comes it that you are down so early, dear Helena? and Miss Delamere here, too, at this hour!' said the good-humoured voice of Lord Rochford, as he entered the room. 'I never knew you get up at this hour before! What can you be doing? Ah, planning some marriage, perhaps. But you both look very sad; what can have happened?''Nothing,' said Lady Rochford; 'but I want to speak to you for a few minutes,' as, with a pale and agitated countenance, she begged him to go with her into the library.'Dear Linda, will you kindly wait for me here? I shall not be long.'Linda was as much surprised and perplexed as Lord Rochford, for she knew that the great lady never got up until twelve or one o'clock.'What can have happened?' Linda thought; 'and what could make her ask me such a strange question?'For some minutes she remained buried in thought, and then, as if endeavouring to escape from some painful idea, she turned her eyes listlessly on some of the beautiful objects that room contained.A choice collection of small pictures by old masters adorned the walls, interspersed with brackets, supporting vases of blue Sevres china, filled with fresh flowers. The lofty ceiling was covered by an exquisite copy of Guido's 'Aurora.'On pietra dura cabinets of the antique raised work, were ranged vases of malachite and lapis lazuli, and some ancient bronzes and tazzas, carved by Benvenuto Cellini. The writing-table near which Lady Rochford had been sitting was inlaid

with beautiful paintings on Sevres china, in borders of rose Pompadour, and it was said to have belonged to that lady for whose gorgeous taste this particular china had been invented. In the windows were vases of the same priceless material, containing sweet tuberoses. The chairs were all of various shapes and sizes, some covered with the finest gobelin tapestry, and some with rich flowered brocade, affording that variety of colour which gratifies the eye, though it is condemned as bad taste by every upholsterer.A bright light shone in, and showed the pictures and beautiful objects to the best advantage. This bright light was very unusual in ladies' boudoirs, but Lady Rochford, though fond of admiration, had none of the pettiness of coquetry. As yet she despised the little artifices by which many women whose beauty is on the wane seek to delude themselves more than others.'This is a perfect room,' thought Linda; 'every picture is a gem, and one could look at each for hours and days with ever-increasing delight. And those exotics, with their gorgeous bloom, just gathered, probably from the finest conservatories; their breath is delicious, but there is something intoxicating and depressing in all its enervating richness, and it almost makes one long to be in Susan Barton's homely room.'Her simple flowers have such a pure spring-like smell; they always seem to invigorate and cheer me. Perhaps it is that she, and everything about her, is full of hope; such humble loveliness seems to be only the foretaste of better things; whereas here, everything is as perfect as this world can produce, but it does not satisfy one--no, nor is poor Lady Rochford really happy.'I wish she could know, and be influenced by Susan Barton, for she is a fine creature, and has some noble, generous qualities. But, alas! she never gives herself time to think--never; and so she surrounds herself with artificial enchantments; all is forced, as are these flowers,' thought Linda, as she contemplated a splendid stephanotis, that hung its rich white blossoms over the sides of a lapis lazuli vase on the table near her. 'All is forced; these pictures, indeed, represent nature, but I sometimes think the contemplation of them fosters a taste for art in itself; we are taught by them to value the representation more than the reality; whereas everything near Miss Barton inculcates a taste for real nature, and one has the same pleasure in it that one has in wild-flowers,--the consciousness that they grow naturally under the pure breath of heaven.'And so it is--happiness that is thus forced, like that which Lady Rochford is obliged to seek, amid artificial beauty living in a forced atmosphere, can never be so pure as that which is enjoyed by those who, like Susan Barton, possess real peace of mind. That faith and peace which comes from the cultivation of all the best qualities--that, indeed, breathes an atmosphere of serenity, and invests each simple object around her with a peculiar charm.'But all this depresses me,' thought Linda; 'it is like the sight of a decorated coffin; yet it helps to 'compass one about with sparks,' and makes us satisfied with 'the fire we ourselves have kindled!' Yet, how little have I profited by Susan's kind influence! Do not I, like a coward, shrink from thought? Oh, that I had courage to reflect--to inquire! Oh, that I could believe! How dread-

ful is this doubt. And then, as if utterly oppressed by thought, she rose and walked to the window. It opened on a small private garden which belonged to the house, and was separated from the public one beyond by a low hedge of roses. She saw Julia Seaton walking up and down with a book in her hand, and there was something so listless and dejected in her air, that it excited Linda's compassion. 'She, too, is unhappy, and yet she has faith,' thought Linda. At this moment Julia looked towards the window, and on seeing Linda, beckoned to her with an eager gesture, and made signs that she wished her to come out and sit with her on the bench which was placed under a thorn tree, on the further side of the rose-hedge.Linda motioned her to come into the room, but then she remembered that she was in Lady Rochford's own boudoir, and that it was forbidden ground even to the Countess's own children, except when specially invited, so that of course her niece, Julia Seaton, could not venture to come in; so she stepped out at the open window, resolving to remain in sight, and return when Lady Rochford should want her.'Dear Linda, this is very kind,' said Julia, with much affection. 'I have just been to your house, for I wanted particularly to speak to you, and hearing you were with my aunt, thought I could wait to waylay you on your return home through the gardens. Yes, I must talk to you, for though I am afraid you are not religious, yet somehow I cannot help looking up to you; and then you are not High Church, like Helena, which. I think worse than anything, and so does Mr. Smalley, our dear, pious minister. Well,' she continued, in

some confusion, 'I have lately seen a good deal of Mr. Randal, and he seems such a delightful person, and--''I did not know you were even acquainted with him,' said Linda, with much surprise.'The fact is,' said Julia, blushing deeply, 'he has lately often gone to my aunt Lady Blenkensop's Chapel, and he is quite reformed, and become truly religious. He has written her such beautiful letters--so full of penitence and sorrow for his past sins.''And you are falling in love with him, my poor Julia,' said Linda, sadly.'Now, I want to ask you one question,' said Julia, eagerly, 'and I trust you will answer it with truth, for everything depends on my knowing the exact truth. Do you love George Randal?'Linda started. 'How wonderful,' thought she, 'that Lady Rochford should actually have sent for me to ask this same question.''Ah, I see it is so, from your confusion,' said Julia, with a gesture of despair; 'then I will give up all hope at once.''Stay,' said Linda, 'you mistake; I can assure you I do not--I never loved Mr. Randal; on the contrary, I always disliked him, and I am very, very sorry that he is now seeking to win your heart; for dangerous as it would be for me to marry such a person, I tremble even more for you, poor dear Julia.''No,' said Julia, very much relieved, 'there is no fear for me; for though I am very inferior to you in accomplishments and intellect, yet I have the protection of religion; with that I am safe; and if he becomes, as I hope, a true Christian, there will be nothing to fear for our happiness.''And you have said nothing of all this to your mother?' inquired Linda; 'surely that is wrong!''She is so dreadfully prejudiced against him; besides, I am  almost twenty-one--surely, old enough to judge for myself.'Linda shook her head sadly. 'And your uncle, Sir James St. Lawrence, who is so fond of you, and will, I hear, make you the heiress of all his great wealth,--how would he like this?''Ah, that is very sad, for he is still more prejudiced against poor George. But Mr. Randal is quite content to give up all these expectations--he is quite unworldly, and you know I shall come into a thousand a year next month, when I am of age; so even if I am disinherited, we can live very comfortably on that. You know I have never been to a ball or party in my life, so I want no amusements. But are you quite sure,' she continued, 'for I know he did love you, and if I thought there was any chance of your ever loving him, I would relinquish all hope at once;--yes, all expectations of happiness in this world,' she said, taking Linda's hand;--'yes, for his sake I would,' she added, while the tears ran down her cheeks.Linda was much affected, but she said, in a firm voice, 'No, dear Julia, I would never marry Mr. Randal--of this you may rest assured; but do consider, and consult your dear father, before it be too late. Mr. Randal has gambled away all his fortune, and has now nothing but debts.''Oh! I am not afraid of that; but one thing more I must ask, dear Linda, and I hope you will not be annoyed with me for it. Was there any one else--any one you loved better, that made you refuse George Randal?''Did he tell you to ask this?' inquired Linda,

with a look of slight anger, which she suppressed in a moment, but turned her penetrating gaze full on Julia's face. 'Ah, I see he did,' she continued.'No--oh no, indeed he did not,' said Julia, with some confusion.At this moment their attention was arrested by a knocking at the boudoir window, and they saw Lady Rochford beckoning to Linda.'Pray do not say anything of what I have told you, for it is of the utmost importance mamma should not hear of it.''No, I will not speak of it, except to her,' said Linda, pointing to Lady Rochford; 'but there may be a particular reason why I should wish your aunt to know it, and I must,' she said firmly, seeing that Julia wished to prevent her; 'but never fear, she shall promise me to say nothing of it to your parents, or indeed to any one. Now, I must go.''Well,' said Julia, 'I hope there is no fear of my aunt betraying me, she is so good-natured; and then I have heard, too, that she was in love with George herself, so I trust she will feel for me; and do let me see you to-morrow, at this hour, and tell me what my aunt says about it.'Linda found Lady Rochford much agitated, and the traces of tears were on her face.'Dearest Linda, I have had such an escape! Poor dear Rochford! how much kinder he is to me than I deserve! Oh! I hope you will help me to repent, and act always right! No, do not ask,' she continued, seeing Linda's look of surprise. 'I cannot tell you--at least, only part; and I must again ask you to answer that important question about George Randal. Do you love him?''Certainly not,' said Linda, firmly; 'but now you must tell me why you wish to know.'Lady Rochford then gave her an account of his interview the preceding day, and the threats he had made use of to endeavour to make her assist him in his designs.'But no one would have believed him. Surely,' said Linda, 'you are certainly safe from such calumnies?''Ah! I have been very thoughtless, dear Linda--you little know; and he is so artful, and would twist almost innocent words and actions in such a way as to make them appear guilty.''Well, it was most kind of you to run such a risk for me,' said Linda, with much affection.'I am not safe yet,' continued Lady Rochford, with a look of fear. 'He is coming at two o'clock to learn my decision, and when he hears that I have not only decided to give him no assistance in his designs, but cautioned you against them, he will do his worst.Linda thought it right to inform Lady Rochford of Julia's dangerous position, after inducing her to promise not to inform Mrs. Seaton at present.'You are quite right to have told me, she said. 'Poor girl I how very sad; but I hate always expected she would do something foolish, after being shut up so all her life; and she has not much sense either, I fear.''Did you not say Mr. Randal was coming at two o'clock;--and as I do not wish to meet him, I will go. You look very pale, dear Lady Rochford; surely, you need not dread the interview so much.''No, I need not, said Lady Rochford, trying to assume an indifferent look. 'Well, good-bye;

and remember to be more cautious than ever. Tell your mother he is resolved to carry you of, and he is most clever, as well as unscrupulous; so the guards must be doubled,' she said, with a forced smile.CHAPTER VII.
SUSPICION.IT was the end of July, and the day fixed for Linda's wedding was fast approaching. Mr. Grant had been detained in Scotland by his mother's illness longer than he had intended, and he was not expected to arrive until the day before the wedding was to take place.Linda had received a letter from Mrs. Grant, written with an affectionate simplicity, which had pleased and touched her extremely. It tended also, like the one she received from Miss Barton, to awaken her somewhat to consider the importance of the step she was going to undertake. Mrs. Grant's expressions, though forcible, were almost childlike in their simple brevity; but the strong common sense and good feeling, and even the decided look of the handwriting put her in mind of Susan Barton. Strange, too, Mrs. Grant seemed to have divined her character so well. Linda felt that the mother knew her better without having seen her, than the son did after four months' acquaintance.Lady Helena was to be married the same day, and Lady Rochford's time had been so much occupied in superintending the trousseau, that Linda had been less with her than usual. She had scarcely seen Julia Seaton since her conversation in the garden, and when they had met, her manner was constrained, and she seemed as if she wished to avoid a téte-ã-tée.One morning, a few days before the one fixed for the wedding, Lady Rochford called and begged Linda to drive out with her, saying she had not had a comfortable talk for ages.'Dearest Linda,' she said, as they drove off, 'I was so strongly reminded of you last night, that I felt quite unhappy to find how little I have seen of you lately, and it made me very melancholy to think you are going away to Scotland so soon, and that I shall not see you again for months. I really feel more sad at the idea of parting with you than I do with Helena.''What put you in mind of me last night, dear Lady Rochford? I hope it was something pleasant,' said Linda, with a sad smile.'Yes, it was enchanting; it was the most delightful music I ever heard--more perfect than any except yours. Such a voice--a rich tenor; and he sang that beautiful air of yours--that air you sing better than anything else, but that I never can induce you to sing when there are many persons present. Indeed, I have not been able to persuade you to sing it for ages, even to me.''Who was it?' inquired Linda, while a blush suffused her cheeks, and her eyes sparkled with a more eager expression than Lady Rochford had ever yet seen her evince.'Strange to say, I don't know, for I had unfortunately promised to take Miss Mansfield to Almack's, and she was so afraid of being late, she would drag me away before I could ascertain his name. But I must find out, for he is the handsomest man I ever saw: very dark eyes, full of melancholy, or rather thoughtful earnestness; a forehead that shows he must be a poet, but one of high birth, like a preux chevalier of the olden

time. What charmed me most was a look of repose and hope, an expression that seemed to indicate perfect faith in future happiness, combined with indifference to applause, and almost distaste of things present, which I never saw depicted before.'But you must know him,' continued Lady Rochford, 'for you seem to recognise my description; you look quite inspired. I never saw you appear so full of hope before.''Such a description makes one long to see the person. No wonder I look inspired,' said Linda laughing; 'and where did you meet him?''At Lady Dunluce's, where there was some amateur music, and I am going to her ball to-night. I wish you would come with me, and then you would see him, probably. It will be the best ball this year, and it seems such a pity that you should not go. How different Helena is. She has gone everywhere since she was engaged, though poor Kilgrogan seems almost tired of balls, and looks quite cross sometimes. But I see you will not go, so I must try to ascertain this wonderful man's name, and perhaps make his acquaintance, for I am quite in love with him.''Pray do; and then come and tell me all about it,' said Linda, with more than her usual animation.'I cannot help thinking you must have known some one very like this wonderful man,' said Lady Rochford, directing her penetrating gaze full on Linda. 'But you do not like to tell, I see; that strange sort of reserve is again coming like a kind of cloud over you,--that cloud which often seems to prevent my quite knowing you! And now I feel as if you were mesmerising me, and willing
most strongly that I should not discover your secret.''I do not think there is any secret to discover,' said Linda; 'but there is Mr. Randal--and see, he has actually the coolness to bow to you, as if nothing had happened.''Oh, I am quite civil to him when we meet, and I advise you to be so too, dear Linda, for there is no use making him more of an enemy than one can help; as it is, he will never forgive us, for it is the first time he has failed in anything he wished to accomplish; and he has fulfilled his threat too, and has told all sorts of stories about me, and given a great deal of trouble. The Duchess of C-- had the impertinence to cut me one evening; and though some people thought it was because I had refused her a subscription for Almack's (you know she is rather vulgar and very ugly), yet, as she is a very proper person, it was unpleasant, and Rochford was obliged to get his sister to speak to her, and explain how these reports had been set about. And then,' continued Lady Rochford, laughing, 'the poor duchess was so sorry, and so good-natured to me, and so full of the necessity of excluding Mr. Randal from all society, that I felt quite unhappy at having so often snubbed her. For she is really a good creature, only I could not stand anything so like a housekeeper at our balls, and I cannot help hating ugly people. But I ought to remember that perhaps my poor girl Jane may grow up to be very plain; and as she is a dear good creature, and I am much fonder of her than Helena, I should not like her to be snubbed. How thankful I ought to be for having Helena so well off my hands. You must help me about the Duke of Dartford for Jane.''He is very young,' said Linda, 'and his disposition quite unformed. Why, I thought he was going to college for the first time last Easter.''Yes, he is very young, but so likely to turn out well, that we ought to keep an eye upon him. What an important position he will hold. Such a splendid castle in' D-- shire;--it is certainly the finest in England; and his long minority has increased his enormous wealth, so that I suppose he is the richest subject anywhere. What a strange creature you are, to have discouraged him so resolutely.' And again Lady Rochford fixed her eyes with wondering scrutiny on Linda's countenance. 'I cannot make you out! Well; but however, I know you are kind, and will help me; for I always set my heart upon the Duke of Dartford for one of my daughters,--and then I should like Lord Clanville for Mary.'And who are you to have for little Laura?' inquired Linda, laughing. 'You have already disposed of a marquis, a duke, and an earl; or perhaps you would like to keep one at home for your own companion, and to be a comfort in old age,' said Linda, with an expression of melancholy thoughtfulness.'Ah, well, there is time enough to think of that,' said Lady Rochford, with a look of dread. 'I can't bear the idea of old age, or of death,' added she, with a shudder.'Yet death is the only thing we are quite sure of,' said Linda; 'and oh! if that would be rest, peace--how delightful it would be.''To such as you are, perhaps, and to that wonderful man I saw last night; but to him it would be more--perfect bliss.'They were silent for some time, and there was

an expression of thoughtfulness on Lady Rochford's face which was very unusual, and which added, Linda thought, to its charm. When they had finished their drive, Lady Rochford said, as she took leave of Linda, 'I will call for you to-morrow afternoon, to have one last drive, and then I will tell you all I can learn about the fascinating stranger.'CHAPTER VIII.
THE REJECTED LOVER.AMONG the numerous admirers who had been attracted by Linda's beauty and fortune, few were so keenly disappointed by her refusal as the young Earl of Clanville. He was a distant relation of her father's, and his family residence, Clanville Court was only five miles from Delamere Park; so that the two families had constant facilities for meeting, and the young people had been thrown much together.Nothing seemed more natural and likely than that the young earl, whose estates joined, and who was only six years older than Linda, should fall in love with the young heiress. His only sister, too, Lady Theresa Aylmer, was just the same age as Linda; and Theresa, who thought no one equal to her in the world (except her young brother, Dudley), was most anxious for the match; and, from her earliest childhood, had always looked upon Linda as the future countess.Their parents had died when Theresa was quite young, and they had been left under the nominal guardianship of a maternal uncle, a man of amiable disposition, but of indolent habits; and, therefore, glad to leave the management of his wards in the hands of an old governess of the family.
This lady, Miss Swain, not only determined what masters Lady Theresa should have, but even fixed on the school where the two brothers should

be educated; and, in short, performed the part of a mother to the three orphans. Fortunately, she was a person of strong common sense. But the mainspring of the family, the one who in reality arranged everything, and thought and acted for them all, was the second brother, Dudley, for he was born with one of those rare sunny natures which occasionally flit like meteors through the darkness of this life,--a disposition which may be spoilt by others or the world, but which can never receive any real education, except from itself.Fortunately, Miss Swain soon discovered this, and left him to follow his own bent, only taking care to give his inquiring mind the earliest and most positive evidences of the truth of Christianity; well knowing that then the Bible and his own rare genius would be his guide.And she was not disappointed; for though he of course acquired that great influence over his brother and sister which so superior a mind must have, yet it was always exercised for their advantage.Such a disposition seems as if it required no trials: nor had he experienced many, except those caused by his acute susceptibilities, and the warmth of his affections.The death of his mother, which happened when he was about eight years old, was his first affliction, and from his devoted affection for her, and the vividness of his memory, it seemed to leave a permanent impression of thoughtful sadness on his character, which tempered the high spirits that success might otherwise have rendered over-buoyant.Dudley's keen sense of justice was almost shocked at receiving praise for success in studies which cost him so little trouble; and he felt quite

ashamed at being rewarded for knowing as it were by intuition, or remembering from once reading, what he saw his elder brother and most other boys toiling over for hours and days without being able to learn.He longed to help them all, and enable them to receive that praise which, from being given to him, as he thought, unjustly, had scarcely any value in his eyes.But trials are not wanting, even to the most successful genius; for, besides feeling keenly for the annoyances and sorrows of others, Dudley suffered from the want of harmony he saw in the world--the contradictions and follies of even the best of human beings. He felt that the world was all so painfully at variance with the precepts of Scripture--it annoyed him to see clergymen, and those who seemed to think they set a good example to others, preach and practise such different doctrines. The peculiar harmony and power of his own mind made him long to set everything to rights--to uphold the weak, to show those who were blinded by pride and self-conceit the error of their way. Yet, in spite of all he saw to perplex his young mind; the chaos of this world's stupidity and wickedness, that often prompted him to ask, in the bitterness of his heart, 'Who shall show us any good?'--yet faith and love prevailed, and carried him forward in the right path.But still he answered with a sigh,
Excelsior!In old times, the Clanvilles possessed vast estates; but they had suffered--first in the wars of the Roses, and then in the civil wars of Charles I. One estate after the other was sold; by degrees, the

rent-roll was so far diminished that the present earl's father had left little more than 5000£ a year. This sum was charged with the small fortunes of the younger son and daughter, so that when the young earl came of age he had scarcely 400£ a year to keep up a magnificent house, for which four times that income would have been required.He was very popular at Eton and College; and being connected with many of the leading families of the old Tory party, great interest was evinced, and much anxiety expressed, that he might repair the fortunes of the family by marrying a wealthy heiress. Great was therefore the disappointment when it was known that Miss Delamere, who actually possessed part of the estates which had in old times belonged to the Clanvilles, had refused him. His brother Dudley had chosen diplomacy as his profession, and for nearly two years had been attaché at Vienna to the English embassy.Lord Clanville had passed only a short part of the last season in London, as the failure of his hopes, after Linda had refused him, had so crushed his energy and broken his spirits, that he shrank from entering into any society. His first impulse was to return home to Clanville Court, and shut himself up there with his young sister.Lady Theresa was to have been introduced that year, but an illness she had in the spring had rendered her so delicate that Miss Swain thought it more prudent to postpone it for another season. And Theresa was very glad of the reprieve, for she was a shy girl, full of English reserve, with no talent for society, although devotedly fond of a few intimate friends, and full of adoration for her brothers.Towards the end of July, about a week before the occurrences detailed in the foregoing chapters, Lord Clanville and his sister were walking, one evening, in Theresa's favourite rose garden, which commanded a fine view over a varied country and the sea in the distance.'I wonder we have not yet heard from Dudley,' said Theresa; 'unless, indeed, he is too much provoked--too sad to write: for it must have been such a bitter disappointment to him! Oh, how could she--how could Linda, after so many years of friendship, and when she had such full opportunities of becoming acquainted with all your perfections!--I cannot get over it;' and the tears started to her eyes.'I wish you would not take this disappointment so to heart, dearest Theresa; it has made you quite ill,' said Lord Clanville, trying to assume a cheerful air, as he looked on her pale face."I can't help it--for you know I am as fond of Linda as if she were my own sister; and to think we are to be deprived of her.''I believe that is the very reason, dear Theresa, that prevented Linda from regarding me in any other light; because she has always looked upon us as a sister would. I was foolish to wish for more,' he said, smiling. 'It was all my own fault; but do not say you will be deprived of her, for she repeatedly assured me that she would always consider us as her dearest relations; and she trusted nothing would ever interfere to diminish our intimacy.''But she will leave this country, and will go and live in Scotland with that tiresome Mr. Grant. What could she find to like in him? I hear he is not half so well-looking as you are. But what is that?

--a carriage coming up the avenue! Who can it be, at this hour? it is too late for any visitors;--a travelling carriage, too! who can it be? Ah! if it could be Linda, dear Linda, come to see us before her marriage! oh, I wish it was. I sometimes think if I could have seen her I might have persuaded her to think better of it,' said Theresa.Lord Clanville shook his head sadly. 'I am afraid we shall not see her any more until she is Mrs. Grant.--Yes, that is a travelling carriage. I see the post horses.''It must be Mr. Cresswell, I suppose; did you expect him on any business?'The garden where they were walking, commanded one of the most extensive views in the South of England. It was about twelve miles from the sea-coast, and on a clear day, part of the Isle of Wight and its picturesque Needle rocks could be seen. An avenue of splendid beeches, a mile and a half in length, led down to the south lodges; and Lord Clanville and his sister watched the approach of the carriage with great anxiety, as it advanced up the shady drive. Although it was driven at a rapid pace, still they had a long time to wait.'Let us go down to the shrubbery gate, and then we shall see sooner who can be coming at such an hour.''Yes, dear Theresa, let us hasten. But I am afraid you will be disappointed, for I see by the glow on your cheeks and that look of hope, that you really expect dear Linda.'So the brother and sister ran down from the terrace, and arrived at the gate just as the old woman was emerging from her snug little room to open it, and admit the travelling carriage.'It is--it is Dudley!' exclaimed Theresa, and the next moment she was clasped in her youngest brother's arms.'How delightful!' exclaimed Lord Clanville, when the first joyful greeting was over; 'but how could you obtain leave to come and cheer us?''Yes; now we shall be cheered, and shall all be happy, indeed,' said Theresa, jumping with joy; 'everything goes right when Dudley is near us.''But you, too, are looking ill, dear Dudley,' said Lord Clanville, with affectionate anxiety. 'What has happened?''Nothing has happened to me; I am quite well; but when I received your two sad letters, I felt so unhappy about you both, that I tried to obtain leave to come home for a week.''Only a week! and you travelled all that long way from Vienna, in such a short time! How very, very kind; and now, perhaps you will be able to do something to help us. . . . . Oh, do try to prevent Linda from marrying that tiresome Mr. Grant,' said Lady Theresa, with full confidence that Dudley could fulfil all her wishes.'I should be very sorry to prevent her from marrying a person she has accepted, said Dudley, with a sad smile; 'but I am anxious to hear all you can tell me about him.''I have not seen Mr. Grant, and Clanville provokes me so by praising him, that I can't bear to think of it. I am so very, very angry with Linda; though I know it is quite wrong,' she added, as she saw her brother's look of reproof; 'but I can't help it''And why did you not go to London this year?' inquired Dudley; 'and then you would have become acquainted with Mr. Grant, and perhaps

discovered that Miss Delamere has chosen wisely. I think it would have been better for Theresa,' he said, turning to Lord Clanville. 'She has now arrived at an age when it is better to be forced into society. Yes; but you need not look so frightened, dear Theresa, for this season is now nearly over; but I think if you had been out a little in London, and experienced some of its amusements and its dulness, its pleasures and fatigues, you would now have been enjoying more fully the delightful repose of this place,' he continued, as he looked round with intense admiration on the lovely view.'I thought so too; I fancied it would have been better for her,' said Lord Clanville; 'but, you know, none of us can act or judge right, unless you are near to stir up our sluggish energies; we all do wrong, and everything goes wrong when you are away.''That is quite true,' said Theresa; 'and I am sure if you had been here, Linda would not have married Mr. Grant; and now I can't help thinking that you can--you will prevent it. Oh, do!' she continued, looking up into his face, and clasping her hands with eager entreaty. 'But I see, dear Clanville,' continued Theresa, 'you want to have Dudley to yourself, for you are both dying to speak to each other; so I will be very kind, and gratify you, and go and tell Miss Swain the good news.' And Theresa jumped up the terrace steps, already forgetting her illness and disappointment, in the joy of seeing her beloved brother after nearly a year's absence.'I sometimes think she is right,' said Lord Clanville when his sister was gone--'I sometimes think that you might have prevented this marriage;

for, since I returned home, the fancy has been gradually gaining upon me, that Linda may have loved you! Ah,' he continued, as he gazed on his brother's unusually agitated countenance, 'and that you love her! Yes, I see it; and what a fool I have been all this time; how could I be so stupidly blind to what must--what ought to be? For you are formed on purpose for each other; what could possess me? I--''Stay,' said Dudley, while his lips quivered with emotion; 'do not say this--do not reproach yourself; but remember, it was all my fault. Did not I and Theresa, and everybody tell you that Miss Delamere was formed to be your wife? Everything has combined to inflict on you this cruel disappointment.''It is, indeed, a severe struggle and most bitter disappointment,' said Clanville; 'but, deeply as I have felt it for myself, I should be still more miserable if I thought you had loved, and could have obtained such a prize. For I always apprehended the drawback to my happiness would be that I was so completely unworthy of her, so totally unfit to enter into and comprehend her strange, though angelic, disposition; whereas, you are exactly suited to understand her; with you she would have been completely happy; and therefore my regret will be tenfold more keen if she has loved you in vain. But is it really too late?' he exclaimed, after a pause. 'Could nothing be done? Go--go instantly to London, and seek her, and--''No!' said Dudley, with a sad smile; 'you must remember she is now engaged, and the day even fixed, is it not? and how could we wish her to change? Oh, no; I could not even trust myself to see her, It would be impossible!''Shall I go?' said Lord Clanville; 'shall I tell her what I have discovered? and --''Oh, no; I would not for worlds disturb by a word her happiness. Remember that she has consented of her own free will to this match; we all know her well enough to feel sure she cannot be dazzled by his position or fortune. Then, she has refused all those whose worldly advantages might have proved an attraction to most girls; therefore, it would be unfair to try, in any way, to alter her determination. No, there is--there can be no hope! No, I shall not see her even! But I must go to London to-morrow, on business connected with the embassy; and I ought to be there to-night, only I thought, by crossing over to Southampton, I might allow myself one night here, and arrive as soon in London.''But then, surely you will call in Park-lane--it would seem strange if you did not.''It would be worse than useless,' said Dudley. Then, after a long silence, he added, 'I should like to hear more what is generally thought of Mr. Grant; so that, as I suppose Linda will go nowhere during this last week before her marriage, I will attend any parties that may happen to be given. Besides, I have a great curiosity to see this Lady Rochford, who seems, by what you said, to have become so intimate with them; and I hear so much of her power in the political world. Among our set she is quite celebrated. It is said that she has as great an influence in politics as in the world of fashion. I was told she got several votes for ministers at that important division two years ago. All this makes me anxious to see why she and Linda have taken this great fancy for each other, and whether Lady Rochford had any mo-

tive,--for they say she is the most artful of women, and so cool and dispassionate, that she never does anything without a motive.''I have often been perplexed to imagine what fascination she exerted to obtain such an influence over Linda.''I doubt her having any real influence over such a mind as Linda's,' said Dudley.'There are several parties this week where Lady Rochford will be likely to go,' said Lord Clanville; 'for her daughter seems inclined to make the most of her time as a young lady; and I am afraid that match with poor Lord Kilgrogan will not turn out well. I have heard that Miss Delamere persuaded him into it, after refusing him herself.''Then it would seem that Lady Rochford does influence her; this is very strange. Lady Rochford must be a most fascinating person.''I suppose she is, and I hope you will see and become very intimate with Lady Rochford, and then perhaps you will be able to draw from her the clue to all this mystery,--for certainly Linda is much altered,--she often looks very unhappy; I would give anything that you could see her yourself. Ah, this disappointment makes me regret more than ever that you are not the eldest. Then you would never have gone away to Vienna, just when your presence was most required for us all; and you and Linda would have been happy together.'Dudley was deeply moved, and the two brothers walk slowly, without speaking, arm-in-arm, to the house.CHAPTER IX.
THE BALL.LADY DUNLUCE'S ball was the most splendid that had been given during the season. Her house was one of the best in London, and besides the advantage of having a real ball-room, with polished floor of inlaid wood, its large conservatories and gardens, which, on these occasions, were brilliantly illuminated, prevented people from crowding any of the rooms too much; or at least they ought to have had that effect. But English shyness, or the difficulty we seem always to find in the real enjoyment of society, tends to make us cling together in awkward masses, and then complain of the crowd, and find fault with the dense dulness we ourselves create. For, in this nineteenth century it seems that we still continue to 'take our pleasures sadly, after our fashion,' mentioned as our characteristic by Froissart, in his times.When Lady Dunluce gave this ball, about thirty years ago, few, except very young men, danced. Those who had attained any degree of fashion or celebrity only looked on and criticised, or flirted with some married beauty.A more than usual number of this class were to be seen there that night,--for Lady Danluce was a most popular person, and many dandies, who had begun to think balls 'a great bore,' would not have been absent from hers on any account.'Who is that conceited man that Lady Rochford is flirting with so violently?' inquired Mr. Randal, of one of the most fashionable men of the day.'I was just going to ask you, for I have been inquiring in vain,' said the other. 'But why do you call him conceited? I have been struck by his extreme beauty. I suppose you are afraid he is so handsome that he will take the 'bread out of your own mouth,' as Liston said of his rival in ugliness, Lord D--; for I think even you will find a rival there.''Perhaps I may,' said Randal, with a contemptuous shrug, and a look of confidence that belied his words. 'I see Kilgrogan coming through the crowd; perhaps he can tell us who his mother-in-law's new adorer is.''Ah! that is the wonderful Adonis who was here last night,' said Lord Kilgrogan, when he had directed his glass towards the side of the long gallery where Lady Rochford was sitting. 'I don't know his name, but he sang so divinely, they have all raved about him ever since. I suppose he is some Italian exile, or artist, or something of that kind,' said the young marquis, with a contemptuous look. 'Oh, how dreadful the crowd is! Lady Dunluce ought to have in the police to make a passage through it, when she invites one to such a squeeze.'Yes, that is a very good idea,' said Mr. St. Ives, a younger brother, 'who lived on no estate,' but, on the strength of his good looks and impudence--had already given up dancing. 'I am quite a victim to the crush in that doorway, and the effort to get up to a supper-table, where there was nothing fit to eat or drink.''No!' said the clear nasal voice of Mr. Roland. 'No! for it only cost about four times as much as your income; or yours, either,' he continued, as he turned to Mr. Randal; 'only I believe you never had any.''Perhaps not,' said Randal; 'at all events, I can't be accused of having muddled it all away in paying my debts! Here comes Sidney Elwards, his face glowing with humour; now we shall hear something worth listening to,' he said, with a look of cutting bitterness to the pale poet.'Ha, Roland! have you got wedged in among the dandies?' said the jovial voice of Sidney Elwards, as his capacious form advanced towards them. 'You had better follow me.''I am quite happy,' said Mr. Roland, 'now you are come; for as Mr. Randal has just observed, we shall hear something worth listening to.''What I you have not thought it worth while to give them any of your wit, eh?' said the jolly-looking Mr. Elwards, with a mixture of good nature and sharpness. 'And I suppose they are cutting up the ball and the supper.''Yes; but not quite as well as you have Mr. C.'s book in the last Edinburgh.''Well, I don't dislike a crowd,' said Sidney Elwards, expanding his large chest and tall figure, and looking with a contented chuckle over the heads of those who stood near, while his broad features beamed with fun. 'Yes, I like this much better than the musical party we had here last night. Lady Dunluce insisted upon such a dead silence, that I expected to die of suppressed conversation.''As you were here last night,' said George Randal, 'perhaps you can tell us who that young

man is with Lady Rochford there, on the sofa near the farther window.''Who why, yes; that man is the wonder of the age. I find he wrote that article in the Quarterly, on Germany, which has created such a sensation.''Ay, and he is a true poet, too,' said Mr. Roland, as a movement in the crowd enabled him to see that part of the room where Lady Rochford was sitting; 'and his singing sent me to heaven last night.''But has he no name?' inquired George Randal, with impatience. 'Dear Lady Derwent, do tell me who that man is,' entreated Randal, as he saw that Sidney Elwards and the poet had moved on without attending to his impatient question;--'the man flirting with Lady Rochford?''Yes; that is Mr. Dudley Aylmer, Lord Clanville's brother. I believe this is his first appearance, and I hear we are all to fall in love with him.''A relative of the Delamere's, too, is he not?''I think so; but why don't you go and interrupt them?' said Lady Derwent, maliciously; 'for I have never seen the queenly countess so ésprise with any one since your day.'Mr. Randal had been the more anxious to discover the name of the handsome stranger, because he fancied it was not a flirtation, although Lady Rochford's attention was unusually riveted; yet he descried more curiosity than love, or even gratified vanity, on her countenance.This made him determine to watch her attentively; for one great secret of his power was the knowledge he contrived to obtain of most people's real history, and in this instance he was instigated

by the strongest of passions--hatred. For Lady Rochford had said the truth when she told Linda Mr. Randal would never forgive them; yet she had even failed to penetrate the depth and fearful intensity of his hatred.He saw that Lady Rochford had been too deeply absorbed as yet to notice that he was near, and as the crowd continued to increase, he hoped to remain unobserved. He gradually contrived to approach till he got behind some ladies who were sitting in the next window, and then he was sufficiently near to hear a few words of their conversation.'Yes, I am sure this is a marriage of affection,' he heard Lady Rochford say, in answer to some question. 'There could be no other inducement. You know she almost refused the Duke of Dartford.'Then the voices became so low he could hear no more. He saw that Dudley spoke long and earnestly; but though Lady Rochford seemed to hear it perfectly, not a word reached Mr. Randal's ears; but from his quick perception and accurate knowledge of Lady Rochford he was able almost to read the words to which she listened, on her countenance. He had been able for some time to conceal himself from her observation, by sitting behind two fat dowagers, but when one of these portly ladies went away, Lady Rochford's quick eye discovered him, and afterwards the expression of her face revealed nothing more, except her firm resolve to conceal her thoughts from him.He then bestowed more attention on the expression of Mr. Aylmer's countenance, but he saw that was concealed as if by a mask; and though his features were formed to express every variety of emotion, nothing could be discovered; and he saw

that Lady Rochford herself was occasionally baffled, and directed her penetrating glances in vain. His thoughts were concealed by a reserve which seemed gradually to increase, until there was something almost approaching to coldness or contempt in his masked expression.Then again Mr. Aylmer spoke a few words which seemed to excite some powerful feeling in Lady Rochford, for she appeared now to forget that Randal's eye was upon her. It was a look of sorrow; then of remorse, and he fancied a tear trembled in her eye. She looked around her, as if with a feeling of horror. For a moment she fixed her eyes on Randal, then turned them to Dudley with a sort of solemn and almost penitent look, which puzzled Randal extremely.'Can she be confessing her sins to that stranger?' thought he, while his lip curled with a contemptuous smile. 'So far from a flirtation, she seems to be making a confessional of the ball-room. What can that man spy which makes her look so utterly miserable? How strange that he should excite such powerful feeling, while he appears so cold and indifferent, and his lips even seem scarcely to move!'And for a moment Randal forgot his schemes and motives in a sort of wondering admiration of a power which he saw far surpassed his own.As Lady Rochford continued to listen, her look of despair was changed to one of deep thought,--a sort of solemn expression which he had never before seen, and which gradually assumed a look of hope. He thought it was such as might be seen on a drowning wretch, watching a ship which gradually seemed to approach within reach. It was as if it came nearer and nearer as Dudley

went on speaking; and as his look became less cold, her features assumed an expression of such intense hope, that she became more intellectually beautiful than she had ever appeared.'The man is a magician,' thought Randal; and he now longed to put a stop to the conversation; for with the instinctive horror evil spirits have of all that is really good, he now hated Dudley even more than he did Lady Rochford.His irritation became so great that he was starting up to address some observation to Lady Rochford, when he saw Lord Kilgrogan approach and say something to her with a look of extreme ill-humour, and throw himself into a chair near.Mr. Aylmer then moved to another part of the room, and Lady Rochford remained for a few minutes buried in thought, and evidently not even hearing the angry complaints which her future son-in-law was pouring into her ear. At last she looked up and said--'Where is Lord Dysalt? I want to speak to him; do try and find him for me.''How can I find him? I am dead tired of this heat and crush,' said the young marquis.Lady Rochford gazed in his face; and, as if only now aware of his bored look, she said--'Do go and find Lord Dysalt for me. It will do you good; and you will fall asleep if you remain in that easy-chair. Look for him in the supper-rooms, while I search in the ball-room.''I wish I were asleep,' said he, sulkily, as he walked slowly towards the large supper-room.Lady Rochford advanced quickly towards the ball-room, and contrived in some wonderful manner to glide through the crowd, which seemed completely to block up the doorway. Randal fol-

lowed, but though he was not able to pierce the dense mass so quickly as the all-powerful countess, yet he arrived in time to see her reach a small open space on a raised platform, and she then directed one of her rapid glances round the room--a glance by which her practised eye was able in an instant to distinguish every one, and then she moved quickly to the other end, where a tall man was talking to the French Ambassador.The crowd prevented Randal from seeing more than that Lord Dysalt turned from the Ambassador with a smile, and disappeared behind the orchestra with Lady Rochford.'What can she want of him?' thought Randal. 'She has actually interrupted his conversation with the Ambassador, and taken him into the conservatory!'The crowd of dancers prevented him from following for some minutes, but at last he succeeded and reached the conservatory. He saw Lady Rochford at the farther end speaking with great energy to Lord Dysalt, and he contrived to approach them, concealed by the exotics, sufficiently near to hear the latter say--'Well, if you really wish it, I will give the order; but I cannot understand your motive.''I will explain when next we meet, for I will not interrupt you any longer; and I know you are in the midst of some important conversation with that Ambassador. 'Go, now, for I would rather remain here alone; for I was so oppressed with the heat of the ball-room, and I have a bad headache, and would rather not talk any more.'After Lord Dysalt was gone, she proceeded slowly towards a smaller conservatory at the end, 

which was less brilliantly illuminated; and sitting down near a fountain, she leant her head on her hand with a look of extreme weariness. For some time Lady Rochford remained buried in thought; but as Randal could not discover anything he wished to know, he began to get tired of standing behind the orange-trees; so he suddenly emerged from the shade and stood before her.'So you have discovered the lover,--you have found out why Miss Delamere refused all those good matches,' he said. 'But you have not performed the part of the good fairy, for you are resolved to cross the path of their true love, and have sent the gentleman back to his embassy.''What do you mean?' said Lady Rochford, starting at his sudden appearance.'You know what I mean, so you need not affect ignorance. Yes, you were afraid they would meet before her marriage; and that Miss Delamere would hear that her love is returned, and then break off her marriage with Mr. Grant; but you think very wisely that her mother will not consent to her marrying that penniless young poet, and then next year she would accept the Duke of Dartford, and so all your plans would be defeated. You are very fond of Linda; but you could not stand having her as your real rival in the high world. You are very wise, and I congratulate you most warmly on your successful manœuvres.''That man is certainly an evil spirit,' thought Lady Rochford; 'and I really believe that if anything had occurred to put off Linda's marriage, he would succeed in carrying her off. So I am sure I have done right, and spared poor Linda great suffering in every way. For I am certain it would have broken her heart to be obliged to

refuse poor Mr. Grant at the last moment. Yes surely--surely I have acted for the best,' she continued to think, although she felt that what she had done did not seem to harmonize with the frame of mind to which her conversation with Dudley had given rise. It made her think deeply, for almost the first time in her life; and she was almost startled to find her ideas of right and wrong were so vague and confused, that although firmly resolved to do right, she began to perceive how difficult it is suddenly to know what is right; for, in her present frame of mind, those worldly advantages she had always considered as the greatest good this world could offer, seemed to lose their charm; and she doubted whether, even for her children, she should strive and labour to procure great matches, and whether she was right in doing, even for Linda, what she fancied she ought, to save her the disagreeable éclat of appearing inconsistent if she broke off her marriage. In short, she seemed to have lost the helm which had hitherto guided her course, or lost the path which had hitherto seemed so plain and easy, without finding that road at the end of which Dudley's conversation had enabled her to see the fulfilment of a real happiness, such as she had never before contemplated. Lady Rochford was so absorbed in these perplexing thoughts, that she did not remark that the conservatory had become gradually filled with people, and that the groups, as they passed to and fro, cast looks of surprise; and she then became aware that Randal was sitting near her on the bench in this dimly-lighted alcove.At last, a malicious-sounding laugh arrested her attention, and she saw the Duchess of D-- looking at her with a surprised stare. Then Lady

Rochford was suddenly struck with the extreme awkwardness of her position.There she was, found téte-à-téte with a man who was known to have spread reports most injurious to her character; and found there by that very duchess, to remove whose somewhat prudish scruples her husband had taken so much trouble!But Lady Rochford's self-possession did not desert her; and assuming an air of quiet dignity, she glided through the astonished crowd, and looked around with an air of haughty indifference till she reached the ball-room.'What effrontery,' said Miss De Lacy,--who had been out five seasons, and could not succeed in getting the last subscription to Almack's. 'Did you ever see anything like that?''I never saw Lady Rochford look so beautiful as this evening,' said the gentleman to whom the fading young lady spoke. 'If you had seen her when that young poet was talking to her,--she looked quite inspired.''I congratulate you,' he said, turning to Randal--'I congratulate you; you seem to have already made the proud countess forget the wonderful new man--the young poet with whom she seemed quite éprise.'Randal's triumph was great; but he was not satisfied, because he felt that in Dudley he had met with a master spirit; he made the painful discovery that the spirit of good is more powerful than that of evil! It is often a long time before this happens to a child of this world, 'for in their generation they are so much wiser than the children of light!'He saw that Dudley possessed an influence over mankind far greater than he could ever hope to

exert, with all his cunning and art,--an influence quite as different as it was superior; so that, although Mr. Randal received many congratulations, during the remainder of the evening, on the return of the great countess's favour, he was by no means satisfied with himself.CHAPTER X.
THE DISCOVERY.AFTER Linda returned home from her drive with Lady Rochford the preceding day, she felt more than usually depressed and miserable. The description Lady Rochford had given of the stranger, and of his wonderful voice, had recalled some of the scenes of past years so vividly to her mind, that she wondered how she could have lived so long in a state of comparative forgetfulness.The fact is, she had tried to forget, and her will and intellect were so strong, that for months she had almost succeeded. But she soon discovered that love was stronger still, and that so far from being diminished by having banished from her mind the image of Dudley Aylmer, it seemed to be only enshrined the deeper in her heart.'Surely I did not love him as I do now,' she thought, as her feelings became more and more awakened; till, starting with horror, she became deadly pale.'This, then, must be what Susan Barton thought; she knows me better than I do myself, and now it is too late.'During the dinner that day with her mother, she was unusually absent and depressed; and Mrs. Delamere was so concerned to see her look ill, that she persuaded her to go to bed early, as the next would be their last day together; and as Mr.

Grant was expected in the evening, she wished her to have a good rest, and recover her looks, that he might not be distressed at her pale cheeks.Linda wished to be alone; for although she adored her mother, and would have made any sacrifice to please her, yet she had never, from childhood, been in the habit of imparting to her those original and strange thoughts which often made her feel so painfully isolated from her fellow-creatures,--almost as if she were the inhabitant of another planet She had instinctively felt that her mother would not understand them, and there was no one else she loved so well. A fatal habit of reserve had sprung up, and the worst consequence of this reserve was the spirit of disbelief it so fatally fostered. Her inquiring mind had never been satisfied of the truth of Christianity. She had read much, and sometimes with the ardent wish of being convinced; but with no one to direct her mind, the extent of her researches after truth only tended to perplex her more.
The only person who could have directed all her thoughts and researches in a right direction was Dudley Aylmer; and when they were children, his reasonings had often resolved her doubts, and led her to interpret Scripture in its true sense; but the last time they had met, after his return from college, and before he started on his diplomatic career, be seemed possessed by a strange sort of reserve, which had completely checked their intimacy, and prevented that free interchange of thought which bad always before characterized their friendship; for there was something wonderfully sympathetic in their dispositions. Linda had always felt so perfectly sure of being understood by him, that she constantly uttered every thought

whenever they had met, before she had attained the age of fourteen.But after that time they unfortunately did not meet for two years, and then, to her own great surprise, she also seemed possessed with a feeling of reserve. Before that time they had spent the greater part of the day together; they had roamed through the woods for hours, and were always happier when there was no one to disturb their téte-à-téte. For Dudley, too, had the reserve and sensitiveness of genius, although in a less degree; for though he had a brother and sister, he still felt that no one understood the strange thoughts and feelings of his most original mind so well as Linda.But on his return from college all this was completely changed. Linda was no longer a child, and his love was no longer the same. He suddenly discovered that the affection he felt for her amounted to an adoration that was quite incompatible with his brother's views. He must not love; and Dudley was determined to shun her presence as much as possible, and at all events to conceal from her his feelings, if he could not succeed in his endeavour to conquer them.Thus, Linda had been deprived of the intimacy and guidance of the only person who could exercise any influence over her, just at the time when it was most needed.Although most quick at divining other people's thoughts and motives, she was at that age a complete puzzle to herself. She was angry with herself for shunning his presence, and miserable when he was away; yet when next they met, she experienced the same unaccountable shrinking from their former intimacy, and her reserve seemed rather to increase with every effort she made to

dispel it; it also seemed to have the effect of increasing his, and instead of his former affectionate brotherly manner, he assumed an appearance almost of coldness; and when the last day came, and he was to go abroad the next morning, Linda hoped and longed to see one of those glances of regret, or some indication that he felt the same sorrow at parting from her, that he used to evince. But she was so afraid of being disappointed, that she scarcely ventured to look at him at all; and when the last moment came--the last good-bye, a cold touch of his hand was all she felt. His head was turned away, their eyes did not meet, and he was gone!Linda had never felt happy since. Unfortunately, she had not learned to turn for consolation and strength where alone it could be found. Her future mother-in-law had been right when, looking at her picture, she expressed her fears that 'Linda could not pray!'Thus it was that, on the evening of the day previous to her marriage with Mr. Grant, she went to bed weary and perplexed and passed a sleepless night. She could not pray! but her active and restless mind would allow of no peace. She wondered at her own inconsistency--at the strange delusion which had so blinded her to the state of her own feelings as almost to make her fancy that she disliked Dudley.The fact was, she had been hurt at his apparent coldness, and had never perceived that he must have been struck with the same reserve in her manner towards him. After he went away, she began to fancy it was almost dislike; but the feeling was so painful, for he seemed to her to have been before the type of all that was beautiful and good,

that she had tried to banish his image entirely from her mind.But now at last, and too late, all was clear; now that the fatal day was really approaching, she discovered that she loved Dudley Aylmer. 'Why had she accepted Mr. Grant?' was a question she asked herself again and again, during the long hours of that weary night. Perhaps because his type of goodness--his total absence of genius--was so different, so opposite from Dudley, that she hoped to find peace, and be able to admire what was really good, yet so very different. Lord Clanville was a most excellent person, but he was a sort of likeness to Dudley--a miniature of his disposition that was particularly painful to her from resembling him, while yet so inferior. But her whole behaviour for the last year and a half ever since she last saw Dudley, had been so strangely inconsistent, that she felt almost stunned by discovering that, with all her reasoning powers and immovable firmness, she had acted more foolishly and inconsistently than the most silly and weak person imaginable could have done.She did not perceive that, without the guidance of true faith, a powerful mind experiences more difficulty in acting right, or even in discovering what is right, than if its reasoning powers were less strong; for it is often misled by the speciousness of its own arguments.She now fancied that wounded pride had been the motive which induced her to discard the thoughts of Dudley, and fly from the remembrance of all that had hitherto made this life most attractive; for she remembered that just after Dudley's departure, she came out in London the preceding year, and then discovered her own great

power of attraction. When she was courted and praised by every one, her despair was increased by the recollection of Dudley's coldness; it embittered her whole mind, and she despised an admiration which every one seemed to feel except the only person whose affection she valued.But till her path seemed clear: she did not hesitate for a moment to refuse the numerous offers which were made, nor did she encourage them in the slightest degree. She had found more pleasure in Mr. Grant's conversation than in that of any other man, because he did not appear to be thinking of herself, and never expressed by word, or even look, any of that admiration of which she was so weary.She admired the plain simplicity of his character, his honest straightforwardness, his total absence of pretension; perhaps, even a sort of rough insensibility to her beauty was attractive to one so universally admired.Sometimes a feeling of repose came over her, as she looked on his peaceful countenance: it was not handsome, nor was there anything in its expression of plain good sense that resembled Dudley; but she felt that it produced something of the same feeling of trustful confidence which, as a child, had made her look up to Dudley with delight, even in his wild schoolboy days.And so it was; though unlike in abilities and genius, they had both arrived at the same conclusion--both were real Christians. She saw that, like Dudley, Mr. Grant was actuated in everything by the real principles of the Gospel; totally devoid of cant or party spirit; both animated by real charity, or love, the 'Agape'--so rare to find--of which she had read and admired the true

meaning in her Greek Testament; having, from her great facility in learning languages read the Scriptures in their original tongues.She felt there was no excuse for her want of faith; and her vivid memory, too, was stored with passages which were constantly reproaching her with disbelief. She saw plainly that to her had been given the ten talents: that she had everything this world could afford--beauty, riches, a powerful mind, and all the means of acquiring truth. Yet she felt humbled by the knowledge that many a poor creature who had never even learned to read, was richer than herself in faith and hope, and in a pure singleness of purpose to follow the path of duty.The greatest charm she had experienced in Mr. Grant's society was that he seemed to give her credit for the qualities she most wished to possess--for a faith, a goodness that she longed to attain.After they had been acquainted for about a month, he suddenly proposed one evening. She was much startled, and her first impulse was to refuse; but she was extremely sorry to think she might lose him as a friend, so she resolved to consider, while at the same time she expressed to him her conviction that she should never love him with more than sisterly regard.But his simple unromantic nature was not repelled by this. He was so convinced of his own inferiority, so sure that it was impossible she could love him in the same manner that he admired her, that he was quite satisfied to obtain the friendship she could give. And after a few days' consideration, Linda consented to become his wife.And now, after the discovery she had just made of her love for Dudley, the future seemed blank and

gloomy indeed yet, the more dark her path appeared, the more she felt bound to follow it. She thought she had no right to make any one unhappy but herself; and certainly, to Mr. Grant the disappointment would be most bitter, if she were now to change her mind. So the result of a long night's reflection was the firm conviction that she ought to pursue the path she had chosen, with unflinching courage.She almost dreaded to see Lady Rochford the next day, for, having made up her mind, after discovering the real state of her feelings towards Dudley, she felt that henceforth he must indeed be banished more firmly than ever from her thoughts.Towards morning she sank into a troubled and feverish slumber, quite deep enough to forget for a few moments all her painful struggles and perplexities; but she only woke up with a renewed and more startling consciousness of hopeless misery.As her mother came in to see her, as usual, before she went down stairs, Linda felt quite guilty at her own ingratitude; particularly when she saw how pained that loved mother was at the sight of her saddened countenance.'I will be happy,' she thought; 'this dreadful misery is sinful.' So she assumed a cheerful look, and so far succeeded in her endeavours to be--or rather to look happy, that by the time Lady Rochford arrived, she had acquired something of her usual resigned and reposeful air.CHAPTER XI.
THE IMPORTANT DECISION.'YOU might just as well have told me who he was,' said Lady Rochford, when they had started on their drive; 'for I find he is an old friend of yours! quite--a sort of brother. Ah! you are not even startled at hearing that--you knew him; you were quite prepared for it; and look as composed as if you had never been in love with him. What a provoking creature you are: one never can startle or surprise you!--however; one comfort is, that your nature is too cold ever to be very deeply in love.'Linda felt she ought to wish that her words were true; but the consciousness of being obliged to appear different from what she was, to a person she really loved, as she did Lady Rochford, was very depressing.'Well,' continued Lady Rochford, 'but I suppose you would like to hear all about him?--Yes, and I had a long talk; for the instant I discovered who he was, I felt sure that you had loved him; nay, do not make any excuse, for I know you did not think so yourself; and you were quite right not to indulge a visionary attachment to a person who did not love you.--Quite right; for it would have spoilt your happiness, and embittered your mother's life. I am sure she would never have consented.''But you have never told me who the stranger is,' said Linda, with a faint blush.'Because I saw yesterday you knew it, though you tried to deceive me,--that you are quite prepared to hear that it was Mr. Dudley Aylmer;--for there cannot be two such handsome men, with such voices, in the world. I don't wonder at all at your youthful fancy: I see now why you refused his elder brother,--and all elder brothers,' she said, with a playful smile. 'But be satisfied, dearest Linda, that you have done much better with Mr. Grant: you have a much greater prospect of happiness--much.''Why so?' inquired Linda.'Because Mr. Aylmer must become a spoilt child of the world, even if he is not so already: with such a person, you could only be the secondary object. His talents are so various, he is so successful in everything he undertakes, that he must necessarily be selfish. Believe me, a genius such as he could never make a good husband.''I do not see the force of your reasoning; but he never appeared to care for me--at least, not since we were children,' said Linda, with a slight look of confusion'You are quite right,' said Lady Rochford, quickly; 'for I tried to sound him last night; and though he seemed most anxious for your happiness, and full of hope that you had chosen well, and that Mr. Grant was well suited to you, yet he did not say one word which could be construed to denote a deeper feeling. So, now, cheer up, dear Linda,' she continued, 'and rest assured that you have acted wisely.'Linda did try to look and feel satisfied; but her great penetration made her fancy that Lady Rochford did not quite speak from the heart. It seemed to her unnatural that Lady Rochford should reason

so much on the danger of marrying a genius; and she half suspected that the countess  as trying to deceive her. Yet why? And she felt also that Lady Rochford did not now wish to dive into her feelings; which was strange, when she had before so often tried to penetrate them. For a few minutes, neither spoke; and then Lady Rochford said, with more of her usual manner,--'He is a wonderful man. It was like clairvoyance; for he seemed to know every one of my secret thoughts and feelings much better than I did myself. It was as if he showed me my own character in a looking-glass; only illuminated with a stronger daylight than ever remorselessly shone upon my faded complexion and oldened features I saw my faults and follies so plainly that I quite started with horror at the deformity.''Yes, that is exactly Dudley,' said Linda, with animation; 'he always brings to light, into the sunshine of broad day, every one of one's qualities. Nothing escapes him; but, then, it seems as if he called into being brighter qualities, and helped one to attain more power to repress the bad; at least, it used to be so when I was a child,' she continued, with a sad smile.'Yes,' said Lady Rochford, 'you are right; he is indeed a spirit of light,--and Randal that of darkness. How I wish I had known him many years ago--that beautiful daylight!' she continued, in a sad tone.'But you have not told me why he is in England, dear Lady Rochford; and why he did not come to see us.''He was sent to London on business, and was obliged to return to Vienna this morning: he received an order to start at once unexpectedly,

otherwise he would probably have called,--at least, I imagine he would,' she continued, with a shy, constrained manner, that Linda saw was not quite natural; and she could not avoid feeling a sort of blank disappointment at his not having attempted even to see her; but she made a powerful effort to banish every thought of him from her mind, and proceeded to ask whether Lady Rochford had been amused by the ball?'It was very well, but there was nothing new; and, oh, Linda, what a fiend that Mr. Randal is! He watched me so all the time I was talking to Mr. Aylmer;--it was dreadful!' she continued, with a look of bitterness. 'But there is no use thinking about it,' she added, trying to assume her habitual cheerfulness. 'And he is so mischievous, too,--he is determined to be revenged on us both; and I see he has been trying to work upon poor Kilgrogan. He has enticed him several times, I find, to gamble at C--'s. Poor Kilgrogan! I cannot help pitying him; for he is still so dreadfully in love with you. It will be a sad trial for him to-morrow at the wedding; I tried all I could to have it over before yours, but he said nothing would induce him to marry while there was a chance of your changing your mind.''Well, I hope Helena will be happy,' said Linda; 'she seems full of good projects, and is determined to set up schools, and devote all her energies to better the condition of the poor.''Yes; but I am afraid she regards herself rather too much as a martyr, and fancies she has made a great sacrifice in marrying a man whose intellect is, perhaps, rather inferior to her own. She imagines she makes this sacrifice to obtain influence for the good of a large number of her fellow creatures.''Well, perhaps it is a right feeling; and the only fear is, that she will neglect to try and influence her husband, while devoting her time to the improvement of his tenants.''That is just what I dread; particularly as she ever tries to make herself agreeable,--and it is really necessary in married life. See what a happy husband I have made mine,' said Lady Rochford; 'and look at my poor, cross sister, Letitia Seaton; how she does try the temper of that dear angel of a man, her husband; and the only difference is, that I am always good-humoured and happy, and never cross to Rochford, and he in return lets me do just as I like; nothing can be happier than we have always been. But, unfortunately, Helena despises that sort of thing, and calls it humbug, and thinks there is merit in being ugly and rough. In fact, she has always sought to attain just those qualities which I have not; and she remembers how sadly I failed in my endeavours to improve the people on our estates in Ireland when she was a child, and so she thinks the opposite course must be the best. But I am sure,' continued Lady Rochford, 'if I had possessed a little more patience, I should have succeeded; but I became disgusted with the dull routine of schools, and the poor children used to learn so much that was useless, and the mistress used to ask them such foolish questions. And then the country neighbours--it was not their vulgarity I minded, but they were so unamuseable; nothing would betray them into a laugh.''There is Mr. Randal again,' said Linda, as they passed a man on horseback. 'You did not see him; but he looked at us with such bitter defiance, it quite makes me shudder. Poor Julia! I have not seen her for several days.''Nor I, either; and she has quite shunned me, since I endeavoured to prove to her how foolish she is to cherish that feeling for Randal; and I am afraid she is so infatuate by him, that she would actually consent to marry him! only, fortunately for her, he would not be satisfied with her 1000£. a year; but, if my poor brother dies, then she has no chance of escaping him.''And the worst of it is,' said Linda, 'that he has actually succeeded in making her believe he is quite reformed.''Yes; he has completely humbugged the poor girl; for when I told her that he still went to balls, and all those sorts of things, that she considers quite wrong, she said he only went to them to try and convert people--for, that he had no pleasure at all in such foolish dissipations. It is a great pity that my poor, dear, shy brother intends to make her his heiress. By the bye,' continued Lady Rochford, 'I find Mr. Grant and your mother have done a most foolish thing. Her fortune is entirely in her own power, and Mr. Grant has insisted that it should remain so. I can't tell you how much I regret this; for, although, of course, she intends you should have everything, yet there is no knowing what designing hands she may fall into. She is still young and handsome; and who knows but that such a person as George Randal, indeed, that he himself, might not try to . . . . Oh, now you are laughing; you think it impossible; but more improbable things have happened before; and, mark my words--see if he does not endeavour to make up to your mamma, as soon as he discovers she has still the disposal of her own Delamere property. You must, of course, have the two thousand a year of your father's that

was not entailed on the male heir. How well--how much better you are looking, dear Linda,' continued Lady Rochford; 'you are not attending at all to what I am saying--but you are full of thought; and the result is, that you look happier than I have seen you for a long time.'So Lady Rochford parted from Linda, after the drive, in the pleasant conviction that she had done quite right, and saved her from a dreadful scene and cruel conflict, by hastening the departure of Dudley Aylmer.Yet Linda returned home sad at heart; but the greatness of her disappointment at finding that Dudley had left England without attempting even to call in Park-lane, had startled her so much that it tended to rouse her energies. She was horror-struck at finding how deeply she felt at discovering how fearfully Dudley's image seemed connected with her happiness. She was now thoroughly aroused to a sense of the sinfulness of such a feeling, of the extreme injustice she was doing Mr. Grant, and the guilt of vowing to love and obey him, while her whole heart seemed now engrossed by another. This sense of guilt awoke in her such a feeling of pity and compassion for him, that she determined to exert all the powerful energies of her nature to eradicate the love for Dudley, and not to let anything interfere with her devotion to her husband and his happiness.'I will make him happy,' she thought; 'and this can only be done by feeling happy myself. So she assumed a more cheerful air than she had worn for months, and began vigorously that course of self-deception which must henceforth be her lot--the consequence of acting on false principles, and which, in a character of such depth and constancy

as Linda's, would probably only end with her life!Alas! for the person who, from an error of judgment thus sacrifices a whole existence, and places herself in such a position that life becomes one perpetual lie, entailing the sacrifice of all the best and most ennobling feelings which God has implanted for the development of our perfections. This dishonesty--this fatal seeking after a cross of our own making, is the most painful of trials; for, like the curse of Ananias, a voice must ever seem to whisper, 'Was it not thine own? Was not life before thee, to choose the true and straightforward path?''Scarcely such a heinous crime,' many people will exclaim; for, alas! marriage without love is a sin of such a common, such everyday occurrence, that we scarcely allow ourselves to look upon it in all its blackness; yetMany a crime deemed innocent on earthIs registered in heaven.In many cases this sin is much less heinous, when persons have not the faculty of loving deeply, and when the inducement of a pleasant home and competence is offered to those whose position is disagreeably dependent  But Linda, whose disposition was the very essence of love--for what is genius but love in its purest, most divine form?--whose nature had such a constancy and depth that her feelings, once touched, were never likely to change,--for such a being to crush and stifle the holy whispers of the heart is sacrilege!--it is like crucifying the spirit of all that is good and noble. From a want of faith--of Christian simplicity and straightforward openness she committed an error; a mistake which, as long as her life lasted, could never, never be remedied.CHAPTER XII.
THE EARL'S DAUGHTER'HOW delightful it is to be free from pain,' said Miss Barton to her sister, as she sat down at her writing-table, and opened her blotting-book. 'It is worth while to be ill, and confined to one's bed with that dreadful headache, to feel the intense pleasure of resuming all these pleasant occupations. Everything looks so cheerful this fine morning, and the jasmine smells so sweet, and the birds are singing, and bees humming, and you look so pleasant there on the sofa. Yet I am sadly in arrear--five days since I have written a line.''Yes, and to see you,' said Polly, 'one would imagine everything went right, instead of that tiresome publisher behaving so shabbily; and then, such cruel reviews; and our brother having squandered away the whole price of your last book.''Well, never mind; do not let us think of all these cares. Thank God, life itself is sufficient enjoyment when excruciating pain is relieved; and now I shall write with renewed energy.'I hope you will not be interrupted although I scarcely think it can be good for you to begin at once, after all you have suffered; and I am longing so much to hear about the weddings. I almost hoped Mrs. Mansfield would come and tell us the news she might have heard, for they were to take place last Thursday.''I should not think there could be much to tell,

unless anything had occurred to postpone them,' said Susan. 'I suppose they would be much like all other weddings; only, perhaps, rather more dull and commonplace. Whatever poor dear Linda's feelings may be, she is too self-possessed and reserved to show them in public,--so there would be no fainting or hysterics; and I suppose Lady Helena is--''Why, surely, it is all so romantic,' interrupted Polly. 'The mystery about Linda having accepted Mr. Grant, after all her splendid offers, and Mr. Randal trying, and on the point of running away with her; and then her friend being married at the same time to a man who I hear is still so deeply in love with Linda,--and you say it must have been a dull and commonplace wedding; but you are always so provokingly unromantic. I can't think how you can write scenes of such thrilling interest--you are sometimes so humdrum. But I must not talk any more, for I see you are in the vein for writing.'So Miss Polly resumed her knitting, and occasionally looked up with a feeling of tranquil enjoyment on her sister's expressive countenance, and admired the inspired look she had while her pen flew over the pages.'What a wonderful person Susan is,' thought she; 'and how unworthy am I and poor James to have such a sister! How useless is my life. What would have become of us without Susan? There is a carriage,' she said, aloud--'oh, I hope it is Mrs. Mansfield; yet, she does not usually like to drive into this narrow street. Do run to the window, dear Susan, and see who it can be, for I hear it has stopped at our door.'Susan wipe her pen, and cast one glance of regret at the half-finished sentence she had left,

well knowing how difficult it was sometimes was to resume the thread of an idea when suddenly interrupted.'A barouche, with one pale young lady in it, and an earl's coronet on the panel,' said Susan.'Who can that be?' said Miss Polly, throwing down her knitting. In another minute the door opened, and Betty announced--'Lady Theresa Aylmer.''I am afraid you can scarcely remember me,' said the visitor, with a hesitating, shy manner; 'and I have many excuses to make for interrupting you; but I had the delight of seeing you once with Linda, and my brother Dudley admires your writings so much, so Miss Swain thought I might venture.''It is very kind of you to call on us,' said Miss Barton, introducing her sister, and making Lady Theresa sit down between them, with a composed air of quiet kindness, which often sets shy people at their ease. 'I remember perfectly, now, meeting you at Delamere Park, and you sang a beautiful duet with Linda; but you must have had a very long drive; I think Lord Clanville's place must be twelve or fourteen miles from here.''Yes, but Laura (Mrs. Gray) wanted to get some things for her children, so Miss Swain thought it would be pleasant for me to come and see you,' continued Lady Theresa, beginning to look more comfortable; 'but Miss Swain insisted on my coming alone to see you, for she says I shall never get rid of my shy awkwardness if she is always near, for then I feel I need not talk; and I am
sure that people have no loss, for I never say anything worth hearing. Oh, but I ought not to have said it was Miss Swain's doing, for she can't bear

me to seem as if I did things only by her advice,' continued Lady Theresa, with a natural épanchement, which, in shy people, often suddenly succeeds restraint. 'And I longed so to see you in your own room, for Linda always raves about it, and says nothing makes her so happy as to be here' she continued, looking round with an air of curiosity; 'but I do not see anything remarkable in it.''I should think not,' said Miss Barton, with a smile.'Ah, but it is very snug and comfortable, and very pretty, too,' said Lady Theresa, thinking she had done wrong; 'and the garden I should think must be full of flowers, for there is such a delicious smell.''Have you heard anything of Miss Delamere's wedding?' inquired Miss Polly. 'No, but I suppose--I am afraid it is over; and I can't help being very sorry,' said Lady Theresa. 'We miss her very much, and are so disappointed; but I ought not to say so, I suppose; but dear Clanville feels it very much. I was in hopes we should have heard something of the wedding from Dudley, who passed a few days in London; but he most provokingly never even called in Park-lane. I think it so very strange of Dudley, though Clanville says he can quite understand it; but I fancy dear Linda will consider it was quite rude in him.''They have always been very intimate, have they not?' inquired Susan Barton. 'And your youngest brother, from what I have heard, must be just the person to understand Linda's peculiar character.''Quite; I never saw two people so formed to understand each other; and they always seemed to

know exactly what the other was thinking of without speaking a word. Therefore, it was such a pity Dudley did not try to see her; for I am sure Linda did not wish us to be less intimate, though she, unfortunately, could not accept my bro--. But perhaps I ought not to talk of all this,' she continued, with a blush; 'but you look so kind, and make me feel so comfortable, I quite forget I am visiting company.''And he has left England without having once seen Linda or her mother?' inquired Miss Barton, in a tone of regret.'Yes, he was ordered to Vienna quite suddenly, and could not even come to wish us good-bye, though we had only seen him one day. But he has persuaded us to go abroad this summer, and come to see him at Vienna; he thinks the change will do me good. But I shall be very sorry to leave Clanville Court, though it is sadly changed for us.''I was very sorry to hear from Linda of your severe illness in the spring,' said Susan; 'but then she also told me that you had recovered, and were going to be presented this season.''So I was, but there were many reasons against it: Clanville's disappointment depressed us so much, and then I have such a dread of coming out, though Miss Swain says I am very wrong, and so does Dudley, and that I am cowardly to shrink from the society of my fellow-creatures. Then, on the other hand, Mr. Gray, our curate, always seems to look upon balls and parties as positively wrong; and I wish Dudley would be convinced that they are, for I am sure Mr. Gray is a very good man, and his sermons are beautiful, and it seems to me as if life would be much easier if one could go on living as happily as we have always done, without en-

tering into the world. Don't you think so, Miss Barton?''It is hard to answer that question, dear Lady Theresa without knowing exactly what you mean by the world. Perhaps, if your brother Dudley, whose opinion you venerate so much, and good Mr. Gray both explained to each other their different ideas as to what is called the world, they would see that on the important question of avoiding it or not they think alike.''I wish they could; but, unfortunately, Mr. Gray came to Hartfield only just before Dudley went away, so they had no opportunity of talking together, which is a great pity, for I think Dudley would like him as much as we do, though they are so very different.''Ah! but I had almost forgotten to give you, Laura's--Mrs. Gray's message, continued Lady Theresa; 'how very wrong and thoughtless of me! She wants to ask you about a young schoolboy who has a great deal of musical genius, and is moat anxious to become a chorister of the Cathedral. She is longing to see you, but so afraid of taking up your time, and intruding at a wrong moment, that--''I shall be delighted to see her--I have often wished it, and regret much that she went away so soon after her marriage from this place that I have never once seen her since; and I am afraid she must have experienced many trials, as their means were to be very small.''She has, indeed; for they are both so anxious to help the poor around them, that they scarcely allow themselves enough to eat; and I have often seen Laura carry her own dinner to a poor cottager. I discovered, from her little boy Johnny, that she had none afterwards herself; and she has five of the

most lovely and darling children I ever saw. One reason for my regret at leaving Clanville Court is, that Laura will miss us so much,--I mean that, of course Clanville tries to help them as much as he can, and we endeavour to keep all the poor people as well off as possible, more particularly to prevent the Grays from denying themselves so much; but unfortunately, Clanville has many claims, and so much to do with his fortune!--and that was another reason I wished not to go to London, for my dress would have been very expensive; and it seems foolish, when hundreds are starving around us, and Clanville can scarcely keep our dear old house in repair, to incur extra and useless expenses.''And your rector does not help the poor people much, I am afraid?' said Miss Barton.'No; unfortunately, he has bad health, and his wife does not take any interest. Oh, how I wish Mr. Gray could get a good living! it seems strange that he never should have got any, when Mrs. Seaton's sister, Lady Rochford, has so much influence. But I am afraid Mrs. Seaton never liked poor Laura, and indeed I can scarcely think she cares much for her own daughter, Julia; but I begin to hope that Lady Rochford will try to help them, for Dudley was introduced to her in London, and had a long conversation with Lady Rochford. He writes to me that he never met with a woman who was so formed to fascinate, and to influence others for good, if she had but been well educated; and he is not surprised at Linda's having been so taken with her, though we thought it very odd, as we heard she was reckoned to be very worldly. Is it not difficult to know what worldly means?' continued Lady Theresa. 'There is Mrs. Gilbert,--she says dear Mrs. Delamere is

worldly--and that, I am sure, is not the case. Mrs. Delamere apropos, is coming to us next week, for she wanted to come to Delamere on some business before she goes to Scotland; and Miss Swain fortunately remembered that she would find it very lonely ad dull just after parting with Linda, so Clanville wrote to invite her; and I am so glad, only we have never had anyone staying with us yet, except my uncle, and I am dreadfully afraid of not doing what I ought to make it pleasant for her. How I wish Clanville Court was only the same distance from W-- that Delamere is, and then, perhaps, you might be persuaded to come to us.''Oh! but Susan could go' said Miss Polly. 'I wish you would persuade her, for I can manage very well. You know, dear Susan, when you are confined to your room with those bad headaches, I am obliged to do without you; and how much pleasanter it would be for me to think of you amusing yourself with agreeable society and country air;--besides, it would do you much good.''Oh, how delightful, if you could come and meet poor Mrs. Delamere--that would be perfect happiness!' said Lady Theresa, clapping her hands with joy. 'And I think you would admire the views in our Park; they seem so like what you have described in some of your books, that I thought you must have seen them, until Linda told me hat you had never been there. So you will come?'Susan Baton shook her head, and said it was impossible to break through the rule she had made; so Lady Theresa saw it was useless to persist; and after expressing her gratitude for Miss Barton's permission to come and see her again she took her leave.CHAPTER XIII.
THE POOR CURATE'S WIFE.'MISS BARTON sat down to her writing-table again, and mended her pen, but she did not at once resume the sentence which had been interrupted by the arrival of Lady Theresa; and after a pause of some minutes, she looked round at her sister and said, 'How very good of you, dear Polly, to say nothing, though I know you are longing to talk over Lady Theresa, and Lord Clanville, and Linda.''Yes, it is indeed good of me; for I think I discovered by your face, when she was talking of her brothers, that you fancy Linda was in love with Mr. Dudley Aylmer! Poor girl; if that be the case, how very sad! Can you imagine why he was insensible to her charms?''Probably from a conscientious motive, he did not allow himself to be influenced by them; perhaps he would not interfere with what he knew to be his brothers wishes, and the wish of all the family--to restore its dilapidated fortunes.''Well, we have not yet heard that the marriage has taken place, and perhaps something may occur to prevent it; and then, and then--you shake your head--you think that tiresome marriage with Mr. Grant has taken place. Well, I will say no more, for you will soon be interrupted again by Laura Gray.'How glad I shall be to see her!' continued Polly, half to herself, and resuming her knitting.Miss Barton's pen soon began to fly rapidly along the pages; and her anxieties for Linda, the painful fear and apprehensions about her own brother, and many other cares which were acutely felt by her sensitive mind, all were forgotten in the vivid reality of her imaginings. Now and then a smile played round her lips as she wrote; sometimes a shade of anxiety, and a tear started to her eye. Enchanting, engrossing, riveting occupation! causing all the small annoyances of daily life to disappear, or at least diminish, and taking the keen edge off greater sorrows. A never-failing secret joy and resource; a hidden pleasure that brightens life, as a stream causes a green pleasant freshness along its silent, unseen course!At last a knock was heard, and Mrs. Gray and her three children were announced.The six years which had passed since they met, had altered Laura's appearance considerably, for she seemed to have suffered much. She had never been pretty, but the blooming look of rude health and rough joyousness she had at nineteen was gone, or rather changed into one of more energetic cheerfulness and determination to make the best use of the trials and afflictions she had found in this world.Her face was now thin and pale; but when she received the Misses Barton's warm greeting, her cheeks flushed with pleasure, and her large dark eyes beamed with an expression of gratitude and hope that was extremely pleasant.Susan saw that Laura's sufferings had softened her, and enlarged the sympathies of a disposition in which the chief defects had been a tinge of pride, and proneness to look with contempt on what she considered humbug, and on those who did not belong to her own serious set. The former brusquerie
of her manners seemed merged into a sort of quiet decision, and her voice had acquired a more melodious and touching sound.'I had no idea you would be so pleased to see me,' she said,' for I knew you were never one of those people who make civil speeches, and whom I used to despise so much.''You would not despise them now, I see; you have learnt to feel for the infirmities of us poor sinful mortals,' said Susan.'I have learnt my own, I trust. But not to waste your precious time, I must begin with two petitions: Lady Theresa told you of one, but the other is the most important It is about my poor sister Julia I am afraid she is very unhappy, and she has no one to confide in. You will see her soon, for papa is coming into residence: and they are to arrive, I hear, this evening. But do not appear to know anything from me. The fact is, the poor girl has fallen in love with a most unworthy person, a Mr. Randal; but she has kept it a profound secret from papa and her mother, because she knows they would never approve of him.'She unfortunately met him at her aunt's, Lady Blenkinsop's; he pretended to be most penitent, and, in fact, has completely blinded them to his real character. I am sure he is only looking for her fortune, and probably waiting for old Sir James St. Lawrence's death, to induce her to run off with him.''How very dreadful,' said Polly Barton; 'poor dear Julia! such a pretty, clever girl, too.''Yes, she is clever, said Laura--'rather too much so; it becomes a snare--for she has not a strong mind, and is always influenced by the persons she loves or admires, and she has a great adoration for

talent and genius; I suppose that is the cause of Mr. Randal's attraction. I was in hopes Miss Delamere would have influenced her, for Julia both loves and admires her; but I suppose she was so absorbed in her own concerns this season, she could not attend to poor Julia.''Perhaps they did not often meet, for your sister did not go at all into society, did she?' inquired Miss Barton,'No; I am afraid that in her case it was a misfortune, for if she bad had more opportunities of seeing varieties of character, she would have been less influenced by the few who have chanced to come under her notice, and she might have seen other men whose characters were less objectionable.''So you are becoming a convert to our opinion about the advantages of society: I was afraid, from what Lady Theresa said, that Mr. Gray considered all sorts of meetings--all that are called parties, objectionable.''So he does,' said Laura 'and so do I, in general; for I do not see how we can conscientiously say, 'Lead us not into temptation,' and yet rush into every sort of dissipation, and live with people, and visit places, where sin prevails. That must be wrong!''But are you not unconsciously condemning the use of society, when it is only its abuse you wish to avoid inquired Susan. 'Are you not confounding the pomps and vanities of the world with the enjoyment of rational sociability--condemning it entirely, when it, is only the immoderate pursuit of it that you would really blame?''Perhaps so; and yet I feel that it mast be the safer course for minds of ordinary power, and I am very glad my husband thinks so; although I

will not deny that there are occasional cases when it causes some perplexity. I see that Lord Clanville and his sister would be more influenced for good by his preaching, if he did not denounce so zealously that kind of life which they have been taught to think innocent, and speak so much of the dangers of the world.''The world I which has probably but little attraction for either of them,' said Miss Barton. 'From what I have seen and heard, neither Lord Clanville nor Lady Theresa have many of those qualities that would enable them to shine in society, or render it in any way dangerous--except that it might bore them very much,' she continued, with a smile.'You are quite right; in those cases it is loss of time to inveigh against the attractions and dangers of the world. 'It is worse,' said Miss Barton; 'for if your husband's preaching have the effect of inducing them to shun society, it will encourage them to give way to indolence, and make them shrink from the bracing effects of a contact with their fellow-creatures, besides depriving them of a means which God has given us for the development of our talents. Moreover, do you not see the disadvantage of educating persons in what is termed the serious manner, in the case of your step-mother, and her sister, Lady Rochford?''No; for they were very badly brought up,' said Laura; 'and though for a time the world has engrossed one completely, and the other has sunk into indolent indifference, or a sort of contempt for her fellow-creatures, yet, perhaps, some day, the good seed which was sown in early youth may spring up.''But surely it must have added to the dangerous attractions of the world; even the very fact of going to a place or a party which you had been taught to think wrong, must be prejudicial.''It makes the crime more fearful,' said Laura; 'but if Lady Rochford had but shunned temptation, her disposition was so good, so innately amiable, she would have been a most useful person. Surely it was the world, and all its flatteries, and snares, and attractions that spoilt her. Besides, I wonder that you, with your large mind, do not see that what drives people to Papacy is the want inherent in human nature,--that of being guided: to get rid of the weight of responsibility which few mortals can endure without sinking under its burden. No wonder people seek to get rid of responsibility, and take refuge in the Church of Rome, when we make our course so unnecessarily difficult by going into temptation.''It seems to me,' continued Laura, 'that our Puritan ancestors knew this well, and therefore they saw that the only way to keep clear of Romish errors was so to narrow and simplify our scale of duties--to make our path so plain by shunning every temptation to evil, that if we follow the just and holy career, we need ask for no human interference or absolution. You will see that the farther removed people get from Puritanism, or what is called Low Church--that is what I think the strait and narrow path which leads to eternal life,--the nearer they approach the errors of Rome. But I know you could never bear the Puritans,' said Laura with a smile; 'and you used to find fault with me for doing my hair so badly, and making myself look more ugly even than nature had done. But I new see, as far as that went, you

were right; and there is no reason why we should not try to adorn our profession, and make Christianity as attractive as we can. I have seen much influence lost by despising appearances; as far as that goes, I am grown wiser.''Yes; you have not made such figures of those beautiful children as you were, with your hair cut short, and your waist broader than your shoulders; but still you are not very particular about your own dress, I see.''Ah! I can't help that; for really I have no money to bestow on it; nor have I time to alter the shape of this poked old bonnet, though I know an hour's work would make it look much more fashionable and pretty.''Well, I like you much better as you are; but you have not yet told me what you wish me to do about your sister Julia.''It is. perhaps very wrong of me to engross your time, and interrupt your employments, which I know are so valuable, for they enable yow to help your poor brother. His conduct must be a sad trial; and I heard you lost a great portion of your fortune by his foolish speculations  Still I think you might be of great use to poor Julia, if you will encourage her to come and see you; and then you might obtain great influence over her, and perhaps she would confide in you, and it might be the means of saving her.''I know you have great influence over Miss Delamere, continued Mrs. Gray; 'she venerates you so highly, and hers used to be the most difficult character to influence I ever knew! Does not her conduct about the marriage seem strange--a man she has known such a short time; when she refused our good Lord Clanville?''I had not much influence, for I saw so little of Linda, that I had no opportunity of becoming acquainted with the history of her heart; and she was too reserved to confide in anyone, I imagine.''I fear there is some strange mystery, for Lord Clanville is more depressed and sad than ever, since his brother's hurried visit. He always regretted most painfully that Mr. Dudley was not the eldest, and now it seems quite to prey upon his mind. He reproaches himself for every misfortune that happens to the poor people, and says, if Dudley had had the management of the property all would have prospered, and there would have been no distress. I am much afraid that he thinks that if Dudley had set his affections on Miss Delamere he would have been successful; but remember he has said nothing to me on the subject, and I would not breathe it to Theresa for the world, for she would regret still more if Linda had refused him, as she has a higher opinion of Dudley than of anyone in the world; and I suppose he deserves it, though I have seen very little of him; but he seems to have influenced everyone for their good who has ever come under his notice.''How sad, that there was no one who could divine those feelings,' said Miss Barton; 'for perhaps Mr. Dudley was determined not to love Linda, and may even have endeavoured to check the poor girl's affection for himself, in order that nothing might stand in his brother's way. And perhaps Linda may not have been aware of the state of her heart, or of her own love, until after Mr. Dudley left England a year ago. Poor girl! if such be the case, with her warm heart and passionate nature, how sad will be her lot! I cannot bear to think of it.'There was a pause; and then Miss Barton said in a more cheerful tone,--'Well now, tell me exactly what you wish me to do about Julia, supposing I do acquire any influence--which I do not expect; for she has, I fancy, a strong prejudice against those who do not agree exactly with her religious opinions.''Something like what I must have had,' said Laura; 'but you were very kind to me, in spite of my rough haughtiness, for you saw I did not meet with much kindness at home from my step-mother. However, that is all over long ago; and perhaps the treatment I received was of use to me. And now it will be a most heroic act of self-denial, if you will bear with Julia's proud arrogance; for she is proud and conceited, though not nearly so bad as I was.''And often am still,' continued Laura, 'with a look of humility which was peculiarly touching on features that seemed moulded to express pride. I was dreadfully hard; and oh, the pang it often gives me when I remember how completely it prevented my being any comfort to my dearest father--he who has not one particle of pride in his disposition. How strange it is that most of his children are so full of it as to prevent our ever having had any sympathy, or being of the least comfort to a character that, like his, wants sympathy so much; for his low opinion of himself is so very painful, and he suffers such tortures from remorse. Yet all this never struck me until it was too late!--until I had inflicted on him the pain of seeing me act contrary to his wishes; when he so gently, so kindly remonstrated. And then I went far away, and never saw his dear touching face for three long years. Oh! how often I wished to see

him again, and to be able to express the remorse I felt for my ingratitude towards him! And now, to think that poor Julia will pain him--oh, so much more,--for he is justly proud of her, and looks upon her quite with a reverential adoration, as if he thought nothing so beautiful and noble could belong to him. Yet how much she resembles him in feature,--the same regular beauty, but the expression, alas! very different. Still, this resemblance of outline often gives me hope that she will in time gain something of his touching diffidence, and his most truly Christian humility. I think it was a great misfortune that her grandmother left her a thousand pounds a year, independent of her parents; and then the prospect of her being heiress to her uncle's great wealth increases the evil.''Annie, what are you about with Miss Polly's knitting? Put it down at once,' exclaimed Mrs. Gray, in a decided, yet kind tone, which had its effect on the child in an instant.'I am sure they have all been wonderfully good,' said Miss Polly. 'I never saw such dear children in all my life; for theirs are generally most troublesome ages--from two to five. They are such darlings,' she continued, as she drew the youngest girl of two years old towards her. And the little thing put up its soft rosy cheek to be kissed by the stranger, with a sort of innate consciousness of beauty, and expectation of meeting with kind affection. This absence of shyness is seldom seen except in children who are brought up in the constant presence of loving parents, and not subjected to the trying tempers of changing nurses and servants.Miss Polly Barton was not fond of children; she felt, like most chronic invalids, that their high spirits and thoughtless roughness jarred against

her diseased nerves; but these children, though willing to be amused, seemed full of thoughtful tact, which surprised and pleased her extremely. Perfectly at their ease, though they seemed to have acquired a self-control and power of amusing and taking care of themselves which appeared quite free from constraint, or from that subdued expression so painfully shown by children who are harshly used; yet they required no hints or chidings from their mother, except in the one case just mentioned, and allowed her to enjoy, without interruption, the conversation of her friends.'I cannot think how you have contrived to bring up your children so well,' said Miss Barton.'Why, I ought to be very thankful that I am able to manage them pretty well, in spite of their papa's spoiling; for they cannot afford to be naughty--they have all their own way to make in the world. They must learn quickly and well; for the girls must be governesses, if they have sufficient goodness and capacity for such an awfully responsible and, I think, most honourable avocation; and the boys must do what they can, for it seems to me that most gentlemen's professions are overstocked. Oh, pray do not give them any cake, dear Miss Barton,' she continued, 'for they have just dined at the Deanery.''No, indeed we do not want any,' said Mary, the eldest girl; 'we have had such a variety of nice things--more beautiful even than what we get at dear Theresa's. And see here, how kind of the good lady,--she gave us all these for Peggy Nolan and Susan Birch,' taking a little basket from under her cloak.'And would you not like to take that cake to some of your poor people?' inquired Miss Polly.'No, thank you--I would rather not; we have

quite enough,' said the eldest, with the sort of firm decision which resembled her mother.'Oh! but there is old John Peach,' said little James; 'that nice soft cake would--''No, you had better not,' said the eldest girl, who spoke first; and then she whispered in his ear, 'Mamma said the Miss Bartons were very poor, and perhaps they want the cake as much as John Peach.' So the children were quite satisfied to relinquish the cake; and even the youngest, little Annie, after looking wistfully at it, was easily reconciled, and encouraged in her efforts at self-denial by an approving nod from her mother.CHAPTER XIV.
THE CATHEDRAL CLOSETHE next day, when Miss Barton heard the Seatons had arrived at their house in the Close, she remembered her promise to Laura Gray, and went to call on them.Polly was so impatient to hear something about the two marriages, that she did not cease to urge her sister the whole morning to make her visit. But Susan said it would be very rude to intrude on Mrs. Seaton before two o'clock, and soon after that hour she proceeded to the Close.Seaton's house was a venerable looking old structure, full of irregular gable ends, and windows of every date, from the old monastic arched casement of Edward the Third's time, down to the ugly square and staring bow window of George the Third's reign.The interior of the house retained but few remains of the picturesque taste of bygone ages, except a beautifully carved oak staircase, which had been barbarously painted white, and some of the servants' apartments had elaborately carved chimney-pieces and mullioned windows, in which some remains of the gorgeous old painted glass might still be seen.But the sitting-rooms had all been modernized to suit the bad taste of fifty years ago, and had a cold, bare look, which was increased by their being inhabited by the family during only a part of the

year. Nothing could be more cheerless than the drawing-room into which Miss Barton was shown, and where she found Mrs. Seaton holding a book in her hand, which did not seem to amuse or interest her much,--to judge by the listless air of discontent that was depicted on her face.She bowed coldly to Miss Barton, and told the servant to inform Miss Seaton of her presence; then made some observations on the weather, and inquired after Miss Barton's invalid sister. 'I don't wonder she is not well,' continued Mrs. Seaton, with a bitterness which seemed to rouse her energies in a slight degree. 'I think W-- such a very unhealthy place; I am  never well here; and the children are sure to be ill the moment we come; and the melancholy sound of those incessant bells is so dreadfully depressing!'Then, as if satisfied with her effort at conversation, she sank back in her chair, and began to cut the leaves of the magazine she had been reading.'Yet the place is considered very healthy,' said Susan; 'and there is a beautiful garden to this house, which I should have imagined would have been very pleasant for the children''They hate the garden, and never will walk there, and so does Miss Jolliffe; and the stream that runs through, and all these tall trees, must make it dreadfully damp.'There was then a pause, until Miss Barton mentioned, to break the awkwardness of silence, that she had seen Mrs. Seaton's step-daughter the day before.'Oh, did you? How came she in W--? it must be a very long drive from Harting. Poor thing! it was a pity she made such a foolish

marriage; and, of course, they have had a child every year since. I can't think how Mr. Seaton could have been so weak as to give his consent,' she continued, with more energy than she had yet evinced; 'for he knows that with our large family, besides two sons by his former wife, and having nothing himself but church preferment, it was impossible to make any provision for them!''But I have heard that Mr. Gray is such an, excellent clergyman--I should have thought he had a good prospect of a living.''He is a very good man, and an excellent preacher; but I wonder that you consider him a good clergyman, for I thought you did not at all agree with his--with our--religious opinions,--at least, so I should fancy by your writings. Not that I ever read any of them, for I never opened a novel in my life,' she added hastily, and with a sort of exulting contempt, and pronouncing the word novel with the sort of crushing tone and look with which she might tread on a noxious reptile; 'and I never allow my children to read a single page of one;--in fact, I have none in the house:' and she looked triumphantly round on the tables, where a few thin magazines, and some longer, larger lives of pious persons were placed in a sort of precise order which seemed as if they were seldom taken up.Miss Barton began to fear that Julia would not come, and that she had intruded on Mrs. Seaton's sad leisure in vain. As she looked round the large room, it struck her that probably Julia did not usually sit with her mother, for the other tables were quite bare, and the chairs were placed either against the walls, or in such uncomfortable-

looking position, as to show they were not often sat in by persons who pursued any employment except that of making a stiff visit.There was a grand piano at one end, but the tidy, uncreased appearance of its leather cover showed that it was seldom opened. Again Miss Barton looked round the room; then at the unattractive and old-looking, though not unhandsome face of Mrs. Seaton. She thought what a different sort of person her sister, the fascinating Lady Rochford must be: for she heard of her as being still the most beautiful woman in London; yet she was a year older than Mrs. Seaton, and had apparently led a dissipated, and what would seem a most unhealthy life; while Mrs. Seaton never went to a party, or a crowded theatre, and seemed to have nothing to do but attend to her own health and that of her children.But I believe few things keep people so young as the wish to please, and the power of gratifying this wish seems to counteract the injurious effects of London life on the health. For how often do we see a beauty of the great world retain her charms very late in life. An attention to dress does something, but not so much as people often imagine. Dress, or rather a dressmaker, or even a first-rate hairdresser, can do very little for persons who have not that natural good taste, as well as disposition to please, which gives a charm to the most common attire, and sometimes invests even an ill-fitting dress or thin grey hair with more graceful fascination than the most skilful efforts of a Parisian modeste or coiffeur.Mrs. Seaton was very ungracefully dressed, which, perhaps, made her look older than she was for she despised all aids to embellishment, perhaps

all the more for their being used, as she imagined, by her worldly sister. She thought everything done by a person so given up to the world must be wrong, and the more Lady Rochford surrounded herself, and furnished her rooms with beautiful and costly objects, the more scrupulously did Mr. Seaton strip hers of any article that was not strictly useful or necessary.Poor Mr. Seaton sometimes complained that the rooms were uncomfortable, and looked melancholy. He did not like show, or expensive furniture, and could scarcely discover exactly what was wanting; but he liked beauty, and a moderate degree of luxury; for although he was most charitable, and never refused to assist those whom he thought deserving of his aid, yet he had very large church preferment, and could well afford, he thought, to have comfortable chairs and sofas, and to see his wife and children dressed as becomingly as other people of the same rank in life.After another pause, as Julia did not appear, Miss Barton thought she might as well take her leave; for she saw it was hopeless to find any subject that could interest or amuse Mrs. Seaton. At the hall door, and just as she was leaving the house, Julia came in from her walk. It was nearly a year since they had met, and Miss Barton was struck by a great alteration in her appearance.Her beauty had been of that prononcée and somewhat harsh kind, which seemed to seek as well as obtain admiration; and her black eyes had an expression which sought to dazzle more than to please. But now her whole air was subdued. The full and well-formed lips no longer curled with a contemptuous or scornful expression, which Miss

Barton had often thought spoilt their beauty; and her eyes seemed now to look more for sympathy than admiration. It was plain that, during the past year, Julia had felt and thought much; and Miss Barton was much more inclined to like her than before.'I am very glad to see you,' said Julia; 'more particularly as I know you would wish to hear something of your friend Linda, so I will take a walk with you, if you will allow me;' and with a decided air, which seemed to indicate that she did not expect to be refused, she put her arm in Miss Barton's.'I suppose you have had enough of mamma's dull drawing-room, and that melancholy house,' she continued, pointing to her home. 'And oh, how dreadfully depressing this old town is! I can't imagine how it is you always contrive to look so cheerful, when you never leave it.'CHAPTER XV.
THE OLD NURSE.MR. GRANT had been detained in Scotland much longer than he intended, by the severe illness of his mother; but she fortunately became better a few days before the one fixed for his marriage, and she urged him to leave her, that he might arrive in time for the important day.The doctor hoped she would soon be well, and assured him there was no danger; so he started on his journey, although the sad losses he had sustained, and his extreme affection for his mother, rendered him apprehensive and depressed.Mrs. Grant had been confined to her room for nearly three weeks, but the day after her son's departure she felt rather stronger, and wished to see that everything was in order for the reception of the bride--'for men never understand this sort of thing,' she thought; and she had not seen some of the rooms since the new furniture arrived. It was a fine afternoon towards the end of July, and a bright sun shone in at the windows of the south-western drawing-room, or rather gallery, for it was a long, narrow room, like the library over which it was built; but it was much longer, as the two octagon turrets at each end, which formed separate rooms in the story below, had been thrown into this old state drawing-room.Mrs. Grant looked with somewhat of regret at

the new furniture, as she thought it did not seem to accord so well with the carved ceiling, rich with pendent bosses, the irregular windows, and old family pictures, although their frames had been regilt.She preferred, too, the polished oak floor, which had been the pride of many generations of house-maids. It was now covered entirely with a luxurious carpet, which Mrs. Grant tried to fancy would be more comfortable in winter, although its bright flowered pattern, on which the sun was shining in some places, struck her as being rather too gaudy, and that its thick softness wearied her tread that warm evening.'But there are more cold days than summer ones,' she thought, 'and so I daresay it is all right; and this is a very comfortable sofa,' she reflected, as she sat down on a sort of low ottoman, in the centre oriel window.'I think she will like to sit here and look at that view, and I hope the sun will shine on those distant mountains when she first looks on it, and that the river will glisten like a silver serpent, as it does now. Well, I wish the day were come, and that I had just once held her in my arms, and felt whether her heart would love him. Methinks I should then die content.'After looking at the other parts of the long apartment, and moving a few things into what appeared to her more pleasant-looking positions, she left the room, casting back rather a regretful look at its general appearance, which struck her as seeming less habitable than with the old, familiar; yet faded objects which had formerly embellished it also, as she thought, far more.'And now I'll go up to see poor old nurse, for

it's nearly a month since I was there last' So she began to ascend the carved oak staircase which led up to the top of the house; but suddenly remembering something, she returned to her own bedroom, and taking out a large coloured shawl, put it on, so as to conceal as much of her black dress as possible.'Poor nurse! she cannot abide mourning, or anything that makes death seem gloomy; and she is right, too, I believe, though she has almost lost her reason. Poor old Eleanor!' Again Mrs. Grant ascended the staircase, and proceeded along a passage, until she came near a door at the end. She then stopped to listen, with a look of anxiety.A low murmuring sound was heard, as of a feeble voice singing, accompanied by the monotonous hum of a spinning-wheel.'She is in a good humour to-day,' thought Mrs. Grant, as if relieved from some apprehension. And with a soft touch, and somewhat solemn air, she gently opened the door. The room had formerly been the nursery, and still contained seven small white beds, which were ranged on one side--on the other was a large one, with red damask curtains.A fire was burning in the large old-fashioned grate, and near it sat the old nurse, with an empty cradle at her feet. Her face was turned towards the window, and she seemed to be gazing on the distant view--or rather beyond it; as if on some vision unseen to mortal eye.She was old--nearly seventy; but her frame was still vigorous, her features handsome, and the dark-blue eye was full of fire and life,--but a life beyond and unlike this--a spirit life, at times more glorious and happy, for it beamed occasionally with

a joy which seemed more than human. She had nursed Mr. Grant's father, as well as himself and his brothers and sisters; and had loved them with the affection touching and unselfish which sometimes in nurses seems almost to surpass even a mother's love. But since Annie died, her reason seemed to have gone.Her hands were now occupied in twisting the thread of the spinning-wheel, while her foot gently rocked the cradle. But now and then she stooped and held her hands to her breast, while she moved herself to and fro, as if hushing the baby in her arms.The room still contained a number of children's playthings, while here and there the contents of a Noah's ark, and dissected maps, were disarranged on the floor, as if by baby hands; while on some of the beds were battledoors and shuttlecocks. All these indications of noisy, joyous childhood contrasted painfully with its deserted state, and the mournful silence, unbroken except by the old woman's low song, and the murmur of her spinning-wheel.For some minutes she did not seem aware of Mrs. Grant's presence; she continued to gaze in the direction of the distant mountains; but at last she said, without having apparently seen anyone enter the room,--'So you are come at last; and where have you sent your son? Oh, I know, he is gone there--far away, to bring home his bride! It is a long, long journey, and maybe he wont return.'And she began to sing, but in a mournful strain.'And will he bring Annie to the wedding? she continued;--'nay, don't greet that way; no tears should fall for her--she is too good, too beautiful;

--she is there! I see her standing clothed in white robes, and there's a crown on her head, and she is smiling and beckoning to us, I'm coming, darling, I'm coming; wait for me, don't go so fast. I can't run now; I'm very old! There, sit down and gather the cowslips, till I go and fetch Mary and Jane, and my darling baby. Eh, don't cry, Annie dear, we shall go to them all.' And then she began to sing a lively air, an old strathspey, to which the children had often danced, and the happy look returned. 'Now,' she continued, as she turned towards Mrs. Grant, 'now tell me about the bonny bride; maybe I shall see her with my ain eyes, eh?''Yes,' said Mrs. Grant, 'she will soon be here.''But what is she like--for ye hae shown me two and more; they are all different, and some of them are not happy. Ah! it is fearful.' And she looked round on Mrs. Grant with a troubled and perplexed expression.'But this one looks happy?' said Mrs. Grant, taking out the miniature of Linda, and showing it to the old woman.'Maybe; it's possible she can be happy,' said Eleanor, taking the likeness in her hand; 'but she'll have a sore life of trial--a fearful struggle with the Evil One and the powers of darkness. Maybe she'll prevail,--we'll pray for her, and Annie, and James, and Mary, and baby will all pray;' and she clasped her hands with a look of awe and reverence. Then she gazed intently at the picture, and after a pause she said, 'She has never told her mind, poor bairn; she is all alone in this weary world, and she can't look for a better. She don't know her own self; she is very young, very young, poor bonny lass,--and yet old, I fear,

I fear--oh, I don't know what! Her forehead is as fine and good as Annie's hersel'; but she's awfu' too. And where's the other one that she did of hersel'? Well, ye won't show me that again, I know,' she said, as if divining Mrs. Grant's reluctance to show what had seemed to make her so unhappy before. 'Now, go down, missus; the bairns are not here, and it's no good coming to be fashed so! sich an old useless body as me; and it only makes ye greet to see their things; but I hae got them all ready agin they come back. Go!' she continued, in a tone of authority, 'for ye are weary; go and lie down, and get well and strong for the bonny bride;' and she suddenly took Mrs. Grant's hand, and held it to her lips with one of those looks of considerate anxiety which often made Mrs. Grant think that her reason had returned.'There, go, and keep up your spirits; for we have not far to go, or long to wait; we shall all be happy together; all--all; and the bonny bride too.'Eleanor listened till Mrs. Grant was gone; and when the door was closed, she said in a whisper, 'The bonny bride! but she has farther to go--much farther,--a long dreary road, and no help; no help for a long time. I won't tell missus; but we will all pray; and again she clasped her hands, and seemed to pray with great fervour. It was as if she were really wrestling with some spirit, as Jacob did, for her eyes flashed, and her countenance worked with energy. She had been a woman of such strong will and quick perception, as to end her with a sort of mesmeric power over others, which had made her feared by many, who though she had the second sight. Her strong affections had been centred on Mr. Grant's family; and

when Annie, the eldest daughter, died, she had a violent illness which seemed to deprive her of reason; yet, when she recovered her bodily health, her anxiety, and the quickness of her perception in anything that related to her master's family, seemed more intense than ever. It was, therefore, no wonder that her anxiety about John, the only remaining one, should be so intense as to make her pray with a fervour that seemed almost to exhaust her aged frame. But gradually the anxious and almost agonizing expression which had troubled her features was exchanged for a calm and satisfied smile. 'The Redeemer, who came to save us all, has prevailed. He will, He must--He has not refused the old nurse's prayer,' she gently murmured; and then, leaning back in her chair, old Eleanor sank into a quiet slumber.CHAPTER XVI.
THE PREBENDARY.'HOW glad I am you are come back, at last,' said Miss Polly Barton, when Susan returned from her visit to Mrs. Seaton. 'I am dying to know all about it--is Linda really married? Oh, I see by your face she is; for you look very sad, and so tired.''Yes, she is married!' said Susan, taking off her bonnet, and sitting down near her sister's sofa. 'It took place the day before yesterday. I ought not to look sad, for Julia tells me that Linda seemed really happy--that she looked better than she has for several months, and that she seemed full of kindness and thought for all her friends, and tried to comfort her poor mother, and make everyone cheerful. I wish you could have heard Julia's description of the wedding; for she really contrived to make it sound most brilliant and interesting; but, as I had promised Laura to try and obtain her confidence, I know it was right to accept her proposal that we should walk to St. Cross--for I thought she seemed disposed to be confidential; but I did not find her so--poor, unfortunate girl; though I see she has much on her mind. But fist, to satisfy you about Linda though I really cannot give you any detail account; so I have asked Julia to come to-morrow and see you, and satisfy and answer all your questions, as to dresses and all the et ceteras. It

seems Mr. Grant only arrived the night before, and that Linda scarcely saw him till they met at church. Then, after the ceremony, the two wedding-parties went to Lady Rochfords, where there was a most splendid breakfast, and royalty, and foreign princes, and all the wits and poets were there: but Julia will tell you,' said Miss Barton, with a wearied look.'Well, but you are happier about Linda now, are you not?''I scarcely know what to think. I suppose, if I had heard that she looked sad, I should have been miserable; but I hardly think it was natural that she should appear so very happy; real joy does not show itself so decidedly, particularly in such a character as Linda's  and there would be something too absorbing in perfect bliss at such a solemn moment; it would scarcely have allowed of so much consideration for others, except, indeed, for her poor mother. It seems to me as if, having made up her mind, she was determined to be happy.''Well, and I trust she will,' said Miss Polly.'Her will is very strong, certainly,' rejoined Susan; 'but I doubt whether in such a case--However, I am wrong to anticipate evil--and here comes Betty, with a large parcel sent by the coach; but surely it is too large for wedding-cake.''But it is, though,' said Miss Polly, who undid it with great impatience--'and other things besides. What an immense bit--enough to last for a year. Oh, how delightful! I am sure Linda sent so much--it must be twelve times the usual quantity--because she knows I am so fond of it. See, a parcel of books for you; and what's this?--a beautiful brooch!--a large carbuncle; the very stone I

like best; how lovely! but its value must be immense.''And this is a very rare German work I have been longing, to have for years,' said Susan; 'oh, and actually a set of Calderon's works, with the missing tragedies, Il Estrella de Seviglia, that I never could even get a sight of--where could she have got them--and several others I had only heard of. This must be invaluable; and she has written in them with her own dear hand. And see, here is something for Betty, too,' she said, giving a parcel to the delighted maid, who had lingered in the room to satisfy her curiosity.'Oh, what a beautiful dress!' said Betty; 'can this really be for me?--oh, let me make it up for Miss Polly. And what lovely ribbons!--and what's this?--a purse!--and there is actually a sovereign at one end and a shilling at the other. Well, to be sure! However could Miss Delamere do all this--and to think of me, too, among all the multitudes she must have had! Well, I do hope she will be happy,' said Betty, while a tear of pleasure and gratitude started to her eye. 'But, lack-a-day, if there is not a knock at the door,' she said, running to peep out at the window; 'and sure, it's the Dean hisself, or one of the Prebendaries with the shovel-hats.''Well, run down and open the door; don't keep him waiting,' said Miss Polly, impatiently, to Betty, who still held up her new dress and purse, with a sort of holiday-look, as if reluctant to return to the common business of life. Then she hurried down, and soon announced--the Rev. Mr. Seaton.He was a handsome man, with the dignified and polished air of the last century. Although up-

wards of seventy, his dark-blue eyes were full of life, and his smooth, broad forehead and unwrinkled countenance bore no trace of age, except a large-hearted benevolence, and an expression of tolerant kindness towards the faults of others, learnt in a long life of struggles against the passions and evil in his own nature. This struggle had been so successful as to leave a predominating expression of peace and humility almost amounting to diffidence, which caused most of his acquaintances to imagine that be could have had no bad passions to subdue. But, to the few who knew him well, and looked deeper, this diffidence was the more touching, from its contrast with the tall majestic figure, the broad high forehead, and the full and sharply-cut lips, which seemed formed to utter words of command--a contrast as great as the dark bushy eyebrows, with their expression of firmness and decision, formed to the soft flowing locks of white hair he wore in the fashion of his early youth, falling partly over a black dress, which was made in the same antique form, and gave to his whole air the appearance of a high-bred gentleman of the old school.'I am very sorry to interrupt you, Miss Barton,' he said, as he entered the room, and was obliged to stoop his head to pass under the low doorway; 'but I find you have been so kind as to call on Mrs. Seaton, and I thought you might like to hear something of your friend Miss Delamere's wedding. Mrs. Seaton, having been prevented by her bad health from attending it, could not tell you anything,' he continued, with a look which seemed wishing to atone for his wife's probable rudeness, and as an apology for what he felt was an intrusion on Miss Barton s valuable time.'It is very kind of you to come and see us,' said both the Miss Bartons.'And my sister is dying to hear all the particulars,' added Susan.'I am afraid I cannot give you a good description of it,--for you know I am anything but clever,' said Mr. Seaton; 'and, to tell you the truth, I did not much like the whole thing. I think it a pity when a solemn and touching ceremony which binds two persons together in all the awful responsibilities of married life, is made a sort of excuse for gathering people together who have no regard for its solemnity. And indeed there were some people there who are a disgrace to any society,' he continued, with vehemence; but, checking himself suddenly, he said in a contrite tone,--'Yet, I am sure I am not the person who ought to condemn any of them, for I am certain if I had been placed in the same temptations, I should have acted much worse.''But I was provoked,' he continued, 'to see there the man who has done such flagrant acts of injustice and is such a notorious gambler as Mr. George Randal. When I complained of it to Lady Rochford, and she assured me he had not been invited, I really could have thrown--'Here Mr. Seaton again checked the expression of anger which his kindling eye and curling lip had begun to evince; 'but what has made me very miserable is to find that my daughter Julia is actually acquainted with him. She has met him at my poor foolish sister's, Lady Blenkinsop; and he has actually 'had the impudence to pretend to her that he is quite reformed, and has given up the world. I am very much concerned about it,' her added, as he leaned his arms on the table, and bent

down his head with a helpless and despairing expression that touched Miss Barton most deeply.'Does Mrs. Seaton know anything of this?' she inquired.'Mrs. Seaton?--oh, no! What is there to know?' he said, as if bewildered at the idea that Julia was concerned at all in the matter. 'No, I have not told her; for I found poor Julia seemed so much afraid of her mother's displeasure against Lady Blenkinsop that-- But have you heard anything, dear Miss Barton? You look at me with such an expression of pity, that I am quite frightened.''I merely thought that such a fascinating man as Mr. Randal is described to be, might have been rather a dangerous acquaintance to one who, like Julia, admires talent and genius so highly.''I hope Julia has more good sense,' said Mr. Seaton, with a slight tinge of pride; 'for I never could forgive her if--,' and his eye kindled; but as if ashamed and provoked at having been again betrayed into such a feeling of passion and anger, he continued with a sad air: 'But I sometimes think that poor Julia's life is rather too secluded;--that for a girl of her expectations, she ought to see a little more of society; and I find my dear Laura is of the same opinion.''I scarcely know what to do,' he continued, with a perplexed look. 'I have always been taught to think that the safest plan was not to put oneself in the way of temptation; and my dear old friends, Hannah More and Wilberforce, have written and said so much on the subject, that I ought to be satisfied. But I know you do not take the same view of the case; and I cannot help having a very high opinion of your judgment,' he added, as he

looked up with an expression of genuine admiration at Miss Barton. 'I have read some of your books, also, for Laura told me they had done her a great deal of good;--and yet she still adheres to her old dislike and dread of what she thinks the world. Poor dear Laura, she wrote to tell me she was coming to see you yesterday, and that she wished Julia could see more of you during our residence in W-- this time than she has hitherto done. She thinks Julia seems unhappy, and was not looking well when she saw her some little time ago; but it's very odd. I think Julia is improved; she seems much more considerate for me, dear girl. It seems to me she is taking after Laura, for I do not think her nearly so headstrong, or that she finds so much fault with others as she did; but I do not think she looks well in health, certainly--do you?''I am afraid she is not very well,' said Miss Barton; 'but I hope the fine air of the Downs near here will brace and strengthen her; and if she will allow me, I shall be delighted to accompany her in her walks sometimes.''You are very kind, indeed; that is just what I should like. But I forget that I am telling you nothing about the wedding. Yet there was another thing annoyed me very much,--which was, to see that Mr. Randal was making up so strangely to Mrs. Delamere. I am really quite annoyed with her; and could not help telling her afterwards that I, thought it a pity she should sanction the presence of such a man by appearing to be acquainted with him, particularly as I find from Lady Rochford that there has been, most unfortunately, no settlement on the bride. All the Delamere property remains still in her own power; so that I am sure Mr. Randal will endeavour to inveigle her into think-

ing him a reformed character, as he has my foolish sister. I am convinced of it,' continued he, striking his hand somewhat violently on the table.'I beg pardon, Miss Mary; how very foolish of me to startle you so! Oh! I am very wrong--very wrong. I can never get rid of my hot temper,--it is a great trial to poor Mrs. Seaton, with her weak nerves. Yes, she has weak nerves, indeed, though I see you do not think it,' looking up quickly at Miss Barton, 'and I often try them sadly. She really suffers a great deal, and this place unfortunately disagrees with her.''But surely Mrs. Delamere intends that her daughter should have all her fortune' said Miss Barton, endeavouring to divert him from the sad and sore subject of Mrs. Seaton's nerves.'Of course she does; and she is a most amiable and kind-hearted woman. But still, if such a man as that sets his heart, or rather his head (for heart he has none) upon her fortune, the chances are, he will succeed. I see you think so too.'Miss Barton blushed and looked confused, for she was thinking that the same arguments could be urged as to his designs upon poor Julia. 'I trust and hope not,' she said, with an almost solemn expression. 'I trust and pray not!'Then, after having satisfied Miss Polly's curiosity about the wedding, and endeavoured to describe the dresses, and all he thought would amuse her, Mr. Seaton took his leave.'What a good, kind man; and how happy he ought to be,' said Miss Polly, when Mr. Seaton was gone.'So far happy, indeed, that he possesses a true Christian faith; but he has more trials, I fear, than many people could imagine, for his disposition is

extremely sensitive, and such a person as Mrs. Seaton must try him extremely.''How quick-sighted he is, too,' said Polly; 'I had no idea he would have had so much observation as to discover a flirtation, and see into Mr. Randal's projects on Mrs. Delamere.''I am afraid he will not be so quick-sighted with regard to his own daughter: and it is astonishing how blind people generally are to such things in their own children. Oh that he may be spared the bitter disappointment, the agony of finding--''Yes, it would be too dreadful,' interrupted Polly; 'and how excited Mr. Seaton was; he looks generally so meek and calm. I had no idea he could feel so much anger towards any human being as he evinced when speaking of Mr. Randal.''It shows what a dreadful character that man must have, to call forth expressions from a person so full of benevolence; but I consider he paid us a great compliment in letting us see into feelings which he generally conceals with such extreme reserve.''I have always observed he looks quite different when speaking to you from any one else,' said Polly. 'I am sure he feels, perhaps without knowing it, that you can enter into him; for I see now you were right when you said very few people really understood him.'CHAPTER XVII.
THE POST.THE dining-room in Mr. Seaton's house was a more cheerful apartment than most of the others; for he generally sat there in the morning, and besides his writing-table, which, from its untidiness, was rather a relief to the eyes, after the cold neatness of Mrs. Seaton's sitting-rooms, it showed indications of the occasional presence of children. Sometimes a doll might be seen on Mr. Seaton's chair, and a cart-and-horses, or a hoop, under his writing-table. The sound of cheerful voices and unrestrained children's mirth might sometimes be heard there, although it never attained a very loud pitch, lest the noise should reach the nervously sensitive ears of Mrs. Seaton in her drawing-rooms above.The whole family assembled in this dining-room for breakfast time, but it was not often a very cheerful meal; for besides Mrs. Seaton (who always made a point of being down by half-past eight, for prayers, and whose bad health made her less good-humoured then than later in the day), there was a serious governess, who kept the children in such extremely good order, that no misdemeanour, nor even a very hearty laugh, was ever tolerated in her presence.She even extended her influence to Mr. Seaton, who rarely ventured to play with his young ones when she was by, so the meal generally passed in

silence, only broken by a few complaints from Mrs. Seaton about the children's looks or her own sufferings; and to which her husband sometimes ventured to utter a word of consolation or condolence; but, as this had not often the effect intended, he generally refrained from saying anything, and only looked forward with some degree of impatience for the arrival of the post and the newspapers.That morning there were a great many letters, and a large one directed to Mr. Seaton had particularly attracted his wife's attention.He appeared somewhat excited by its contents; and Mrs. Seaton was so absorbed in watching his countenance, from the farther end of the long table, that she did not observe the effect produced on her daughter Julia by one of several letters she had received.The poor girl became deadly pale, then her whole face was suffused with blushes; and with a choking sensation, as if she feared she was going to faint, she hastily left the room, followed by the keen, suspicious eyes of Miss Jolliffe, the serious governess.'Whom have you heard from, to-day, Mr. Seaton?' inquired his wife, after he had perused his letters 'Anything interesting?''Why, no; not much,' he said, in a hesitating tone, while he hastily put the letters in his pocket.'There is .one from Laura, who tells me Mrs Delamere has. arrived at Lord Olanville's, and--''But you heard from some other people,' she said, impatiently; and then making a sign to Miss Jolliffe, that worthy lady gave the word of command, and all the children immediately followed her out of the room.But Miss Jolliffe was not devoid of her woman's

share of curiosity; and under the plea of the great interest she must necessarily take in her charge's family, she wished to ascertain some of the secrets the post seemed to have brought to both father and daughter.So she told the children they might go and play for half an hour in the garden; and having watched them to the top of the old carved staircase, she softly descended, and stooped down to pick up something she thought she had dropped near the dining-room door.It must have been a needle, or something very difficult to find, for the search occupied some time.'What did that large letter contain?' she heard Mrs. Seaton inquire.'What large letter?' said he, in what, to Miss Jolliffe, seemed a hesitating tone.'Well then, never mind,' said Mrs. Seaton, in a querulous voice; 'I see you don't like to tell me, so I suppose you have a secret I am not to know; I suppose I am wrong to take an interest--Yes, I am wrong, always wrong,' she continued, as if crying.'Dear Letitia, pray don't agitate yourself; there is no bad news; and I will tell you, only I was so afraid you would object to my refusing again.''What! you have been offered another bishopric, that is it; I see.''Yes, it is; and here is the letter.''What! actually for Cedcaster. And do you really mean to say you are going to refuse such a thing? Why, on every account--for the sake of your family, for your own family as well as mine, for poor Laura, and her unfortunate starving husband,--just think what preferment you would be able to give them!''I should not think it right to give them any, merely because they are near and dear to me,' said Mr. Seaton, in a dignified tone. 'Nor do I feel that I should be justified in placing myself in a situation of such awful responsibility. And why should you wish it, dear Letitia; have we not every comfort and enjoyment that wealth can procure, and enough to help the poor besides--why should we wish for more?''Oh, it is not in a worldly point of view that I wish it,' said Mrs. Seaton, in a sharp tone, 'certainly not; but I should like you to have greater means of benefitting your fellow-creatures. It is a sort of position and responsibility that you are quite cowardly to shrink from.''I know I am right,' said Mr. Seaton, in a low, but decided tone. 'I am sure I ought not to accept it; but I am sorry you cannot see it in the same light--very sorry,' he continued, in a kind voice; 'for I see it agitates you, and makes you ill.''It does, indeed; and you are cruel to inflict such a disappointment on me; and I know very well you have no more consideration of, or regard for, my opinion, than if I were given up to worldly concerns, like my poor sister. Indeed, I might be just like her for all you would care!'Poor Mr. Seaton perhaps thought that in some few respects it might be an advantage, but he said nothing. And as Miss Jolliffe thought Mrs. Seaton might be moving towards the door, she hastily ran upstairs and then walked leisurely to her usual place in the school-room.'Now for Julia's secret,' thought she. But, unfortunately, ever since that young lady had bee emancipated from her jurisdiction, they had not lived on very intimate terms; the imperious girl

having soon put a stop to any intrusion on the privacy of her own apartment. So Miss Jolliffe bethought herself that it might be a kind thing to go and see how poor Mrs. Seaton was, as she might possibly be 'enjoying a fit of hysterics,' as the lady's-maid called it; and it might be as well to divert her mind by detailing to the anxious mother some account of Letitia's misdemeanours,--for the eldest of her present charges, a girl of fourteen, had rather a troublesome temper;--'and there is nothing like counter-irritation to relieve a disappointment,' said Miss Jolliffe to herself; 'and really it is such a provoking thing that Mr. Seaton will not accept the bishopric--I quite feel for her. It is so very selfish of him not to consider his own family and relations; besides, he might then be able to give a living to poor dear Jeremiah Fairplush, and then--'And then certain visions of a pleasant retirement from the arduous duties of tuition into a comfortable house of her own, flitted with vivid attraction through the worthy Miss Jolliffe's brain, as she walked towards Mrs. Seaton's dressing-room.Mr. Seaton was convinced that it was right for him to refuse the bishopric; for in his low opinion of himself he remembered Eli, and the words spoken by the Lord to the child Samuel; and thought that if he could not rule his own household, how then could he presume 'to take care of the Church of God,' and hold an office of such great responsibility?Still his sensitive nature was deeply touched by his wife's sorrow. That Mrs. Seaton could not see and feel this in the same light made him diffident of his own judgment--so that he felt quite

wretched; and when he had conducted her, almost in hysterics, to her own dressing-room, he returned to his writing-table below, plunged in a fit of utter despondency.Although apparently very cheerful, Mr. Seaton bad been subject all his life to occasional attacks of low spirits. This was partly constitutional, but the chief cause of his sufferings was the constant humiliation he experienced at falling so far short of the high standard his conscientious nature, and fastidious admiration for all that is beautiful and good, had raised. Another cause was his nervous dread of inflicting pain, which he felt amounted almost to an infirmity; and he was convinced that this weakness alone would make him unfit for the office of a bishop.'The fact is,' thought he, 'Mrs. Seaton is right, and I am a selfish coward; for if I had possessed more courage, and eradicated this infirmity, I might now have conscientiously accepted the office, and thus I could have gratified poor Letitia.'And so, with the ingenious self-torment of despondency, he leaned his head on his hand, and gave himself up to despair.But it did not last long, for he was able to pray, and then the same power was given which had for years enabled him to conceal his sufferings from all eyes, that his low spirits might not interfere with the enjoyment of others.Again the fine brow assumed its habitually calm expression, and the lips, which had been firmly contracted, as if in pain, assumed almost a smile, and with a look of contented decision, he opened his blotting book, and began to write.As soon as he had finished the letter, which was a short one, a gentle tap was heard at the window.

Mr. Seaton looked round, and saw the laughing face of his youngest child.'Come in, darling Margaret,' he said; 'I am not busy now.''No, I thought not,' said the child, as she bounded into the room; 'for I waited very patiently until you had done your letter; and I was very good not to tap at the window before, for you looked so sad, dear papa I never saw you look like that, and I felt quite frightened; only then I saw you were praying, and I would not disturb you;--and then you became happy again! And why does it not always make one happy to pray, dear papa?  Why does not mamma look happy?''She has very bad health, my darling. God has seen fit to afflict her very much.''But you always looked happy when you had that dreadful illness, last year; and Miss Polly Barton is always ill, is she not, and can't move off her sofa; yet she does not look unhappy.''God afflicts us all in different ways, and to some he kindly gives more power to bear their sufferings cheerfully. Those who, like your dear mother, can't endure theirs with apparent happiness, deserve the most pity; so we must pray for her all the more fervently, my darling child,' he said, as he kissed her soft cheek, and pressed her to his bosom.This child seemed to have so much more sympathy with him than any of the others had ever shown, that he felt unspeakably grateful for the great comfort and joy her presence diffused over his old age.She had melancholy, thoughtful eyes, finely developed eyebrows and forehead, the mouth expressive of a stern, sad will, capable of practising

strong self control and self-denial, like her father's; the strange earnest perception of the unseen which one sees sometimes written on a child's face; a fair pale complexion, delicate oval face, dark hair, dark blue, or rather violet eyes, unusually large, with very long, dark eyelashes and eyebrows.'But tell me, dear papa,' said Margaret, in a low whisper, putting her little mouth close to Mr. Seaton's ear,--'tell me, does mamma really pray?''Why do you ask such a question?' said he, in a surprised tone.'Because, is not praying, thinking of God?' she asked, in the same low tone, and. with a look of awe.'Certainly it is,' said Mr. Seaton, in a solemn voice.'Well, then, I am sure mamma never prays as you do, for I think you often, very often, pray when you are not saying any prayers. Don't you sometimes pray when you are sitting in that chair at breakfast?--Ah! I thought so,--I have found you out,' she continued, on seeing a slight smile on Mr. Seaton's face. 'I know you often pray for mamma, and for Julia, and all of us,--very often, in the day too, just as much as when you are kneeling down at prayers; but I never see mamma look as if she did.''Do not think that, Margaret,' he said, with a look of concern; 'we cannot all pray in the same manner,--and she suffers so much. Only try, darling, never to annoy her; and then perhaps, in time, she will look happier; and remember, you must never think ill of any one,--never find fault. You know what the Scripture says,--'First cast out the beam out of thine own eye, and then shalt thou see clearly to pull out the mote that is in thy

brother's eye!' Remember also what St. Paul says,--'Love hopeth all things,'--that is, we should think well and kindly of everybody, and hope fervently that they may all enjoy eternal happiness.''I will try to remember; I will try to be like you, my own dear, dear papa--Oh! don't shake your head so, for I will, though I know you don't think you are good.'CHAPTER XVIII.
THE BRIDE.'THEY are married,' said Mrs. Grant, a few days after her last visit to the old nurse, when with hasty steps she had ascended the staircase, and now stood by old Eleanor, with an open letter in her hand.'And you come here in a black gown, and with tears in your ee,' said Eleanor, looking full in her face.'They are tears of joy,' said Mrs Grant; 'and you too look happy,--for I heard you singing Annie's lullaby as I came upstairs, and I thought it a good omen; for you never sing that when you are sad.''Maybe I am gladsome; maybe I feel that the Lord has heard the prayer of an old servant, who has suffered and loved very, very much; and that he will bless my master's house!--And when are they coming?'To-morrow evening, I hope.''To-morrow, that's Monday,--the first of the month of wheat
sheaves.  May the Lord bless the store of the poor. I will try to
sleep, and get the children to bed early, that we may all be well, and
ready for the married pair,--for I should na like to scare the bonny bride.' 'And you will bring her to see us?--wont you?' she continued, after a pause. 'I'll have all in order; and Jenny shall get in some flowers. Mary will

gather the roses; and Annie--oh! she will have the bridal robe,--and it shines-Oh! what beautiful colours,' said Eleanor, with one of her happiest looks, as she gazed in the direction of the distant mountains--'it shines so as no fuller on earth can whiten it--and all is glorious and bright; but there is no moon or stars,--all brighter, lighter, than the sun!--And will the bonny bride sing to me? But what am I doing, keeping you here listening to an old fool like me? Go, dear missis; go, rest;--and take care of yourself again' they come, and be well and bonny to greet the bride.''I hope Linda will not be frightened at poor old Eleanor,' thought Mrs. Grant, as she left the nursery, and prepared to follow the advice she gave,--which advice, with all her wildness, was generally wise, although often mixed up strangely with all the wanderings of her mind.And Mrs. Grant had need of rest; for as the hour approached which was to determine the future fate of her only son-to confirm the hopes, or banish the fears she could not sometimes avoid feeling about the choice he had made--as the hour for their arrival drew near, she became unusually nervous and restless.
She tried to remain quiet in the oriel window, and occupy her mind with some favourite passages of her Bible. But the slightest sound made her start, and look in the direction of the road from Edinburgh.Parts of this road could be seen many miles off, as it occasionally approached the winding river; but some of the more distant portions could not be seen from the library. And Mrs. Grant remembered that the nursery windows commanded a much

more extensive prospect; and that in her young days, when her husband had been absent for some time, she had watched the high road near where it left the town of D--, almost ten miles off.As she thought of those days, a feeling of almost youthful vigour seemed infused into her, and she hastily left the room, and began to ascend the stairs with a quick and springing step, while a strong feeling of joyful expectation--a sort of mingling of the past and present, came over her. She arrived breathless with haste at the nursery door, half expecting to find the rosy faces of her children, who formerly occupied it, looking out for their dear father's carriage. She heard, too, the sound of real voices and laughter, which evidently were not those of the old nurse, who was usually its only occupant.The fact was that most of the servants wished to have a glimpse of the first approach of the bridal carriage; and with the excuse of bringing flowers to decorate the room they had ventured; and the nurse being in unusual good humour, had allowed them to remain in one of the large windows.But old Eleanor sat in her usual place, with the empty cradle at her feet, which she had decorated with wreaths of fresh flowers.She was attired in her best dress,--a rich brocaded silk, with lace ruffles and stomacher. It had probably belonged to Mr. Grant's grandmother, and had been worn by the nurse at his christening. Her white hair was carefully drawn back from her fine forehead, after the fashion of her youth; and its still luxuriant profusion formed a sort of high cushion for the point-lace cap, which was fastened on the top with a silver bodkin.'Ye have run up stairs, missis, as ye did thirty

years ago,' she said, 'forgetting you are an old woman now; and so much the better,--we must all have glad faces to greet the bride.'She had turned towards Mrs. Grant as she said this; but after looking at her for a moment with an approving glance, she resumed her usual attitude. Then, after a few minutes, she gazed eagerly in the direction of the distant road.Mrs. Grant fancied she could just distinguish a cloud of dust. The next moment there was an exclamation from the servants,--'That must be the bridal carriage!''Hush!' said the old nurse, in a solemn whisper. 'Hush! and dinna wake the baby, or it will cry.'Then as she gazed intently from the window, she raised her hands, and extended them, as if in the act of imploring a blessing; and her lips moved, but she uttered no sound.A feeling of awe crept over the servants, and with noiseless steps they left the room.But Mrs. Grant remained near the old nurse. Neither of them spoke till they heard the sound of wheels in the lime avenue, and saw a travelling carriage coming up the steep road which led towards the eastern front of the castle.'Now go ye down to the hall door, missis; and promise me one thing,--dinna ye bring her up to see me this night, unless she herself asks to come.''Ay, that's right,' she said, as she smoothed the grey hairs on Mrs. Grant's brow, and settled her veil; go down; for if I am no wrang, John and his wife '11 be right glad to see ye at the ha' door.'Mrs. Grant arrived there in time to see the carriage draw up; but her head swam,--she could scarcely distinguish anything more till she felt her son's arm round her waist.But a soft lovely face was pressed close to hers, and a glad ringing voice sounded in her ear--'I must have the first kiss!' Mrs. Grant extended her arms, and felt that she had gained a daughter.For some moments both remained locked in each other's embrace, as if afraid to look or speak, lest the feeling of satisfied repose which both experienced should be disturbed.But Linda knew that the aged mother, whose whole anxiety must have been to feel assured of her only son's happiness, was exhausted by the intensity of her fears and hopes.'Let us go into the library,' she softly whispered in her ear; 'I want to see you sit in your own chair in the oriel window.''I know the way,' she continued; 'for John has described everything to me so accurately--I shall be able to find my way all over the house.'They passed on through the hall, where all the servants had assembled, and Linda returned their respectful bows and curtseys with a pleased smile, while a tear still glistened in her eye, and the resplendency of her beauty was veiled even more than usual by a look of humility, amounting almost to self-reproach.Perhaps it increased her attraction; for they had not expected the grand English heiress to 'look so meek,' as the old butler said; 'and bless her heart if she did not gaze in every one of our faces, as if we were all old friends.''There,' said Linda, as she helped to place Mrs. Grant in her old chair, 'now I will sit where I know you used to look at my picture, and here you can see me comfortably; and I don't care if you are disappointed in my beauty,' she added,

playfully, 'as it was not that John liked me for. But you--oh, you are more beautiful even than I expected,' continued Linda, as she looked with admiration on the fine speaking countenance of Mrs. Grant; for she read there such treasures of thought, and the calm repose of true faith, that she gazed with a sort of intense delight, and with a bounding hope that under the guidance of such a mind, her own sad want of faith might be supplied.All the qualities which had attracted her in Mr. Grant, and excited her wonder and admiration, she now read on his mother's face, on a larger and more strongly developed scale; added to the patient endurance of a mind purified by long years of suffering.Such a face is a sort of living evidence of the truth of Christianity, and contains a whole history of the object and scope of the Redemption. There can be seen the contest of good and evil, with the free will to choose between them. The result of earnest prayer--the attainment of peace--a holy peace and hope evinced even in this world, while the harassed and worn-out frame is still subject to that suffering from without, and that conflict within, which must continue to the last.The traces of sorrow had left on Mrs. Grant a delicacy and weakness of body which made Linda tremble. Like a vision of bliss, it must be too good, too pure, too unearthly to remain long in this world. She seemed so ripe for immortality; it was almost cruel to wish that she should be detained much longer here.Linda felt this, although she in general doubted even of an hereafter; but Mrs. Grant's countenance, like that of a very few others she had seen--Miss

Barton and Mr. Seaton, and one she dared not think of,--were like living witnesses to the truth of revelation. When looking on them, she felt it impossible that an expression of such calm, such fervent hope of happiness, attained through intense suffering, could be in vain. For such spirits there must be a better place than this dark world; there must be a heaven of blissful rest for those who had suffered so acutely.All these feelings passed through Linda's mind, as she sat near Mrs. Grant, and looked on her face; and she resolved to have no reserve--to allow Mrs. Grant to read every feeling of her heart and of her past life, and to make the most of the precious moments; to do her utmost to cheer her declining days, and infuse some portion of joy into that worn-out and fragile form.This was a great and blessed privilege, and it was with a sensation of awe and reverence that she ventured again to return the longing embrace which Mrs. Grant seemed yearning to bestow.'It feels so like Annie,' she whispered to John, after she had again held Linda in her arms; 'she has the very same way of pressing my shoulders with a soft touch, like the wings of an angel, and of looking close into my eyes  And has she not got Annie's forehead and the arch of her eyebrows?''And now, dearest mother,' said Linda, 'if you are not tired, I should like you to take us to see old nurse Eleanor, and then we will come down here again,--for I know I shall like this room best,' she said, as she looked round with veneration on Annie's table and old Mr. Grant's chair, and noted the worn-part of the carpet near it  Her quick glance had read and discovered everything. 'But I know John thought I should like the other

rooms modernized; and it was very stupid of me not to have told him in time how I delight in, and reverence everything that is old. It was quite my fault, so we must make the best of it now,' she continued.'But, dear Linda,' said Mrs. Grant, 'I think you had better not go up all that way to-night; remember what a long journey you have had;--and then, perhaps, our dear old nurse may be in one of her strange fits, and frighten you.''Oh, no, not in the least; for I imagine from what you tell me, her madness only consists in believing herself already in another world, among those she loved. Besides, I am so impatient to know how she will like your choice,' added Linda, as she turned to John, 'for I am sure she must and will see through and through me.''You need not fear, my darling child,' said Mrs. Grant, as she gazed with more and more delight on the ever-changing countenance of Linda; 'and I know that the poor old nurse will be right glad to see you.''Let us go then; and don't show me the way, but see if I don't find it myself, up to the nursery. There now, lean on John, and I will go before you,' said Linda, as she playfully ascended the stairs, looking back at them with a joyful smile; and at the top of the first flight, she said--'That is the drawing-room door, but I wont look in now. I have not yet looked at the view, for I want first to see it from nurse's window. And that passage leads to your bedroom;--you see John has taught me everything.'As they began to ascend the second flight, Linda held Mrs. Grant's arm, and insensibly a feeling of awe came over her as they approached the nursery door.'Welcome! ten thousand welcomes to you, my good son--my dear master, and your bonny bride!' said the old nurse, who had risen from her usual place, and stood near the door. 'I heard her light step coming up first, before either of you, to see the old nurse, and may Heaven shower down his choicest blessings on you both. How beautiful she is!'Linda was surprised; and though somewhat relieved at seeing no traces of insanity on the old nurse's handsome countenance, yet she was rather disappointed, as she half expected that Eleanor would have read her inmost soul, and delivered some oracular opinion about her character. But it seemed as if the old woman were putting some unwonted restraint upon her own feelings, and as if she had as yet scarcely trusted herself to look fully at the bride.'I want to see the view from your window, dear nurse,' said Linda, taking her hand; 'will you show me the most beautiful parts? for I would not look at it until I came up here.'Eleanor gazed at her long and intently; and as she led her to the window, she placed Linda's hand in her bosom, with a caressing air of reverence and love.'My beautiful--my poor bairn,' she said, 'you are ower young. Ye have chosen a weary way, a long road, and alone, all alone too, for you have--' She stopped suddenly, with a violent effort to prevent herself from speaking, and as it were to crush her own words. 'Don't mind me,' she said, as the tears started to her eyes, 'for I am only an old fool. I'm often away wi' the bairns that are gone; and sometimes it seems a long and weary way to come back, though it's always short

enough to go; but now you are here I shall be cheered, maybe, and maybe I'll try and stay, for your eyes are as kind and beautiful as any I see up there! And I have prayed for you, indeed I have; for thank God I can pray, though it's little else I'm good for.'After a pause, she continued, 'Ye'll have a hard fight, for you're a grand creature; I never saw your like before, not in this world! But there are spirits--spirits for good and for evil, and they'll fight and tear you, and lead you a weary life. But you'll only suffer yourself; you'll bring happiness to all around you, and you'll make my dear master a good and true wife, and you'll be happy, quite happy yourself at last.'Linda felt relieved, a heavy weight seemed to be taken off her mind when Eleanor had done speaking. When the nurse had begun to scrutinize her countenance, she fully expected that Eleanor would see into her feelings and motives, and Linda wished indeed that she should do so. She therefore did not shrink from the old woman's searching gaze, and had not endeavoured to look happy, which she was wont to do for the sake of others, or put on the semblance of any feeling she did not fully experience.Great then, indeed, was her relief when Eleanor said--'And ye'll be a good and true wife.'CHAPTER XIX.
THE STRONG WILL.TIME passed on, and Linda fully succeeded in her endeavours to diffuse happiness around her. She entered with zeal into all Mr. Grant's plans for improvement, and thus her time was fully occupied. It was so delightful to see every one pleased--to know that she was causing joy to all around, that at times she forgot the want of happiness in herself. She forgot that the beautiful scenery which her painter's eye admired so much, produced no feeling of real joy in her heart,--that she
Saw, not felt, how beautiful it was.But on the day her mother arrived, she experienced real happiness--a bounding feeling of hope, as she pressed her once more in her arms, and both at the same instant whispered in each other's ears, 'we will never, never part again' As yet, the strongest passion of her nature had been love for her mother; and yet it was not like the usual affection of a child to a parent, nor was it that which springs up from similarity of disposition; for nothing could be more opposite than their characters. There was a childlike simplicity and dependence in Mrs. Delamere,--a natural goodness, which had almost precluded the necessity for self-control, and left her more young and undeveloped at thirty-eight, than her daughter almost had ever been. This extreme simplicity prevented Mrs. Delamere from being usually understood, and Linda

had always seen from a baby that her mother was not appreciated and loved as she ought to have been; and therefore the longing to make up for it--to make the love she felt for her compensate in some degree for the want of others' affection, had become a sort of adoration.Besides, we are all inclined to value most those qualities which we do not possess; and Linda considered Mrs. Delamere's trusting simplicity and natural faith much more admirable than her own restless, inquiring mind, and that spirit of disbelief which, Thomas like, seemed never to be satisfied without positive proof,--and that violent temper and impetuous will, which daily entailed fresh struggles to subdue, and fresh efforts to curb.And now it was a pleasant, and almost a happy time; for Linda and her mother talked of their old friends, in whom Mr. Grant and his mother took daily increasing interest For neither of them had been great readers, so that they felt a more lively interest in the actual and living world around, and were more dependent on the pleasures of conversation than those whom habits of study render almost independent of real life and passing events.Mrs. Delamere was naturally agreeable when in the society of people she liked; but Linda was not,--for her mind was engaged so deeply with a constant search into the awful depths of truth, that she had no leisure remaining for wit or humour; nor had she yet seen the necessity for 'cultivating frivolity,' as Miss Barton called it, or a turn for the enjoyment of fun and gaiety: but the seeds of wit were within her, though they had as yet been kept back by the more momentous question of--'To be or not to be'--the important and solemn thought--'Is there an hereafter?'It was as if she were constantly living in the presence of some mighty being she could not see nor understand;--there was something oppressive in the consciousness of such a being, and her inability to realize its existence. The question whether all her vivid feelings and perceptions would cease entirely--whether she would become nothing, or enter into a state of happiness or misery ?--this gave to her expression something of the look of solemn wonder we occasionally see on the face of babies. Thus it is that the result of deep thought and study sometimes leads back to the simple wonder or conscious ignorance of a child.But now Linda forced herself to amuse and interest others, and already she had enabled Mrs. Grant to feel intimately acquainted with Susan Barton, poor Julia Seaton, and her most interesting father, and many other old friends.The  autumn was lovely, and they made excursions to the neighbouring castles and country houses; and Linda painted sketches which enchanted Mrs. Grant, and made the old nurse lift up her hands in delighted amazement at seeing 'the castles and mountains, and trees, and all, come into the nursery.'Old Eleanor had remained, as she called it, 'more with them' since Linda's arrival, and seldom went away 'to the bairns that are gone,' for she used to study the ever-varying countenance of Linda, and gaze on it with the sort of interest she had been wont to do on the distant mountain view; and Linda felt that the old woman read her inmost soul.As yet she had not confided all her secret thoughts and feelings to Mrs. Grant; not because she shrank from it on her own account, but she

was waiting till she saw that Mrs. Grant was sufficiently acquainted with her peculiar character, not to be too suddenly shocked or pained by the discovery that her son had never possessed the full and first love of his bride.She saw that Mrs Grant became better acquainted with her every day,--that her large and benevolent mind could fully enter into, and feel or all the struggles she experienced; but Linda was aware of her own originality, and she sought to let herself be read; she never shrank from, but rather invited Mrs. Grant's scrutiny, as she also did that of old nurse Eleanor.There is often, in aberration of intellect, as with the loss of any bodily faculty, some other power given, which seems to compensate for its absence. Thus the old nurse, who could have had no means of reading a variety of characters, still less of meeting with such a one as Linda's, certainly was now gifted with the power of seeing deep into the thoughts and motives of those who excited greatly her interest. Linda was soon convinced that Eleanor saw all--even to her want of faith. The words she had uttered,--'Ye hae chosen a sad and weary way, and alone, too--all alone,' often recurred to her mind.It was all alone--without God.One day, after they had made rather a longer expedition than usual, Linda was so tired that she fell asleep in her chair, near her mother-in-law, in the library.Mrs. Delamere had gone to her room much fatigued; and John had been called away on some business; and as Mrs. Grant had not accompanied them that day, she sat with her knitting in the

oriel window,--and she watched the lovely face of her daughter-in-law, the evening sun tinged her waving hair with a golden hue; yet she was almost startled at the sadness of expression, which she had never seen in Linda's waking hours.Linda' apparent happiness had been so great, that the apprehensions which had made her tremble before they met, had been lulled, and at last quite ceased. She had begun to think that her fears that John had not possessed his wife's heart must be groundless. But now as she looked on the trouble, care, and hopeless dejection, expressed in that lovely mouth, the listless attitude, the sort of despair that contracted her eyebrows,--she felt it was caused by more enduring sorrow than a troubled dream. There was an expression of permanence in the want of hope these lines in her forehead seemed to denote; and involuntarily Mrs. Grant found herself saying--'That is her real expression.'Linda had learnt in a great degree to control her dreams: she now never dreamt of Dudley as she did before her marriage, so determined had she been to extinguish all thought of him, all recollection of what he was, and what she might have become under his influence,--so she never dreamt of him, but she could not make her dreams happy. Her will only extended to the exclusion of that being,--the only one whose image filled her with perfect delight, and whose dangerous charm had power to tinge everything with glowing and blissful colours.So she had no happy dreams; and her countenance wore generally in sleep an expression of stern resolve. The will--the power to exclude the

fatal charm, never slept. It was resignation, but not repose. This her mother-in-law now saw with dismay. It revived all her fears; for in the quiet rest of sleep, the want of real repose of mind--the want of harmony in that troubled brow--the difference of what she read there, and of what ought to have been the expression of that lovely creature who seemed created for happiness,--all this was strongly and painfully visible.Mrs. Grant saw there was no faith--no hope of even future happiness; and she resolved to speak, and to dispel the reserve she was now convinced there existed towards her in Linda's mind. She remembered too that old Eleanor had sometimes evinced the same fear, only Mrs. Grant had always tried to repress the nurse's expression of it.She now determined no longer to do so the next time Eleanor spoke of her daughter-in-law, for she was in hopes that the quick perceptions of the old woman might assist her in finding a clue to the mystery, and enable her to try and cure the unhappiness which she feared was preying upon Linda's mind.The next day, when Mrs. Grant was alone with Linda, she said,--'You have something on your mind you tell no one--not even your own mother; you make us all happy, but I now see that you are not so yourself; and I fear you can't even hope--you can't look with any confidence to future bliss. Yet you are very good, my dear child, and you have brought happiness and joy to us all; why can't you feel it?--why can't you look with confidence to the reward, to the bliss God has promised to 'all who by patient endurance--?'''I am not good, and I am not happy,' interrupted Linda; 'and I can't bear you to think so, although I would not give you pain by confessing how miserable I am. But you have discovered it now, so I will conceal the whole truth no longer.''I am miserable, for 1 should not like to die,' continued Linda, for once without trying to assume that cheerful air which had of late become habitual. 'Yet I have scarcely anything to tell,' she added, with a kind of perplexity; 'because I determined to banish him from my mind, and I have succeeded; only I can't attain faith, I can't believe, and I cannot, cannot feel happy, though I have everything to make me so.''My poor child! I see it all now. You have loved, and your affection was not returned; and so you thought to find peace and happiness in a union with my dear, good son?''But I was wrong; I see it now; I had no right to marry at all; only, dear mother, I did not know all this when I accepted him. It was only afterwards, just a few days before the ceremony, that I discovered I really loved another; and-and-I almost then thought he might have loved me too!'She then related all she had felt, and what had occurred to awaken her to the knowledge of her own feelings.'My poor darling child!' said Mrs. Grant; 'but he can't have loved you--of that I am convinced; or he would have endeavoured to see you, even though he knew that you were engaged to be married so soon.'Mrs. Grant saw at once how necessary it would be for Linda's peace of mind that she should have no suspicions that her love had been returned,--at least she fancied it would be better for Linda.

Yet in her secret heart she was fearful that it might indeed have been the case; for she imagined that such a love as Linda's would never spring up without having been caused by a love still more powerful, however well concealed in the other person. But she fancied it would be of importance to her son's happiness, as well as to Linda's, that she should have no suspicion of this,--therefore Mrs. Grant dissembled her real thoughts.'Now that you know all,' said Linda, 'tell me whether I am right in having said nothing of this to John?'Mrs. Grant considered deeply for a few moments, and then said, 'I do not think he would quite enter into your feelings, and--and--besides, you must often have felt there was nothing to tell. No, I think it would perplex and pain him uselessly; only promise me one thing--if you should ever meet the person again, or be thrown much in his society, then tell John at once. I see you would, so we will say no more of this.' And Mrs. Grant pressed Linda to her heart with a sort of compassionate tenderness and energetic love that seemed endeavouring to compensate, in some degree, for her daughter-in-law's misfortune, as she kissed away the tears from Linda's cheeks.'Now, as to your want of faith--for, after all that is the real cause of your want of happiness,--I think it may, in some measure, have been caused by your never having met with a mind sufficiently superior, to influence your own.''Oh yes, I have; besides, that was no excuse. There was Susan Barton, and--''And his was, no doubt,' said Mrs. Grant, with a smile at her hesitation. 'But I am not sure Miss Barton's may have been superior to yours

by nature. Education--perhaps self-education,--adversity, and time--for she must be three times your age,--may have rendered her now superior. But she was probably, not your master spirit.''I think you are.''No, do not mistake me--I am nothing; but I am under the influence of the Bible, and its infinite 'power is most manifest in weakness.' I have the 'treasure in an earthen vessel;' but your misfortune was, that having found a master spirit--a person to whom you could really look up--you then vowed solemnly to love, honour, and obey one who, in point of intellect, is inferior.''Oh, but John is infinitely my superior,' said Linda'That may be, in point of goodness,' said Mrs. Grant, 'in the same way that you call me superior,--because he is a Christian; but still, he cannot fully understand you,--not even so well as I do; and, on some points, there can be no sympathy, and without that, no real love. But with regard to faith,' continued Mrs. Grant, 'I suppose you have read everything that has been written upon the subject, and that you have studied the creed of every nation under the sun, from all ages. You smile at my discernment, but it is easy to see that a mind like yours must try to acquire everything  that can be learnt, and, above all, that vital knowledge which I see you pant after without being able to grasp. You were quite right so far; now tell me, is there any better guide than scripture anywhere? have any words ever been written which evince a more divine origin--which inculcate more perfect precepts?''Certainly not; but that does not quite prove their inspiration.''You have tried to prove too much, without remembering how much there is all around which no one can comprehend. You forget that this would be no longer a state of probation, of choice between good and evil, if all were seen as plainly as the sun in the firmament. But enough is disclosed for the happiness and salvation of each one of us, if we will but accept it in humility. The cloud of witnesses by which we are encompassed in nature speak to us, and prove to us a good and universal Maker, chiefly because we cannot comprehend them. They force us to acknowledge our ignorance,--they oblige us to bow down to the mystery which we cannot fathom. In trying to prove all clearly, you have also forgotten that because it is more difficult to believe what we do not see, so we are promised a special blessing if we do so 'Blessed are those who have not seen and yet have believed.' And even though you may not acknowledge the inspired authority of the scriptures, still you must feel that faith is blessed--You will in time also feel that still more blessed are those who, when, like you, they can see more deeply into what is hidden to duller intelligences, can almost discover the secrets of philosophy, and penetrate into the most subtile recesses of the human mind-still more blessed are these if, laying aside all their wisdom, they are content to become as little children, and, acknowledging their own ignorance, bow down in humility to try and see the Hand that made everything. More glorious still will be this sight ft you--for them--than for duller and weaker spirits, when you will see it face to face, even in thin world, no longer as in a glass, darkly.'It is the internal evidence of scripture which

is so valuable,' continued Mrs. Grant. 'When we once believe it with our hearts--with our desires, as it were (even although our blind intellects may still remain unconvinced), and when we put that belief in practice, making its precepts--love to God--the motive of our good actions, then it is that we begin to feel the wonderful 'inward witness' of truth that it tells us of,--then we begin to understand that text, which seems such a paradox to our reason,--'Whosoever believeth on the Son of God hath the witness in himself.' Then it is that we begin to find that the religion of Jesus must be divine--must have emanated from the God who made man, because this is alone the religion which exactly fits into all the vacancies of man's soul, which alone can supply all the varied wants his nature feels, which alone can be his support when all other comfort fails, and indeed shines with the most wonderful brightness and glory in the darkest night of his adversity.''But this very adversity you speak of,' said Linda, 'the origin of evil, puzzles me so. Why, oh why were we placed in this sad and suffering world,--why is there such intense and varied misery around?''If the origin of moral evil, or sin, be your difficulty, then, indeed, you must be content be ignorant. It is one of the trials of our fallen condition, that those things which our blinded and finite intellects cannot comprehend, are hidden from  us, while we remain in this world of probation; but there is surely enough disclosed to us of the love and wisdom of our Heavenly Father, to enable us 'to take on trust a little while' those things which are now hard to understand.  And this much we are told, that

we were placed here, in this dark world, to exercise free-will--to enable us to choose the good and avoid the bad; to prove who among us are worthy to enter into rest; to give us the chance of obtaining a greater and more eternal weight of glory. As Moses told the Israelites, so I say to you--'God has led us through the great and terrible wilderness of this world, wherein are fiery serpents, and scorpions, and drought, in order that he might humble us--that he might prove us, whether we would walk in his laws or no; whether we might be worthy to enter into the promised land.''Moreover,' continued Mrs. Grant, 'with regard to yourself one great reason of the difficulty you find in attaining faith is, that you have placed yourself in a position of useless unhappiness by violating the natural feelings of the heart, in marrying one person while you loved another. Any one who does this must be miserable, and therefore must have more difficulty in believing in the goodness of the Creator. This must be the case with all miseries brought on ourselves by our own passions or errors. The question you are asking yourself continually is--why was I born to such misery? Whereas, if you had not married, you could then have continued to think of the person to whom your heart was really given, instead of having converted this thought into a crime. You have, besides, inflicted on yourself the miseries of remorse, for not loving John as you wished to love him--as you think he ought to be loved, and the more you admire his fine qualities, the greater your remorse becomes. But all this is only caused by your having placed yourself, as I said before, in a false position; for he is not the

sort of person who would naturally excite and rivet all the feelings of your powerful nature. I do not say all this reproach you, but only to show the difficulty you must experience from having contracted such a long habit of unbelief. If you had truly believed in the goodness of God, you would not have married John; but you entered into the most solemn engagement of life without a prayer for guidance, without even imploring a blessing on your union ; and this habitual disbelief cannot be cured in a short time--in fact, you may be liable to its recurrence; it may be a disease, a thorn in the flesh, a besetting sin, all through your life. But, to return to your question:--Even out of this great complaint of yours springs another internal evidence of the truth of Christianity. The very misery we feel, the dissatisfaction we have in our present state, our incessant craving for more good, shows that we were not intended for this fallen condition.''Yes,' said Linda; 'there is nothing so mysterious as that--that we should never get accustomed to our lives, or reconciled to our lot in this world.''It is only mysterious if we reject the explanation scripture gives us of its cause. But, to say a few word upon another meaning of your question, which I have not yet noticed:--If the contemplation of mental or physical sufferings frighten you, there many considerations which are very comforting. You are only staggered or frightened at them, because you cannot see the original sins that led to these sufferings; nor the great and particular good that is to come from them; nor can you yet see the compensation there is for most

misfortune and pain, even in this present evil world. All things are in a degree equally balanced. When you see people miserable, you are inclined to ask, 'Who will show us any good?' Yet, as you look deeper below the surface, you will see that almost every one has their 'Compensation ;' that, in fact, there is no actual downright unmitigated misery in this world, except that entailed by guilt and the sufferings of unrepentant remorse. There is no real sorrow, but being separated from God; there is no real darkness or loneliness, but that of being hidden from the light of his countenance. There are those who are reckoned the most prosperous, and yet are, as you well know, the most unhappy. There is yourself, to begin with: anybody looking at your fate, your talents, your beauty, would say you must be the happiest person alive; and yet, my poor Linda, I well know this is not the case--although I trust it will be so ere long. Then, look at that poor suffering Peggy Campbell, confined to her bed for seven years; with a drunken husband and worthless daughter; yet you see what real happiness she enjoys.''Yes, I have often envied her faith,' said Linda, 'and the hope that beams in her poor sunken eyes, and seems to fill all her wretched cottage with a sunshine of joy. And all that you say about compensations is quite true,--though I only now begin really to see it. When I was a child I could not bear to read history, because I saw that so many people were always unhappy: but I see now that history can only describe the outside,--the external appearance of past events: and cannot tell us the secret story of any heart.  See how prosperous,

happy-looking, Lady Rochford is;--no one surely would suspect that she has secret sorrows, from which she in vain tries to fly.'
'There is one argument,' said Mrs. Grant, 'which I must just slightly touch upon, before we go up to dress for dinner.--I wonder it has never occurred to you, and to a person of your intense capacity for loving,--who is so made up of affection,--it must be, I should think, quite irresistible. Would the love inspired by even the chosen of your heart,--would even his, or what you feel for him, satisfy the longing you must have to adore something more perfect still?''Perhaps not; and what you said is also true about my having placed myself in a false position; for when I think of the possibility of loving him, faith in scripture seems then easy to my mind. I then get into a sort of harmonious frame, and can contemplate with rapture the Divine Being that formed him. But all this is wrong--it must be wrong,' continued Linda, after a pause; 'for I ought to be able to believe quite independent of his image. The fault must be that I am inclined to adore a creature more than the Creator.''Yes, this must be guarded against, particularly as it arises from the blind mistrust that prevents you from perceiving that all the excellences you love in this friend of your childhood can be at best but the imperfect reflex of the perfections of the Being who created him, and that this Supreme Being, who claims your best affections--who is saying, my child, 'give me thine heart,' has perhaps permitted this separation from the chosen of your youth, lest you should make him the idol of your worship. And if even your young love had been prosperous, and that your two hearts had been

united, you would have been restless and unsatisfied, did you fail in the love of God. There are depths and vacuums, as I said before, in the human heart, believe me, which He alone can fill--for they are infinite. Still, as you have grown up from childhood with a sort of veneration as well as love for this person, I do not think you should so completely banish his image, which, in your mind, is connected with all that is good, and holy, and pure. You must try and learn to regard him as your friend--if he is, indeed, as you say, so worthy. It may be difficult,' continued Mrs. Grant, when she saw Linda seemed alarmed; 'and, my darling child, you have no doubt been right as yet to banish his image; still in time I do not despair of your being able to look upon him as you ought; and now that you have spoken to me, a weight will be removed from your mind, and your daily course will become, I trust, less difficult.'It was the greatest possible advantage to Linda that the barrier of reserve was at length broken down; and after this conversation with Mrs. Grant, she was gradually enabled to attain through her assistance, and the daily study of scripture, that true and fervent faith, to which she had so long been an alien.CHAPTER XX.
PRIDE.MISS BARTON often accompanied Julia Seaton in her walks through the environs of the old town, hut she had not made much progress in obtaining her confidence. She gradually succeeded, however, in awakening Julia's interest about some of the curious remains of ancient buildings, and they sometimes started on exploring expeditions, with old histories and plans of the edifices under their arms.The great defect in Julia's education, as it is in that given by many well-meaning serious parents, was the effect it had in narrowing the circle of her interest. In the fear of making children too learned or accomplished, an inquiring and energetic mind is often curbed and crushed until a feeling of listless indifference is produced.Mr. Seaton had often endeavoured to remedy this evil, but it was very difficult to interfere with his wife's and governess's views; for Miss Jolliffe was quite convinced that it was unnecessary any young ladies should have more knowledge than she herself possessed,--so that not much could be done; and the consequence was, that from want of some interesting employment, Julia's active mind and lively imagination had been depressed, and she took little interest in anything.'We are going to make an expedition next Thursday,' she said one day to Miss Barton; 'we are going to spend the morning with poor Laura, and see the Clanvilles before they go abroad; and papa told me to ask whether you would kindly accompany us  Laura would be enchanted to see you, and so would Lady Theresa Aylmer; for Laura tells me she has been raving about you ever since you were so kind as to let her see you one day; and they both envy my delightful privilege of walking with you sometimes.''It is indeed very kind,' she continued; 'yes, I often feel so ungrateful for not valuing it more than I do,' she said, with a softened look.'You would not have tolerated me at all last year,' said Miss Barton, with a smile; 'so I ought to be grateful to you, and--''Ah, no! I am a most ungrateful creature,' said Julia, with a melancholy smile. 'But you will drive with us to Harting, will you not?--it will be very pleasant, for there will be only dear papa and little Margaret; and Laura and her children will all be very pleased to have papa with them, that it will make us quite happy only to see their faces. And Margaret, too--it will be such a holiday for her; the poor little thing just now told me she dreamt of it all last night. Poor child! they are all kept so strict, that they seldom have any kind of holiday. Well, you will come with us, I see; so I may tell papa, and I know it will make his day of enjoyment quite complete.''Yes; I shall be very glad to go and see your dear sister, and Lady Theresa, for she seems a very interesting girl.''Yes; Lady Theresa is an amiable little thing,

though rather weak,' said Julia, with somewhat of her usual contemptuous expression.
'I do not think she is weak,' said Miss Barton, quickly; 'for I feel sure she possesses the true Christian humility that mistrusts its own power, and therefore seeks for strength from above. I think she is less likely to be led away, to act contrary to what she believes right, than most people. It is the proud natures, those who feel conscious of power, who think they can stand, and have not learnt the weakness of all human resolutions,--those are the persons likely to fall--to act in a weak manner.'
'Perhaps you are right,' said Julia, with a thoughtful look.
They walked for some time in silence, and then Miss Barton said,--
'I heard a report mentioned by several people which I should be sorry should reach your father's ears--for I know he has a particular objection to the gentleman. It is said that Mr. Randal has been endeavouring to obtain your affection.'
'Some idle gossip of the old maids here, I suppose,' said Julia, with a contemptuous look, and an effort to appear unconcerned.
'No, it is not any old maid's gossip,' said Miss Barton, laughing good-humouredly; 'nor my invention; but it was mentioned in several letters I had from friends in London. I have heard that Mr. Randal appears to be reformed, and has become intimate with your aunt, Lady Blenkinsop  I have also heard that he was so much hurt at your refusal of him, that he endeavored to console himself by making up to poor dear Mrs. Delamere; and since Linda's marriage her--'
'I am sure that is not the case,' said Julia, with

indignant impetuosity. 'I am sure he could never--besides, you know he was in love with Linda; and I cannot help thinking that she loved him, and that was the reason she refused so many great matches. I can never believe she did not, though she assured me of it herself.''Then you have told her of your--of--that Mr. Randal has made advances to you?''Yes--no,--there was nothing to tell,' said Julia, proudly; 'nothing at all.''Yet I am told he is such a fascinating person, and has won so many hearts, that I do not wonder at the report, particularly when he had many opportunities of meeting you. But I see you are annoyed with me for mentioning it, Miss Seaton, so I will never again recur to the subject; only I think it right to implore you to consider, whether it would not be acting more kindly towards your father if you were to speak to him about it yourself  For I am much afraid that if what has reached me, is said to him by any of his acquaintances, it would cause him extreme sorrow and annoyance. When he mentioned to me that he had met Mr. Randal at the wedding breakfast, he expressed such extreme dislike, even horror of his character; and was so painfully excited on finding that he was at all tolerated in society, that I have been quite unhappy ever since;--for I had even then heard something of Mr. Randal's designs upon you; though I know it would break your father's heart if--''Of course I would not break my father's heart; of course I would sacrifice my own happiness, and give up everything that could make this life bearable; of course I would rather die a thousand times than disappoint my dear father,' said Julia,

with a proud determination and flashing eye that made Miss Barton tremble with fear for her. 'Of course I could not be so mean, so despicable, so utterly lost to all considerations of duty, as to marry against my father's consent.''Then why not tell him of this report; tell him the truth, whatever it is, without fear or reserve. I am sure you do not really know your father; you do not know how he longs to obtain your love and confidence; how solitary he feels; how little sympathy he meets with. Oh, if you would but confide in him--in a father who is longing to take you to his heart, to make you the depository of all his beautiful thoughts and feelings,--a father who could help you to know yourself--to act in  the manner most likely to secure your own happiness,--for he has passed through all such struggles; his nature is proud, like yours.''Oh! don't say so; my dear father has no pride; he never does wrong; he never gives way to bad temper.''Because he sought strength from above, and has subdued his evil passions; but the labour it has cost him will make him lenient to your failings, and enable him to help you. Look well at his countenance, and you will see there is often, the same haughty look as in your own. Again let me implore you to confide in him.'
'There is nothing to confide--nothing, she said, with a dejected air; and as if exhausted by the impetuosity of her own denial, she added, pertly, 'So pray let there be an end of the subject.'Miss Barton saw it was useless to press her any more, so she began to talk of other things; but she could not repress a feeling of extreme sadness, for she saw that Julia was wilfully hardening her-

self, proudly depending on her own determination, and therefore the more likely to fall into the snares of such a designing man as Mr. Randal. She trembled for poor Mr. Seaton; his look of horror, when he had mentioned Randal, quite haunted her; and during the remainder of their walk she could scarcely think of anything else.Julia talked incessantly, and seemed to have resumed something of her old proud and contemptuous bearing. But as they parted at Miss Barton's door, her manner suddenly changed, and she said, as she warmly pressed Susan's hand, 'I know you meant kindly what you said, for I am sure you love my dear, dear father.'CHAPTER XXII.THE EXPEDITION.ON the following Thursday, Mr. Seaton and his daughters called, at an early hour, at Miss Barton's door. It was a lovely morning in the beginning of August, and little Margaret was in a state of exuberant high spirits that delighted her father, and in which the poor child could seldom indulge.  Then the sight of Miss Barton's face alone, she said, always made her quite happy; and to have her sitting opposite by her own dear father all day, and to feel that she might sing or laugh, or do anything she liked, without reproof, 'was too great happiness,' she repeated several times; 'for it makes one feel quite wicked. I do not deserve it, and everything is so very beautiful!' and for a moment a solemn expression came over her beaming countenance. Then, when they arrived near the village of Harting, and she stood up in papa's lap to catch the first glimpse of Laura's home, she exclaimed, 'There she is,--there's dear Laura herself, standing at the little gate, and Mr. Gray, and all the four children;' and Margaret could scarcely repress a scream of delight.'What a beautiful village! This is much prettier than Edington. And what a nice cottage, with such beautiful roses  But does Laura live there, papa? Why, it is not so large as old dame Jestico's.'And a vague idea that, in spite of its beauty, Laura could not be quite happy in the sort of

dwelling she had been accustomed to see the poor people live in, rather depressed her. But it was very delightful to kiss all the children, and they hugged her so warmly, and led her with delighted energy to see their own little gardens. But the room they afterwards went into was very low, and Margaret did not like the ugly beam that went across the ceiling, so that papa was obliged to stoop his head, and the windows were so small that one end of the room seemed almost dark. Yet Laura looked extremely happy; and the furniture was very neat and pretty; and there were a great many books on the tables and in long, low bookstands; so that it seemed cheerful, too, thought Margaret. But the child had so much taste for beauty and grandeur, and was always rather depressed at the sight of cottages, and always pitied much the unhappy lot of those who were obliged to live in them, that she could not help going up to Laura and saying, with somewhat of a sad look, 'I wish you lived in a large house, Laura.''We are all very happy here, darling,' said Laura, smiling; 'and I don't think any of these children would like to exchange this cottage for any other dwelling.''No,' said the eldest; 'I am always so glad to come back here, even from Clanville Court.''Well, if dear papa lived here, I suppose I should like it better than any other place in the world;--yes, I am sure I should,' said Margaret. 'And there is a beautiful view from this window, too,--and oh! what a steep hill, and such fine trees,--how I should like to climb up that hill.''We shall climb up there,' said little Mary, 'after dinner,--for that is the shortest way to Clanville Court. Oh, and we will show you such views,--

we can see the sea and all the ships from up there.''The dinner was delightful,' Margaret thought; for they were all together at the same table, in such a pretty little room. The walls were whitewashed only, but then they were almost covered with beautiful drawings--views of mountains, and rivers, and seas, 'and the skies of such lovely colours, as if the sun was setting,' thought Margaret--'or as if it always shone, and was never dark,' she said to her little neighbour,--'and ruins of castles, and such splendid towers and palaces, like what I have seen in the clouds on a very fine, happy evening.'They were some of Dudley's sketches, which he had made in Styria, and given Laura to help 'to paper her bare walls!' as he said. Then Margaret had never seen papa look so happy, or heard him talk so much at any meal before, as he did to Laura, who sat near him; and Miss Barton seemed to be listening with such interest to Mr. Gray, who sat near her, at the other end of the table,--'her eyes shine almost like papa's when he is very much pleased,' said Margaret, in a whisper, to Johnnie; and the children talked to each other without making a noise, or being reproved; and every one, even the little maid who waited on them, looked happy; and Margaret saw now that it did not 'signify the roof being so low, and the staircase so narrow and steep; for they all looked as if they never cried, and nobody was ever angry or naughty.'After dinner, they all walked to Clanville Court, and the children showed Margaret the way, and ran on a little before the others, now and then leaving the path to climb up some bank where the wild-flowers grew in luxuriant profusion, or to

look at the distant sea, and then run down in time to reach the others, and start on before them again. But Margaret liked to run back to papa very often, and take his hand and see him look with such delight on the extensive view.Then they came up to a group of beeches, the largest trees Margaret had ever seen, and then an avenue; and at the end of it they saw Clanville Court.'There,' said little Mary, 'is not that a beautiful house? did you ever see such a large one before?''It is beautiful I and I should like--oh, I should like papa to live there.''Why should you? I should not; for mamma says it is wrong to wish for anything; and if I could not be happy in a little room, or even out of doors, or even in a prison, I should not be happy in the most splendid palace that ever was built.''Does she? But I don't want it for myself, only for dear papa; but I will ask him, for I want never to do anything wrong if I could help it.''But we can't help it, unless we pray to God, and ask him to make us good.''And you pray very often, don't you?' said Margaret, stooping to kiss the rosy cheek.--'Oh, who is this pretty lady coming to us, and the others?''That is Lady Theresa, and that is her governess, Miss Swain, and the other is Lord Clanville.''Has she a governess still, poor lady?' inquired Margaret; and she felt a sort of cloud come over her. But her apprehensions were soon dispelled; for Lady Theresa and Miss Swain greeted them all with such joyful kindness, that Margaret felt quite re-assured, and continued to enjoy the sight of the beautiful garden and peacocks.Then they went through a large open window into such a beautiful room. She had never seen anything like it before,--so full of lovely things, such pictures, and statues, and china vases; and she thought it would take a whole year to look at everything in it. She was on the point of wishing she lived there, but remembered what little Mary had said, so she only remarked, when Lady Theresa next spoke to her,--'I am so glad you have such a beautiful place to live in.''It is very delightful,' said Lady Theresa; 'but I believe I am too fond of it, for I am quite miserable at the idea of going away to-morrow; and we shall not be here again for a long, long time,' she added, with a sad smile.'But I hope we shall come back all the better,' said Miss Swain, who apprehended the journey so fearfully, that she was obliged constantly to bring to her recollection that it was necessary for Theresa's health.In those days travelling on the continent was a much more serious affair than it is now, and the Clanville family were particularly primitive;--so they had all the greatest dread of the unknown evils they were to encounter. Three of the old servants, who were to accompany them, had extreme fear lest they should be obliged to eat frogs or snails, or else be starved, and regarded themselves as a sort of martyrs; while those who were to remain at home indulged themselves in all sorts of evil prognostications, and shook their heads in a kind of vague dismay--a mixture of jealousy, and self-congratulation at the evils they would escape.The apprehensions of the whole family were rather increased than diminished by the arrival of

a fine gentleman courier, who had been hired by a friend of Lord Clanville's for them.Francesco Luini was an Italian, who spoke very little English, and who treated their half-expressed fears with sovereign contempt. He had passed the greater part of his life as courier, and travelled over Europe and the Holy Land several times; and, like many such, he valued his 'padrones' generally according to the number of times they had been abroad, and their experience in continental travelling.  To have found tre maestri et tre servitori who had never crossed the sea before, inspired him  with feelings of unusual triumph at his own acquirements in the art of travelling.He was in the main a good-natured man, but his inclination for fun could not help being aroused at their fears; and he rather exaggerated the dangers of the tour to his inexperienced maestri, till Miss Swain, who felt the extreme responsibility of the undertaking, became so frightened, that she most gladly acceded to the proposal of Miss Hopkins, an old acquaintance of hers, who had been several times abroad, and was going to Italy to join her sister, and who now offered to accompany them as far as Spa.So Miss Hopkins had arrived the night before, and had put the house into a tremendous state of commotion, by advising them to take leather sheets, teakettles, and teapots, and no end of things,--maintaining that all the beds were sure to be damp, and that they would never get a drop of good tea, unless they took a large supply. She also objected to the route they had fixed on from Dover to Calais, and then to Antwerp. It was a most useless waste of travelling, she said, and

much better to cross at once from London to Ostend (Miss Hopkins was never sea-sick). So the maps had been studied all the morning, and poor Lord Clanville was in earnest consultation with the courier when the Seaton party arrived.
However, great as were their terrors of bad inns and damp beds, by land, which Miss Hopkins assured them they would find between Calais and Liege, they all dreaded the terrors of the night at sea still more, so they resolved to abide by their original determination.They were consequently much comforted by Mr. Seaton's assurance that it would be a wiser plan. He had once travelled that very road, and spoke in such raptures of the view from the Hotel at Cassel, and the beautiful drive to Antwerp, that they all began to feel much happier about their prospects.'You will probably meet Mrs. Seaton's brother, Sir James St. Lawrence, at Spa,' said Mr. Seaton. 'He was sent there to drink the waters; but I am afraid they have not, as yet, done him much good. Poor man, I fear he must be very lonely.''It is his own fault,' said Julia; 'he is so shy he never will see any one.''Then we are not likely to become acquainted with him, I suppose?' said Lord Clanville.'I am afraid not, said Mr. Seaton; 'and it is a great pity, poor man, for he is very old and infirm; and it is quite sad that he has no companion--no one but his servants  I hope you will try. to see him, and be introduced to him, if possible.''Oh, when Dudley comes to us,' said Lady Theresa, 'I dare say Sir James St. Lawrence will submit to see him; for I never yet saw a shy person

that Dudley did not contrive to cure,--he always makes them feel comfortable. When he is near I never suffer from shyness, which is now often very painful.''I hope, indeed, Mr. Aylmer may succeed,' said Mr. Seaton; 'and it would be very kind if he will take some trouble about it. The poor old man has thought but little of religion, and I feel rather a compunction as to his state; for he wanted to have Julia to live with him entirely, and it does almost seem ungrateful in me to refuse, as he promised to leave her all his large fortune: but I thought it a dangerous position for a young girl, and that she could not do him much good,' he added in a low tone, with a sigh. 'But I shall really feel very grateful if your brother will exercise his talents in dispelling Sir James's shyness; and perhaps you would kindly write and tell me how he is, now and then,' he said, turning to Lady Theresa, who gladly promised to comply with his wishes.'And you will tell us, I hope, something of your own adventures,' said Miss Barton; 'for I expect to hear that you enjoy the tour still more from having rather feared its difficulties.'CHAPTER XXIII.
THE OLD FAMILY PLACE.'AH! what a pretty picture--what a darling face,--who is this? I know it, and can't remember,' said little Margaret, as she looked at the likeness of a young girl who appeared about twelve years old.'That is Linda, when she was a child, sketched by my brother Dudley,' said Lady Theresa. 'He thought it very bad, for it was his first attempt at likenesses. It resembles her still; and poor Mrs. Delamere was so pleased with it when she was here, that she used to sit opposite to it all the morning. Poor Mrs. Delamere,' she continued, turning to Julia,--'I never saw any one so wretched as she was at being parted from her daughter. Nothing we could do or say amused her at all; and she only counted the days and hours till that one arrived which was fixed for her departure for Scotland, to join them at Craggie Castle  She is very happy now: we felt it quite a relief to get a letter from her, written in high spirits,--so full of Linda's happiness, and the beautiful old castle and fine scenery.''Yes, Linda does really seem very happy. I had a most satisfactory letter from her,' said Miss Barton, 'written the day after her mother's arrival. Is that a portrait of your youngest brother?' she inquired of Lady Theresa.'Yes, it is intended for him; but even Sir Thomas Lawrence could not give his beautiful expression, and we scarcely like the picture.'Yet it was one of the most interesting faces Miss Barton had ever seen; and as she gazed on the fine brow, where power and intellect of the highest order seemed to reign, the dark eyes so full of faith and hope, the unmistakeable air of genius in the whole contour of the head and attitude of the figure, she involuntarily thought of Linda with a feeling of blank regret; and the words she had just uttered, 'Linda does seem really happy,' sounded like a jarring discord in her ears, and a voice seemed to say, 'It is impossible!'They then proceeded to some of the other rooms, which contained a choice collection of pictures by old masters. It had been made by the Earl's grandfather, in the days when the property was four times as large as it was now; and both Lord Clanville and Dudley often had scruples as to the expediency of keeping such a valuable collection, and that so many thousands a year should be sunk in a luxury that might be considered comparatively useless; and because they both admired and loved the pictures so intensely, they felt the more scruple at keeping them.Miss Barton was a great admirer of paintings, and had never seen so fine a collection; and she enjoyed also watching the effect of them on little Margaret's countenance, and hearing her remarks, which gave evidence of a taste for beauty wonderfully developed for so young a child.  When looking at a picture of Hobbema's, she exclaimed, 'Oh! I can smell all the flowers and the breath of the cows; and don't you fancy you hear the water rushing down that bank? Oh I how like papa,' she said, as they came to St John, by Guido.'How happy you must be,' said Miss Barton to

Lady Theresa, 'to live constantly among such pictures.''Only too happy,' she answered, with a sigh; 'for I tremble always lest they should be sold, for my brothers think it wrong to keep such immense sums on the walls for our amusement, when the poor are in distress, and even part of this house is falling down for want of repair.''But can't the poor people look at them too?' inquired Margaret. 'And would it not make them very unhappy if these beautiful pictures were to be taken away from here?''I am afraid they would not care much,' said Lady Theresa, with a smile; 'and yet Dudley has often said that if the poor people were properly educated, they would enjoy the sight of them as much as we do. But I am afraid you will be tired, dear Miss Barton, of standing so long, and walking through all these rooms. The tea is ready now in the alcove, at the end of the south terrace.  I thought the children would enjoy having it out of doors; and the view is lovely from thence on such an evening as this.After a few more lingering looks of admiration at the works of art, they proceeded to the terrace, where they already found Miss Swain and the rest of the party.Little Margaret clapped her hands with delight, for she had never seen such an extensive view before. 'I like this even better than the pictures,' she whispered to Miss Barton; 'and papa's face is the most beautiful of all, as he looks now, so very, very happy;--is it not, dear Miss Barton?''It is, indeed,' thought Miss Barton, as she saw the look of intense happiness that beamed on his fine features as he watched the gambols of his

grandchildren and Margaret; but she trembled to think what a fearful sword was hanging over his head.She had written to inform Laura of her failure in obtaining Julia's confidence: she saw that the anxious sister had been watching for an opportunity all day to speak with her on the subject. As soon as they saw Julia engaged in conversation with Lady Theresa and her brother, Miss Barton gladly acceded to Laura's proposal to show her some flowers in the conservatory.'I almost think it advisable you should speak to Mr. Seaton, and tell him the report you have heard,' said Miss Barton; 'for I sometimes fancy that if he knew the exact state of the case, he might be able to influence poor Julia. She is certainly somewhat softened since last year.''She is very much changed," said Laura; 'and nothing shows it to me more than her having consented to come and spend a few days with me. Formerly, nothing would have induced her, I believe, even to enter our poor cottage. The fact is, she is somewhat humbled by the discovery that she has become (as I fear) attached to a person she cannot help seeing is unworthy. But, if it were possible, I wish to spare my poor father the knowledge of this sad trial; and as Julia has now no opportunities for meeting Mr. Randal, I trust that in time-- Ah, you have no such hope, I see!''The feeling must be very deep, I fear, however much Julia may blind herself to it.''Well, she has promised to come next week, and I shall be able to judge whether my poor father must be informed of it  His feelings are so acute, and he has had so many trials;, and though he looks well, yet his health is not t all strong.

If he suspected her affections were really given to such a man, he would scarcely survive the discovery.'They were interrupted by little Margaret, who had been sent to tell them the carriage was at the door, and her father was afraid they must go, as it was getting late. Poor little Margaret could not restrain her tears as she bade adieu to Laura and the dear children, and remembered that the happy day was nearly over.'It is very wrong of me--very wrong to cry, because I have been very happy, and you were all so kind. That is, indeed, a beautiful house,' added little Margaret, as they drove off; 'but I know now I was wrong to wish you had it, dear papa  I feel quite ungrateful, and that I have broken the tenth commandment,' she added, as the tears started to her eyes. 'I wish it did not make me so happy to be in beautiful rooms,' she continued, with a look of regret towards Laura's cottage. 'I often dream of large rooms with high carved ceilings, like those at the palace of Oxminster, and I feel so happy; and then when I wake I can't help being disappointed. It must be very foolish though, for the Misses Vernon, who live in that beautiful palace, don't look half so happy as Laura's children.''It is all very well now,' said Julia, 'but what are they all to do when they grow up. Poor Laura, I wonder how she can look so happy. I am sure I should be miserable if I lived in that atom of a cottage.''It would not suit you at all, I know, dear Julia,' said her father; 'and thank God I hope you will never be obliged to live in a cottage; but I trust you will make a good use of the fortune which is likely to fall to your share. It is a great respon-

sibility,' he continued, with a sad look, 'very great;' and as he gazed on the proud features and unsubdued expression of his beautiful daughter, and remembered how strong and unruly were her passions, how uneducated her mind and feelings, a pang of dread and anguish came over him. He put up an anxious prayer that she might be softened and improved, and then turned for consolation to look on the sunny face of little Margaret, who sat near.There was a strong likeness between the features of the two sisters, but the expression was so different, as at times to prevent any resemblance between them. Yet many of their natural qualities were alike. There was the same passion for beauty and grandeur, which is often the case with minds of acute feeling, or rather those whose conscience is almost morbidly sensitive, like that of Mr. Seaton and his youngest daughter. There is something of disease in a person whose conscience is so painfully alive to self-reproach as that of Mr. Seaton;--such a person seems to require a more than usual exemption from the cares and roughnesses of life, for them to thrive at all in this hard world. The difference outward circumstances make to them is so much greater than to less sensitive natures, that they seem either transported to Paradise or Purgatory. In such natures habit seems of no avail; for I know some who lived all the early part of their lives in an ugly country, and in bare, unadorned rooms, like those of Mrs. Seaton, who were more keenly alive to beauty, and whose happiness seemed to depend more on being surrounded by it, than any other persons I ever saw.Mr. Seaton was well aware of his own extreme admiration for all that is beautiful in nature and

excellent in art; and that very consciousness had been one of the many motives which made him refuse the bishopric of Oxminster. Had he accepted it, his dwelling would then have been in that very palace at Farnley, which his little Margaret admired so much; and he could scarcely avoid a sigh of regret when he remembered that he could not give his darling such a dwelling,--regret, not because he had refused the bishopric, but because he had attained so little mastery over his own infirmities as to have obliged him to refuse, and thus deprive her of the enjoyment of the grandeur and beauty she loved. As he looked on her face, beaming as it was with affection and the indications of every good feeling, he could scarcely repress a wish that Sir James St. Lawrence had fixed on her as his heiress instead of Julia; but he tried to think all was for the best, and to bow down in humility to that inscrutable Wisdom which is sometimes so difficult to submit to, in this perplexing world.Miss Barton was also watching the countenances of the two sisters who sat opposite; and she too could not help regretting that it was not Margaret instead of Julia who was to be the great heiress; for little Margaret was the sort of being who seemed to require no trials, to have no need of the 'bit and bridle;' or perhaps it was, that in infancy she had already received the discipline she required, and that the severe and harsh corrections of her mother and Miss Jolliffe, tempered by the mild admonitions and kindness of her father, had, in her case, been exactly what she required. So mysterious and beyond all calculation is education that the training which seemed to have had such an injurious effect in fostering the pride and self-

conceit of Julia and all the other children, in her case should apparently have been the means of developing all her good qualities.'Laura's children are so wonderfully well trained, one could scarcely tell what their nature had been,' said Mr. Seaton.  It is strange how she contrives to educate them so well; yet, if they were not destined to be very poor, utterly penniless, I should almost regret it. I am afraid they can have no originality.'The same thought struck me,' said Miss Barton; 'but I feel sure she is right; originality is often inconvenient when persons have really to earn their daily bread. Self-educated characters are generally the most interesting,--I mean those whose natural qualities have been uncontrolled in childhood; but many precious years must thus be lost, and the contest they have to encounter between the good and evil within them, lasts often till the end of life.''Yet I wonder that you should think originality inconvenient; for surely, in your own case, it has been of the greatest use,' said Mr. Seaton.'Not so much as you imagine. My first work, which was the most original I have composed, went the round of all the London publishers. For three long years no one would have anything to say to it; and, at last, I was obliged to sell the copyright for 50£.''But it was so successful, I heard, that the publisher made his fortune by it.''Yes, I am very thankful to say it was; and the publisher gave me 200£., and offered me 500£. for my next work. But I did not then want money nearly so much as during the three unfortunate years of suspense. Yet the weary waiting and the

hope deferred, prevented my going out as governess, or taking pupils, or doing something which might have been of some positive and permanent use, in the event of our fortune being irretrievably lost.''It must have been a sad and anxious time,' said Mr. Seaton.'It was, indeed; and my poor manuscript was burnt in a fire at one of the publishers', and I had no other copy.''And you actually wrote it again?--what wonderful perseverance! and it must have occurred in the midst of all your troubles about your brother;--and when your sister, too, lost the use of her limbs,' added he, in a tone of compassion; while his eyes beamed with sympathy and admiration.'I required the trials,' said Miss Barton: 'I have been much happier since, than I ever was before.'It was late before they reached the old town of W--, and a bright moon illumined the beautiful cathedral, and cast dark masses of shade across the Close.Little Margaret had never been out so late before, and she gazed with admiration and surprise at the outlines of the towers and pinnacles, which seemed more clearly defined than even by day; but something of a feeling of awe was mingled with her delight, which made her cling closer to her father; and she whispered,--'Oh, I have been so happy--too happy, to-day; how I wish it would never end. But it will be like this in the next world, will it not, dear papa?--I shall be with you, close to you there, if I am good?'CHAPTER XXIV.
THE DANGEROUS MAN.IT was a dark, rainy morning, in the beginning of September, and the streets of London wore their most gloomy aspect,--a sort of day to make people cross; and it had that effect most decidedly on the temper of Mr. Randal, as he sat in his small lodging in Jermyn-street.His occupation, too, had not tended to raise his spirits, nor did he appear to be satisfied with the result of his labours, for a number of torn-up letters and papers lay on the table, while two half finished ones lay still before him. He impatiently pushed them away, then took up a Court Guide, and ran his eye, with an irritated look of ill-humour, down its pages, whilst he muttered:--'All those I have tried, and they will lend no more.--Ha! there's the Duke of Dartford,--fool that I was never to have thought of him before: and he is in town, too,--come up for his sister's marriage. I will go there instantly,--there will be time before my appointment in the City.'Mr. Randal rang the bell violently: it was answered by Louis, his French valet. 'Get a cab directly!' he said, with a gesture of impatience.'Yes, sare; but, if you please, dare is a woman at de door, wit' one child in her arm, and--''What do you mean?--run--go at once for a cab,--never mind any woman.''But wash am I to do wish her?--she will no

go away, and I was afraid to come and tell you before, as you say not to come in here on no 'count. So she wait and wait, and would not go without seeing you.' There was a malicious smile on the valet's face as he said this, which added to Mr. Randal's anger.'I know nothing of any woman,--tell her to go. Run for the cab.''Perhaps monsieur will tell her himself, while I go for it,' he said, proceeding to leave the room.'Who on earth can it be?' he muttered.'She look like an Italian,' said Louis, as if divining his thoughts, and his wish to discover who the person was;--'and the child is very handsome,--very like--'Randal rushed to the window, and looked down.--'Can it be--by Heavens, can it be Paulina?' he thought; and a feeling of dread and horror came over him.'Tell her I am out of town,--tell her--and give her this,' he added, taking out this purse; 'only--bid her go away at once,--and say I am out of-town.''And am I to give her dis from myself? Poor woman! she look so very miserable, and so t'in,' he muttered, as he left the room.In a few minutes, he returned with the purse in his hand.--'She threw it in my face, and talk so quick--so quick, and angry, dat I could not understand.''I cannot see her,' said Randal, with a look of despair; ' it is impossible.''No, never fear,--she is gone,' said Louis; 'but mais je crains que--she will do something dreadful--to herself,--I never saw such despair.--Ah, monDieu, mon Dieu, quell monde,' said Louis, as he proceeded to fulfil his master's order.'As if everything didn't go wrong enough before! here I am, utterly done up!--actually shunned by some of my friends,--tradespeople wont wait any longer! No money to be had,--not even from that fool Kilgrogan, since he married: and now, when I had put in such a good train these two marriages,--two large fortunes, and only to choose between them! There will be a blow-up if I can't get money to pay some of my most pressing debts; and then, this wretched Paulina,--if she is exasperated, she will expose the whole story of my past doings and folly, and thus prevent quite, either of these marriages.'And Randal almost began to hope that Louis's anticipations might be fulfilled, and that Paulina would 'do something to herself.'As he got into the cab, he looked up and down the street, fearing to see her; but there was no sign of any one. And then, for a moment, the recollection of what she had once been--of the summer when, at Sorrento, he had won her young heart, and she had fancied that he really loved her, caused a sort of pang of regret.But as soon as he drove up to the Duke of Dartford's magnificent house, all such recollections were banished in the pressing urgency of the present moment; and as he was shown into the library, his handsome face only looked more interesting than ever, from the trace of real melancholy left on it.'Mr. Randal,' said the good-humoured boy, as he turned from some parchments over which he had been looking,--'how come you in London in September? I thought such a fashionable person

as you, would not venture to be seen,--even if you had the misfortune to be passing through.''Business!' said Mr. Randal; 'and I am afraid I interrupt your Grace in something of the same employment,' he added, looking at the parchments.'Only my sister's marriage settlement, which my guardians wished me to look over. But it is very difficult to understand a word of it,' said the duke, pointing, with a bored look, towards the gigantic pages;--'every line seems like a repetition of the one before.'After a few moments' conversation on indifferent subjects, Mr. Randal touched upon the object of his visit; and ended with a pathetic account of his disappointment at Miss Delamere's refusal of his proposals.Here he had hit the right chord; for, at the mention of Miss Delamere, the duke, who had not appeared to be much interested by his discourse, suddenly became attentive.'I feel for you, indeed,' he said, with a sad look. 'I do not wonder at your being most miserably disappointed, for I confess I am also;--yes, I was enough to imagine she would tolerate me--a school-boy of eighteen to venture to aspire to a creature like her--and so I told her; but I shall never, never see any one I can love so well: and do you really think she loves that Mr. Grant?''It was Lady Rochford's doing,' said Randal, as he shrugged his shoulders, with a look of such firm conviction that the young duke implicitly believed him.
'Why, what could have been her motive?''To secure your Grace for one of her daughters,' said Randal; 'she knew that if Miss Delamere did not marry at once, you would prevail. Besides,

Lady Rochford hates me, too, and she was determined Linda should not marry me; but, on every account, you can well imagine it was a great disappointment to me. You know her father was a distant relation of mine; in fact, my grandfather ought to have succeeded to a great portion of the Delamere property, only it was left in the female line. So, as my parents always considered Miss Delamere would be my wife, I had actually reckoned upon her fortune to carry out some improvements I was wishing to make in my small property; so I endeavoured to improve some farms, and to try and benefit my poor tenants, and laid out a great deal of money last year upon the land.'There he had hit another right chord, although there was not a word of truth in what he said, as he did not possess a single acre of land.'I had seen a great deal of Miss Delamere before she came out,' continued Mr. Randal, 'and she certainly led me to expect, to hope; so, for every reason, the disappointment and embarrassment was dreadful.''I see,' said the duke, who, fortunately for his visitor, had not heard, or not attended to the report of Mr. Randal's dishonourable dealings; and with the generous impulse of youth and a large fortune, he was most anxious to relieve distress whenever it came before him in any shape. He now interpreted Randal's hesitation to be delicacy, and said,--'So you want a few hundreds? and I shall be most happy to supply you as far as my allowance will permit;--you know my guardians do not always give me as much as I should like.''Of course--of course,' said Randal; 'and I should not wish to--; but if you could lend me 300£, the obligation would, indeed, be very great;

and I shall be able to leave London, and go to my poor invalid sister, which I am most anxious to do,--but she is very poor, and I could not venture to hint--. I can never be sufficiently grateful to you,' he said, as he took the draught which the duke had written.'So that young duke, the richest man in England, actually would have married Linda,' thought Randal, as he drove off. 'How deeply she must have loved that confounded Dudley Aylmer;' and the feeling of animosity he had against him became at this thought even more bitter than it was before.He next drove to a dingy-looking house in the city, and inquired if Mr. Parke was at home. Randal was shown up into a small dark room, full of tin boxes, and a cunning-looking little man soon made his appearance.'Just in time, Mr. Randal, for I expect Mr. Dobson home this evening. Here, I have got the documents all ready to show you. This is the old Mr. Delamere's will, in which he leaves his daughter the Delamere property at her own disposal.'As Mr. Randal glanced over the parchment,--'6000£ a year, and to disappoint Linda's expectation,' thought he to himself; 'the revenge is sweet--it would be delightful to cheat her of her inheritance.  But perhaps, after all, she would scarcely feel it so much as to make it worth my while, if the other promises me more; besides, I shall have my revenge on her, and on Dudley, too,' he thought, with a bitter smile. 'Now I know her secret, they shall not escape me.'While Randal was ruminating, Mr. Parke began to get impatient, for his time was very precious. 'Now, I believe you wish to see the will of Sir James St. Lawrence?' he said, holding out another.Randal started from the long vista of dreams in which he had been indulging.'This leaves a clear ten thousand a year to his niece, Miss Julia Seaton,' he said, as he rapidly perused the document. 'And there is no danger of his altering it, do you think?''It was made two years ago; but he looked over it only two months since, to add some few legacies;--but he did not appear the least inclined to alter the settlement on Miss Seaton.''You saw him at the time?''Yes; I was with Mr. Dobson, and acted as one of the witnesses.''But he could make another will at any moment?''Certainly; only as he has always employed our firm, it is not likely he would do so without our knowledge.''And he was in bad health, then, was he?''Not expected to live more than a few months, I heard.'Randal pondered deeply for a moment, and examined the last date: '10th of August,--that was after Linda's marriage; and he might have heard of my acquaintance with Julia, though it was scarcely likely either, as he so seldom saw any one. It seems all safe; so I ought to decide on Julia.'Yet Randal could not repress a feeling of extreme regret at not being able to marry both the ladies, and secure their two fortunes.'Well, I will not longer trespass on your valuable time,' he said, taking out his pocket-book. 'Of course, not a word of my having seen the papers.''Of course not; it would be as much as my situation is worth, and a very great risk, indeed, I

have incurred; and only the great regard I have for your interest has induced me to--,' he said, as he eyed wistfully the pocket-book which Randal took out.'Well; here is an order for twenty pounds,' said Randal, carelessly handling the duke's cheque, so that it might meet Mr. Parke's eye.'Ha! you have a good friend, I see, there,--the richest peer in England. I wish you joy,' said Mr. Parke, with a malicious smile, as Randal took his leave.The rain had ceased; so Randal walked homeward. As he passed near London Bridge, his attention was arrested by a large mob, which had collected near the river.'Drowned--quite dead!' he heard one man who had come from the crowd say to another. 'Poor woman! so beautiful, and young, too--and a foreigner;--in distress, I suppose, and no friends.' Randal rushed towards the spot, and making his way with difficulty through the crowd, he beheld the apparently lifeless form of Paulina.  His own Paulina!--the beautiful girl--the pride of Sorrento, and the joy of her old parents' hearts; whose innocent heart he had won,-who had sacrificed her home, and all she loved best on earth, for his sake.She fled with him to Sicily, and there she had fancied herself happy in his love for a whole summer; but winter came, and his love grew cold,--and he left her alone, and about to become a mother, in a strange place!But the memory of her devoted love and transcendant beauty had often haunted his gayest hours; and among all the fair forms and winning smiles which met his gaze, a voice within him

seemed to say,--'Paulina is the most lovely still of all.'Yes--it was his own Paulina! but those eyes, whose splendid radiance had always beamed on him with all the fervid love of her passionate nature, were now closed for ever. The once rounded and glowing cheeks were sunken and hollow; the ruby lips, which painters had delighted to model, were now shrunk and pale; all told of suffering and despair long endured, and a misery too great to bear,--a loneliness without hope in this world, a dread of judgment in the next. All this sad story was plainly indicated in the touching expression of her still lovely features,--the despairing attitude of the beautiful figure, half covered as it was with the profusion of her black silken hair that reached down to her feet. She had sought for a cessation from agony--for rest.Randal turned away with a shudder,--perhaps his feelings of horror at that moment may almost have equalled what hers had been, when she attempted to commit suicide, in the acuteness of his regret, almost despair; for he had never loved any human being so well as Paulina, until he saw Linda.But now he stifled the feeling, for this was no time or place for its indulgence; and he felt conscious, too, of being watched. Looking quickly among the crowd, he saw a face that he well knew, but the instant he looked in that direction, the  man, who was dressed like a common artisan, quickly withdrew.Randal followed hastily; and as soon as he had gotten clear of the crowd, he called out, in the tone of energetic command and decision he so well knew how to assume, and which, on some minds, exercised a sort of electro-biological effect:'Stay, I have something to tell you to your advantage.-Stay--'The man turned cautiously round, still keeping at a little distance from Randal, and slightly touched his hat, with a cringing and hesitating air.'You need not be afraid,--you may depend on me.--Now, only listen,' he said, with an air of authority, as he beckoned him to follow. 'You need not fear that I shall betray you,--and I can even give you a little employment, by which you may earn fifty pounds.''Well, Master George,' said the stranger, 'there's no denying that you have me in your power; so, to oblige you, I'd undertake anything. Something about that woman, I suppose?' he said, with a knowing wink: 'for I see'd you know her.''No,' said Randal, sternly: 'I have nothing to do with her.' He then looked round to see if any one was watching them, and then hastily whispered a few words in the man's ear.'And who's to pay my expenses?''I will,--only be quick, he continued, as took out his purse--'Buy a dress, and make you self look as much like a courier as you can; the start at once by the steamer to Ostend, and if y can bring me the news two days before the post arrives, you shall have fifty pounds; but, mind, if you breathe a word to any one, I shall inform against you at once.''Agreed: I'll be off this very night-never fear.''And write by the post, if he is considered in danger: direct to my lodgings, the same as last year.' The man nodded, and walked quickly away.'That was a fortunate meeting,' thought Randal; 'and now to despatch my letter to Julia,--only just in time for the post,' he said, as he looked at his watch, and hurried through the dingy streets to his lodging.Randal's hopes were bright, for he felt confident of Julia's love; and he had now attained a certain knowledge of her future fortune. So, as he walked through the damp fog, he indulged in visions of future splendour and luxury. Yet a dark shade seemed to steal before it all,--and Julia's proud look and fair English beauty began to assume the ghastly shape of the drowned Paulina. The chilly air felt like the cold touch of death upon his brow; everything wore a funereal aspect, and he felt as if surrounded by graves.Perhaps the thought came across him that he, too, must die!--'And then?'--CHAPTER XXIV.CHARM.MISS BARTON was right in her anticipations that Lord Clanville and his sister would have a pleasant tour. They enjoyed it extremely, and so did Miss Swain; and even the blunders they all made in their attempts to talk in French and German only added to their amusement.They arrived at Spa without meeting with any misadventure, and the good old governess had the delight of seeing the spirits of her loved children,  as she called Lord Clanville as well as his sister, improve every day.  The morning after their arrival, they engaged lodgings  Before they left the hotel, Miss Swain, who had been gravely consulting her dictionary, asked the waiter to bringen sie mir das Schnabel; and after some delay and difficulty, they discovered that, instead of the 'bill,' she had asked for the 'beak or bill' of a bird!--and when their laughter had subsided, Lord Clanville bethought him of his promise to Mr. Seaton, and inquired for Sir James St. Lawrence.'I know him, perfectly,' said the waiter; 'he lodge here the first night, and he took the Renaud Haus,--but he never saw no person--he never speak to no man; and now, I hear he is very ill, and not expected to live.''Does he drink the waters?''Yes; and when you go down to the Sauvenir Spring, you will see him,--as I suppose the ladies and gentleman intend to drink the waters.'The next morning, they looked out with some curiosity among the numerous water drinkers; and Miss Swain was the first to discover a handsome, but very infirm old gentleman, who she felt sure was Sir James St. Lawrence,--and so he proved to be; and they felt much interest for him, for there was a touching expression of loneliness, and a look of quiet and patient suffering in his countenance.'What can we do?' said Lady Theresa, who longed to fulfil Mr. Seaton's wishes, and become acquainted with the poor old man. 'Could you not call on him?''I certainly will--this morning; but I suppose he will not see me.''Suppose you try and speak to him now,' said Miss Swain.'We will wait till to-morrow morning, and then, if I do not find him visible to-day at his house, we will try; but I think Theresa would do it best,' said Lord Clanville, who suffered as much from shyness as his sister. In the afternoon, Lord Clanville called at Sir James's lodging, but was told, as he expected, that Sir James never saw any visitors.So the next morning they determined to be very courageous, and attempt to speak when they met the old gentleman.After they had drank their glasses of water, they remained near the well, that they might endeavour to catch his eye as he drank his glass, and then Lord Clanville bowed, and attempted to speak.But poor Sir James started with such a look of terror, that he let his glass fall. Theresa tried to catch it, but she only succeeded in coming into sudden and violent contact with Sir James's arm.The poor man then looked as if he thought he was molested by thieves, and began feeling his pockets to ascertain that he had not been robbed. In vain Lord Clanville repeated, 'Mr. Seaton has-- Miss Julia Seaton desired me--to--a--'But the whole object of poor Sir James seemed to be to get away as quickly as possible, without producing a disturbance in the place, or having to summon the police; and at last he took out his purse, and held it before the dismayed Lord Clanville.'There,' he said; 'take as much as you like,--only leave me alone.'Theresa could scarcely help laughing, though she was much annoyed; and after they walked away, she said, 'I am afraid that even Dudley will not be able to succeed. How very sad, poor man; I am afraid he must be mad.''But still I think Mr. Aylmer will succeed in dispelling his shyness,' said Miss Swain.To their great delight Dudley arrived the next evening, and then everything in Spa or its neighbourhood seemed to acquire a new charm for them all.Without being particularly witty or brilliant--without doing anything apparently that would amuse or interest those around, Dudley had the rare power to charm. This faculty is sometimes exercised by some few favoured mortals all the more powerfully from the source of its power being concealed--from no one being able to discover what it is which captivates so deeply, and diffuses so much happiness on those who come within its influence. Yet it proceeds from genius--but genius purified and ennobled by the influ-

ence of true Christianity,--so imbued with love, with the largeness of Christian charity, as to harmonize and to sympathize with the most opposite shades of character;--a genius which, instinctively as it were, becomes 'all things to all men,'--is always 'a cheerful giver,' and incessantly cultivates 'whatsoever things are lovely.'Though wonderfully similar to Linda in powers and capacity, he was infinitely her superior in development and the attainment of true faith, and consequently he had a much greater power to charm.Lord Clanville and his sister told Dudley of the failure of their attempts to make acquaintance with poor Sir James St. Lawrence; and also gave him an account of Mr. Seaton's anxiety about him, and of Laura's fears lest his favourite niece and heiress, Julia, had been captivated by the fortune-hunting Mr. Randal.'The handsomest man I ever saw,' said Dudley. 'I met him the night before I left London; and I was sure he had some motive for watching me and also Lady Rochford. Well, I will make an attempt to-morrow morning; but do not let Sir James see any of you, for the poor man has probably found out his mistake, and must be deeply ashamed of himself.'So they arranged to go half an hour later; and Dudley was to be there at the usual time.But they were all three very impatient to hear the result, and the half-hour consequently seemed very long.At last the clock struck eight, and they proceeded towards the well.'There is Sir James St. Lawrence--and he is actually leaning on Dudley's arm,' exclaimed

Theresa; 'but we had better not go near them.' So they turned up another walk, from whence they were able to see Sir James, still accompanied by Dudley, proceed towards his lodging.'What did you do to him?' inquired Theresa, when her brother had joined them.'It was only that I determined very strongly, and felt sure I was doing right. You would have succeeded as well, only you let your own shyness interfere, and that flurried the poor man.'The next morning Dudley again accompanied Sir James St. Lawrence to his house, and obtained permission to return and read to him in the afternoon.'He is in a sad state of mind and body both,' said Dudley, when he returned home after his visit; 'so very solitary, and tormented with fears that he is not acting right; wishing to become acquainted with the members of his own family, to one of whom he thinks his fortune ought to be left, yet dreading to see any of them. He was in India so long, that he scarcely remembered his two sisters, who were quite young when he left England; and his eldest brother had died, and in addition to the wealth he had acquired in India, left him the family property, and a fine place in Northumberland. On his return, he seems to have been frightened at Lady Rochford's apparent worldlines, and repelled by the severe seriousness of Mrs. Seaton.''But he spoke in high terms of Mr. Seaton,' continued Dudley; 'and fancied that under the care of such a father, the beautiful Julia ought to be everything that is perfect.''Did you mention the report Laura told us about Mr. Randal?''Yes; and I almost regretted having done so, for it agitated him fearfully. He muttered to himself, 'What can I do?--what can I do?' and I could scarcely get him to listen for some time. At last I succeeded in arousing his attention, as I endeavoured to describe to him something of little Margaret's character; and told him of Laura and her husband. And then he said--'It must be one of either of my sister's children; and that young child Margaret may turn out worse. It must be one of my own nieces,' he said;--'oh! how I wish I could see that little Margaret.' Then his mind seemed to wander; and I begged his servant to send for his doctor. He seemed so very ill that I remained till he came; and, indeed, to ask his opinion about the unfortunate man, for I feel guilty of having brought on this attack; and yet I think it quite requisite that he should be informed that his heiress was likely to throw herself away on a worthless person.'The next morning Sir James did not appear at the well, and Dudley hastened to his lodging, almost fearing lest he should not be permitted to see the poor old man. But the servant said he had been asking for Mr. Aylmer several times, and that his master particularly wished to see him.'It is very kind of you to come,' said Sir James, when he saw Dudley. 'I have been awake all night, trying to determine what I ought to do, and then I forget it again--I forget all about it,' he said, putting his hand to his head, with a look of despair.Dudley thought it better to read, and try to divert his mind to other subjects, or, if possible, to soothe his nerves and induce sleep. So he took up a book, and read in a monotonous tone of voice,

and soon had the pleasure of seeing the poor man's eyes close; he sank back in his chair, and fell into a quiet sleep.Dudley was afraid of moving, lest it should awake him; so he sat there for some time, till at last the doctor, who had already seen him early that morning, was again announced.The opening of the door aroused Sir James; but an hour's sleep seemed to have done him so much good, that he looked up almost cheerfully at his doctor.'You have proved a better physician than I have,' said little Doctor Leighton, with a good-natured bow, to Dudley. 'I was afraid of giving a sedative, and yet I was most anxious to produce sleep. His pulse, too, is quite quiet. Did you mesmerise him?' he inquired, with an admiring glance in Dudley's handsome face.'This was the only mesmerism,' said he, with a smile, as he held up the Tour in Germany, which he had been reading.For several days Dudley continued his visits; but he resisted every attempt that Sir James made to speak on the subject which had excited him so fearfully. But the poor man's health did not rally; and the doctor told Dudley that he thought if Sir James had any affairs to settle, that no time was to be lost. So the next time Sir James alluded to the settlement with regard to his niece Julia, Dudley entered into the subject, and a long and earnest conversation followed. Sir James was much exhausted with the effort of speaking and fixing his attention, yet his mind seemed more at rest afterwards; but he earnestly entreated that Dudley would not leave him.It was strange that, after having lived so many

years in complete solitude, and with a morbid dread of seeing even his own relations, he now seemed only happy when Dudley was near.So the young man gladly remained, for he was never really happy unless he could feel that he was of use; and he read some passages in the Bible, and from other books, which he thought suitable to the condition of the invalid's mind.The doctor came twice during the day; and late in the evening, when he called, he took Dudley out of the room, and gave it as his opinion that Sir James would not survive the night. 'I can't remain with him,' said he, 'for I am obliged to attend a lady, two miles off, in her confinement; and I am convinced that nothing more can be done for this poor gentleman. And I see you are quite as good, even a better doctor by nature than I am, with all my study and practice; for you have a genius for it,--and for everything, I believe,' he continued, looking with the admiration of a phrenologist on Dudley's fine head; 'and your large benevolence has helped to develop them all for good. You shake your head,--you do not believe in phrenology, I see. Well, I will come the first thing in the morning and release you, in case he should be still alive.'It is an awful thing to be in the presence of approaching death! Dudley was scarcely twenty-one, and he had never yet seen any person die.Sir James was quite aware that his end was approaching, but the dread he had always experienced at the idea of death now gave place to calm resignation. It was scarcely hope, for he had thought so little of religion in his youth, and had so often, in later life, put off the consideration of it until a 'more convenient season,' that he scarcely knew

now what he believed. He was conscious of being sinful, and scarcely ventured to think that such as he could look for joy hereafter. But the simple 'words in season' which Dudley uttered, and the well-chosen verses of scripture to which Sir James listened with more and more eagerness as a new sense of their meaning seemed to dawn upon his mind, seemed to give him increasing peace; and when Dudley read of the thief to whom the dying Saviour said, 'This day shalt thou be with me in Paradise,' a ray of hope illumed his sinking eyes, and the old man clasped his hands in prayer with a contrite expression which seemed to say, 'Lord, be merciful to me, a sinner! Lord, I believe; help Thou mine unbelief!' Then he asked, 'Can there be redemption for me! Is it possible?'Dudley endeavoured, in a few words, to explain the glorious hopes held out by scripture, and to set forth the principal evidences of its truth; for he saw that a spirit of disbelief had been, as it is to so many, his chief stumblingblock through life. His own strong faith--that faith which gave Dudley peace even in the agony of disappointed love--now enabled him to soothe and cheer the dying man. He had at last the gratification of seeing that the last conscious look in the old man's eyes was full of hope. He pressed Dudley's hand, and a faint smile of gratitude beamed on his parched lips.As the first ray of morning light shone into the room, the old man turned his head towards it, and then dosed his eyes as if in sleep. But Dudley felt the fingers relax their grasp, and he knew that Sir James would never wake again in this world! The solemn silence of death was there, and the young man remained a few minutes

gazing on the pale face, which looked happier than he had ever seen it before. Dudley experienced none of that horror which he had expected! On the contrary, a feeling of repose, almost happiness, came over him, as if the departed spirit were hovering near, in its glorified and redeemed state, and breathing peace into his troubled heart. He scarcely liked to move, lest the solemn repose should be disturbed; and he almost longed to fly upwards with the spirit who had attained that blessed rest for which he himself had still to struggle.  A sense of responsibility--a conviction of all he had to do and suffer--oppressed him; and the very power which had enabled him now to succeed in soothing the old man's last moments showed more than ever the magnitude of the ten talents intrusted to his care. He started as the door opened, and Sir James's servant, followed by the doctor, entered the room.After contemplating the body for a few moments, Dr. Leighton said to Dudley, 'You have proved even a better physician than I expected, for you have 'ministered to a mind diseased.' He would not have had that look upon his face if he had not died in peace. And now go home and rest, for you require it. I believe you have scarcely tasted anything since yesterday morning,' continued Dr. Leighton, putting his hand on Dudley's shoulder, while he looked at him with mingled admiration and respect. 'Go, for your life is most valuable to your fellow-creatures.'After giving some directions to the servants, Dudley left the house, accompanied by the doctor.At the end of the street they parted, and a few moments afterwards Dudley remembered that he had not brought away a packet of letters and

papers which Sir James had intrusted to his care. He therefore retraced his steps, and on looking down the street where the doctor had gone, he saw a man speaking to him whom he had lately often remarked hovering near Sir James's lodgings. There was a bad expression in his countenance which had several times arrested Dudley's attention; and he felt sure, as the man seemed always wishing to avoid observation, that he was watching there for some purpose. Dudley now saw him hasten away from the doctor, and run in the direction of the hotel. At the same moment Dr. Leighton caught a sight of Mr. Aylmer, and hastened towards him.'Do you know anything of that man?' inquired the doctor. 'He has asked me several times about the state of Sir James's health; and last night he was at the door when I left Sir James; and when, in answer to his inquiries, I gave it as my opinion that he could not survive the night, he seemed much agitated. Yet I do not think it can be from affection,' he said, with a smile, 'for he has such a small organ of adhesiveness. Can he have any interest in the succession?--and have you got all the papers?''I returned for the express purpose of getting them,' said Dudley, as he reached the door.'I will wait, then, said Dr. Leighton, 'until I find you have them all quite safe; and then, if you do not object, we will go to the hotel and inquire who this ill-looking man is; for really his organ of acquisitiveness is so strongly developed, I feel sure he must be a thief.'Dudley found the parcel on the table where he had left it, and they then proceeded to the hotel, where several servants and couriers were

standing about the door, as if they had been watching the departure of a family; and they heard one English groom say to another,--'That must be for some wager; I never seed a gent ride such a pace as that--down hill, too.''More likely he's running away from the police,' said another.'Was it a man in a green coat with yellow buttons, and a low travelling cap?' inquired Dr. Leighton of the last speaker.'Yes, sir; and I'd lay any wager he's about no good, for he's had a horse standing, night and day, ready saddled, ever since he coomed here, a week ago.''Strange,' said Dudley, musing; and then turning to Dr. Leighton, he said, 'I am afraid there is no post for England until the day after to-morrow, and that man's sudden departure appears to be connected, in some way, with poor Sir James's death.''Well, we can't help it,' said Dr. Leighton; 'and as you have all the documents safe in your pocket, I don't think that man can do much mischief.'CHAPTER XXV.
THE UNSTABLE WILL.'LEAD us not into temptation' is said or prayed by most people every morning. Yet how soon are the words forgotten! During the visit that Julia made to her sister, she promised faithfully to inform her father of everything that had occurred, and give him an exact account of her feelings.Laura had argued and beseeched, long and earnestly, ere she could obtain this promise. For Julia begged, with many bitter tears and entreaties to be spared the humiliation, the misery of allowing her dear father to know the truth. But Laura, had then threatened that if Julia would not confess, she would disclose to Mr. Seaton all she knew or had heard about it.The poor girl was utterly miserable, for Laura had contrived to dispel her wilful blindness--to open her eyes as to the real state of her own feelings, and her folly in allowing her affections to be won by a person whose character she could not help condemning. Julia bitterly reproached herself, and firmly resolved never to think of Randal again; and when she got up the morning after her arrival at home, it was with the firm resolve to speak to her father that very day.But the post brought a letter, and, instead of showing it at once to her dear, kind father, she ran into the garden, and devoured its contents with 

glowing cheeks and beaming eyes. 'Yes, I will, I must see him, and
tell him it is for the last time; that I can't longer practise this
deceit; that he must give up all thoughts of me for ever. But how
strange that he should venture, that he should come all this way to
see me.'It was a cloudy afternoon, towards the end of September, when Julia
started on her walk. She had before intended to ask Miss Barton to
accompany her, but now she' turned in the opposite direction, and
proceeded alone towards St. Cross. She tried to avoid seeing any of
her acquaintances, and succeeded in reaching the old building without
meeting any one.It was late, and nearly dark, when she returned homewards, and at the entrance of the Close, under the arch, where the lamp was already lighted, she met Miss Barton; but she hastily drew her veil over her face, for she knew the traces of tears were visible, and that she was deadly pale. So Miss Barton passed on without seeming to notice her, and Julia returned home and ran up to her own room.There she remained until dinner was announced, but her eyes were still so red with crying, that she did not wish to be seen, and therefore she told the servant to say she had a bad headache, and was obliged to lie down on her bed.Mr. Seaton sent up little Margaret to see what was the matter, and Mrs. Seaton entreated her to take some sal-volatile and soda. 'Tell dear papa,' said Julia, 'I am not at all ill, only tired and chilled with a long walk I foolishly took; and tell mamma I will follow her kind advice, and I dare say by tea-time I shall be able to come down.'Little Margaret, with a tact beyond her years, saw that Julia did not wish them to think her ill, so she said nothing till after dinner, and Mrs. Seaton and the other children had left the dining-room. She then ran back, and whispered in her papa's ear, 'I am afraid poor Julia is very unhappy, she has been crying so; but don't tell mamma, for I don't think she wants her to know anything about it.''Dear Julia, I will go up and see her in her room,' said Mr. Seaton, who had observed how unhappy she looked since her return from Laura's the preceding day.''No, don't go up, dear papa, for if you do, mamma will think she is very ill, and will send for the doctor, and I know poor Julia can't bear to see him.''Well, my darling, then suppose you ask her to come down here.''Yes, I will; and I do hope you will be able to comfort her, for she's often so unhappy; but I see she does not like any one to know it,' added Margaret, in a low whisper, and then ran up to Julia's room. But she found her mother there, feeling Julia's pulse, and heard her say, 'Fever--I am sure you have got some fever, and I must send for Dr. Smith.' Julia protested that she had really nothing the matter with her, only a bad headache, and promised to go to bed at once, and then if she was not better in the morning, her mamma might send for Dr. Smith.'Indeed, I am quite well, dear mamma,' she said, in a tone of affection which was anything but habitual.'But you are so deadly pale now, and you were

quite red when I came into the room, and you look so miserable, too--what on earth can be the matter?''It is really only fatigue, dear mamma; now let me go to bed,' said Julia, taking Mrs. Seaton's hand, while she tried to look cheerful. 'Now leave me, and I shall be in bed in a few minutes; and if you will send me up a cup of hot gruel--''I will, indeed; but what can have come to you,--for I never could get you to drink gruel in your life before?''I thought you would like--I mean I thought you considered it good for a cold. Now, good night, dear, dear mamma; and don't stay up here, for these attics are so much colder than your room, you will get a pain in your face. Thank you, dear mamma, for coming up to see me,' added Julia, as she kissed Mrs. Seaton's hand with a look of such unusual affection and kindness, that poor Mrs. Seaton was quite perplexed, and afterwards told Miss Jolliffe that she was sure the poor girl was going to have some dreadful illness, for she was so unlike herself. 'I never knew her think of my poor face before,' said Mrs. Seaton, as she lifted up her hands in dismay.As soon as Mrs. Seaton had left the room, Margaret gave her papa's message, on hearing which Julia burst into tears, and exclaimed, 'Dear, dear papa, how shall I ever--' Then her sobs were so violent that little Margaret was quite frightened, and said, softly, 'I am sure dear papa would comfort you; do tell him what it is; I know you are unhappy.''No, I am not--don't torment me,' said Julia, impatiently; then, seeing that Margaret looked disappointed and unhappy, she suddenly threw her

arms round the child's neck, and burst into tears again. 'Forgive me, dear Margaret,' she sobbed, 'for it is very kind of you to care whether I am unhappy or not. And do you really love me?' she inquired, as she felt the child cling to her with all the ardour of an affection which was always longing to break forth, but was constantly kept back by her sister's apparent indifference and haughty looks. 'And would you be sorry to lose me?''Oh, don't say that, dear Julia; you are not going to die! Oh, perhaps mamma was right, and you are very ill.''No, indeed, I am not,' said Julia, trying to appear composed. 'And now go down and tell papa that I have promised mamma to lie down at once, but that I will come and see him in the library before he goes to bed,--when all the others are gone.''And you will lie down and go to sleep till then, wont you?' said Margaret, as she settled the clothes comfortably round Julia, and ventured to kiss her forehead.'Yes, I will, indeed; good bye--good night,' she added, 'dear little Margaret!' in a tone that she tried to make cheerful and composed. But the unusually touching expression of Julia's face, as she endeavoured to smile and look composed, both pleased and saddened the little girl, and she felt that she ought to pray very fervently for her poor sister.As soon as the child had left the room, Julia covered her face with her hands, and remained quite still; and when the old nurse, sent up by Mrs. Seaton, came with the hot gruel, she seemed to be fast asleep  The old woman spoke to her softly, but she did not answer; and she gazed at

Julia, with a shake of the head and a look that showed she had some misgivings that all was not right with the child whom she had nursed in infancy, and of whom she was still proudly fond, in spite of 'the high airs she gives herself, for she is a beauty, there's no denying it; and a good right she has to be proud, too,' thought the old nurse.As old Norah turned towards the door, Julia stealthily looked up, and gazed on her retreating figure with affectionate regret, and listened to her heavy footsteps as they sounded on the old creaking staircase, while the tears coursed each other down her cheeks, and she thought with a bitter sigh, 'I never knew I was so fond of them all before; and poor dear papa--but I always knew I loved him--yes, always!'As the cathedral clock struck ten, Julia started up, and throwing a shawl over her shoulders, crept softly down stairs. She trembled so violently that she was obliged to take hold of the old carved banisters for support; and the feel of the carving, and the peculiar echoing sound of the old steps, as she trod, recalled vividly to her mind the happy hours of her early youth, where she and Laura and her brothers had often played; and she felt now how much she loved even this old house, whose dullness and antique quaintness and grotesque appearance she had so often abused. Then, as she came near the library door--that door which in childhood had always been the portal to her greatest joy; on opening which she had ever been certain of an affectionate welcome,--she was so overcome, that she was obliged to lean against the side. She hesitated to open it; several times she held the lock, and then drew back her hand with a look of despair.The clock had struck the quarter before Julia ventured to turn the handle, but, making then a great effort, she opened it, and went softly in. Mr. Seaton was sitting at the further end of the room, near the fire, and he seemed to have fallen asleep, for his hands were clasped on his knees, and his head was resting on the side of the chair-back.Julia softly approached, and gazed earnestly on his countenance.There is something very touching in the sleep of an old person: it is so like death. Besides, there is often in age a look of the same calm repose in sleep which may be seen on the face of a young child--a cessation from care, an end of life's warfare, which leads back the mind to the happy period before care and strife began.It was peculiarly so with Mr. Seaton, and as Julia looked on him, she thought it seemed as if he had already entered into that rest--as if his cares and struggles were over--as if he--had finished and fought the good fight, and was already enjoying the reward of his labour.Julia had seldom seen her father sleep when in health, for his energetic mind was too active, and his employments too interesting for him to doze over them. She was therefore the more deeply touched at seeing him now, and feared he must be ill.She knelt down at his feet, and clasped her hands as if in prayer. And she did pray for him,--for the kind parent who had been so patient with her faults, so indulgent to her errors--who had loved her so much more than she deserved! And it seemed to her as if he felt her presence--as if her prayer were answered--for a smile illumined

his features, and although he did not open his eyes, yet he lifted his hand, as if in the act of imploring a blessing upon her head.'I will not disturb him,' thought she; 'it is better for me to go now--yet, oh I for one more kiss--for one more word from those dear lips!'She gazed long and earnestly in his face, and thought it had never appeared so handsome, or worn such a heavenly expression. Then she hastily rose from the ground, as if wishing to tear herself away; but the movement awoke him, and seeing her, he stretched out his arms.'Dear Julia, I have been dreaming of you,' he said, as she sank upon his bosom; 'my poor dear child, I was unhappy about you, and so anxious, for little Margaret told me you looked very miserable. And I have been wishing to see you all this long evening,' he continued, as he held her face near him with both his hands, and gazed anxiously on it. 'Now come and tell me what it is, for I--''Indeed there is nothing to tell, my dear, dear father,' she said; 'only I was not well, and you sent such a kind message by Margaret, to say you would like to see me; so I came down, though I had promised mamma that I would go to bed two hours ago. So I must not stay,' she added, in an agitated voice,--'I must not, indeed; only kiss me, dear papa, and--and wish me good-night.''I do, indeed, my darling child,' he said; 'but what is this--you are quite overcome?' for as he embraced her with more than his usual affection, she burst into a passion of tears, and sobbed on his bosom, then sank down, kneeling at his feet, and exclaimed,--'Bless me, dearest father, bless me, and oh, pray

for me--I am very, very wicked, but don't ask me anything now--not now--not now,--I will tell you to-morrow, I will, indeed; but let me go now, oh, let me go,--only bless me once more, and one more kiss,' she said, as she clung to him with a sort of frantic despair. Then, seeing his look of fear and dismay, she endeavoured to appear calm, and said, 'It is nothing, indeed; and you shall know all to-morrow.'She got up quickly, and, imprinting a long and earnest kiss on his forehead, rushed out of the room.CHAPTER XXVI.
MISFORTUNE.MISS BARTON had seen Julia the preceding evening under the porch at the entrance of the close, and was most painfully struck with her look of despair. The poor girl's pale face and tearful eyes had quite haunted her all night, and she determined to walk early in the morning, and call at their house in the Close.She had observed that Julia had wished to avoid her; Miss Barton had never succeeded in obtaining her confidence, and she knew at once it would be useless to force a recognition when Julia did not wish it, or like to be seen. As soon as her early breakfast was over, Susan prepared to walk out, and put on her bonnet, to the great surprise of her sister, who felt sure there must be something very urgent to impel her to do so.'What can induce you to go out before even your first chapter is written? I am very glad of it though; for I feel sure it would be better for your health if you went out earlier in the day. Well, I see you are in a violent hurry.''Yes, I will tell you why, when I return.'A vague presentiment of misfortune rather increased as Miss Barton approached the Close. As she came near the house, she felt quite prepared to see something unusual going on. She was therefore scarcely surprised on turning the corner of the narrow road which led to the Seatons' house,

to see a groom on horseback emerge from the archway leading to the stables, and start off at full gallop. She then saw the old fat butler running faster than it seemed possible he could move; and as he passed near her, he said, panting in breathless haste, and without stopping a moment,--'Go on--go on, pray mum, to the house!'With a trembling hand, she lifted the old knocker, and started at the more than usually lugubrious sound, as it echoed through the porch. A frightened-looking footman answered the door.'Master is very ill, and Miss is not to be found nowhere. Missus think she'd a drownded of herself!''Can I see any one?' asked Miss Barton. 'I'll see; I don't know, mum--perhaps Miss Jolliffe.''Ah, dear Miss Barton,' said a plaintive little voice; 'oh, what shall I do? do come in--oh, do come in, pray;' and little Margaret came and took hold of Susan's hand. 'I know somebody ought to do something. Dear papa sent off for Laura, and then Miss Jolliffe told him something that made him fall down on the ground, and now he can't speak, and they have sent me away from him!' And the poor child wrung her hands with agony, and sobs choked her utterance. 'Ah, don't leave me--don't go, pray don't;' and little Margaret drew her into the library. 'Ah, there is dear, dear papa's chair, where he sat last night, and looked so unhappy when he heard dear Julia was ill.' And the poor child threw herself on her knees before it. 'Ah, help me to pray, dear Miss Barton, for I know you can. Oh, if they would only let me stay with him; it is so dreadful to be shut out of his room. But there is another knock,--oh,

I hope it is Dr. Smith,' said she, running to the door. 'It is; will you see him after he has been to papa, and then tell me what he says--will you?''Indeed I will, dear child,' said Miss Barton.'Then I will go and watch at the door, and get him to come down to you.' And the poor child ran up-stairs and watched outside her father's door; and there she knelt and prayed, as she had never done before, that God would spare her adored father.It was as if her whole life depended on her petition being granted; everything seemed of no consequence, except her father's recovery. She had no idea it was possible to be so miserable as she now felt. Everything looked dark and dreary around. The old carved heads on the staircase walls--the same that when she was in play often seemed to laugh at her,--now looked sad and frowning. The air that blew on her from the open casement felt as it did in the crypts underneath the cathedral, where piles of dead men's bones were mouldering, and where she had shuddered and felt such strange dread: and the cathedral chimes sounded like a funeral knell--'Yes, just as the village bells did at Lenton, when dear old Dame Jestico died,' she thought. And it seemed as if the doctor would never, never come.At last her father's door opened, and the doctor appeared. She looked up with such intense anxiety that he was much touched; she could scarcely speak, but she took his hand and went down-stairs with him.'Will you, please, see Miss Barton; she is in the library, and tell her what you think of papa? And oh, do ask them to let me be with him--pray do,' she said, as the tears streamed from her eyes.'Yes, you shall be with him, my poor child; only you must be very quiet, for all depends on that--''But you think him very ill--I see you do,' said Margaret, with a look of despair; and her sobs were so violent, that Dr. Smith became alarmed. 'You must not cry in that way, or I cannot allow you to be with your father. It is of the greatest consequence to him that you should not appear unhappy--it is, indeed,' he continued, as she made a great effort to appear composed. 'You may have it in your power to be of great use to him, perhaps, my dear child; so you must take care of your health, and try to look happy, that you may not remind your father of his misfortune, if it should please God to restore his reason.'Margaret looked at him with an expression of awe and wonder, while she tried to stop the heaving of her bosom by pressing her little hands forcibly against it.'I will then, indeed, look happy. I will not cry at all,' she said, drying her eyes, and trying hard to smile; 'only, pray ask mamma not to send me away from papa's room; and I will do exactly whatever you tell me.''I believe she will, indeed,' said Dr. Smith, turning to Miss Barton, who had been so much moved by the child's touching efforts at self-control in restraining her passionate grief, that the tears started to her own eyes. 'Yes, do let me go there; do come and ask mamma and Miss Jolliffe to let me in, and then come back here and speak to Miss Barton.'Dr. Smith saw he might venture to trust the child in Mr. Seaton's room, and rightly imagined that such affection as she evinced must be soothing

to the invalid in the event of his becoming conscious again. So he led her up-stairs, and asked Miss Jolliffe to allow her to sit in Mr. Seaton's room.Mrs Seaton had gone to lie down, by the doctor's advice, for her nerves had received a severe shock; and she persisted in her conviction that Julia had gone raving mad, and put an end to herself in some way. She could make nothing of Miss Jolliffe's surmises and story about Mr. Randal, the mention of which had exerted such a fatal influence on Mr. Seaton.But Mrs. Seaton was utterly miserable, for she loved her husband and children considerably more than she appeared to do; although she had much of that self-indulgent indolence which, in some dispositions, is fostered by the peculiar serious education she had received;--for she had been brought up in that narrow school, which has perverted the doctrines of its modern founders, even as most Churches have fallen from the exalted purity of the early Christian Fathers.Strange to say, Mrs. Seaton had never before met with a real misfortune; although her gloomy and apprehensive disposition had made plenty of small everyday miseries for herself. Although apparently languid and indifferent, she had no real want of energy; and in some characters intense grief often developes a power, the existence of which was before unsuspected.It was impossible for her now to remain long on the bed, though she felt more ill than she had ever done before; and, in spite of all Norah's remonstrances, she would get up, and go into Mr. Seaton's room. As she stood by her husband's bed, she seemed to forget herself,--or, rather to feel conscious only of her faults.How often she had annoyed him!--how often she had thwarted his inclinations, and disregarded what now, on reflection, seemed to be his most just and kind wishes. Then, he had always enjoyed, as she fancied, such strong health,--she had so seldom seen him really ill, that it never occurred to her that he could die first,--or even, in any way, stand in need of her care and nursing.And now it was worse than death to see his unconscious look.  Those eyes which had always beamed on her with such kindness, in spite of all her perversity,--would they ever look on her so again? Oh for one glance of recognition--of pardon.--Oh, if she could only express to him her contrition and remorse! For now she saw things in their real light,--roused from the lethargy of selfishness which a long course of prosperity often produces: and she awoke to that reality which all of us must, sooner or later, feel, when some great sorrow takes from our eyes the scales of habitual blindness,--disclosing to us the real truth of scripture, and depriving us of that false security induced by a stupid blindness which sees not the 'great cloud of witnesses' surrounding our path. Alas, too often for us,
'--'the giddy whirl of sin'Fills ear and brain, and will not letHeaven's harmonies come in.'Most thankful ought we to be when God does not leave us in this dull darkness until the eleventh hour; when we receive His fatherly chastening in early youth, and are thus spared the bitter remorse of a wasted life!--Yes, thankful we ought to for it, though the suffering may be agony to bear; for this is the pain which God in his mercy sends

to save us from that awful awakening in the next world to a sense of sin impossible to be repented of,--too late for penitence--even too late for atonement!--Yes, blessed--even with all their intensity of suffering--are those who take it rightly, for when this life is over,
'How wilt thou then look back and smileOn thoughts that bitterest seemed erewhile,And bless the pangs that make thee seeThis was no world of rest for thee!'Some people will say, 'the giddy whirl of sin' was scarcely applicable to poor Mrs. Seaton, whose error seemed almost to have been a too great disregard of, and indifference to, what is called the world. Yet, how often do we see, if we look around, and dive below the surface, into the lives of those near us, that much farther from God--from the real principles of Christianity, are many who seem utterly removed and excluded from what are generally called the snares and temptations of the world, like poor Mrs. Seaton, than we could have supposed.And this was peculiarly the case with some of those who were called the serious people of that day, among whom were many really religious persons. In following the broad outline given by Hannah More, and which, in those days of extreme irreligion and profligacy was, perhaps, much wanted; in avoiding parties and places of public resort, they forgot that she herself most touchingly complained that she was often in a peculiarly worldly state of mind when living quite secluded in her little cottage.CHAPTER XXVII.
THE CONTRITE SPIRIT.ON entering her husband's room, Mrs. Seaton saw little Margaret kneeling by his bedside. Her first impulse was to send the child away, but she saw the poor little thing dreaded it so much, that she shrank from inflicting pain,--having now felt herself, almost for the first time, what real sorrow was. Besides, his wish had always been to indulge,--and she now thought he must be right, and that Miss Jolliffe, and the severe system she had always pursued, must be wrong. In short, the whole fabric she had for years been building, of self-sufficiency, and a contemptuous disregard for those whose peculiar opinions did not accord with her own,--all seemed crumbling down. The hard ice of blinding prejudice and pride, which had so long frozen up the feelings of a naturally warm heart, was now melting away before the glowing breath of love which seemed to emanate from the touching form of her husband, which lay before her.For she well knew he was the very essence of love and of universal large-minded benevolence; and now the excess of it--of affection for a daughter, who seemed so little worthy, had brought him to the brink of the grave--or, worse still, had deprived him of reason.It seemed to Mrs. Seaton as if she had never prayed before, as she knelt by little Margaret, and poured forth her feelings of repentance-of humble

contrition. Discarding all the forms which had so long appeared to have hampered her ideas and checked her feelings, she implored God to restore her husband to health, to forgive. her sins, and enable her to comfort and cheer his remaining hours, and fulfil his wishes.Then it occurred to her that perhaps Mr. Seaton might be right in his surmises about Julia; for now that the veil which had so long concealed her own feelings was withdrawn, she began to think it was possible that Julia, of whose virtue and contempt of the world and its vanities she was so proud, who had always followed her opinions, and bowed down to her judgment,--she, too, might have erred, and perhaps Mr. Seaton had some grounds for thinking it possible she had deceived them. He had seemed, too, so anxious to do something, and pursue some one. He had longed for Laura and her husband to arrive, and even now he seemed to be straining his hands, and striving to rise, and some dreadful weight seemed to oppress his mind. So Mrs. Seaton resolved to send and enquire in all directions; and even determined to abide by the advice of Mr. and Mrs. Gray, as soon as they arrived.On making inquiries about Julia's mysterious departure, it appeared that one of the servants had heard the outer door shut just before the clock struck one, the preceding night. At the entrance of the Close, where the gates were always locked at twelve o'clock every night, the lodge-keeper's wife said that two persons had rung, and asked to be let out.The lamp was burning so dimly that she had not seen their faces, nor did she seem quite to know whether they were both women. 'One was very

tall,' she said,' but seemed to have a long cloak on; but she did not notice them much, owing to having a bad toothache, and her face tied up, and having just sunk off to sleep when she was aroused by the bell.'Miss Jolliffe had also heard the outer door close a little before one; but as Mrs. Seaton sometimes was obliged to send for the doctor at all hours, she thought that might be the case then. It was only when, on the next morning, the lady's-maid had run into her room, and, with a face of dismay, said her young lady was gone, and had never been in bed at all, for her night-things were just where she had placed them, hanging on the horse, before the fire--then it was that Miss Jolliffe put together in her mind a number of little things, the result of several months' suspicious scrutiny,--and remembered sundry letters that Julia had received in a handwriting which always produced a wonderful effect on her countenance. And all this, coupled with some intelligence received in letters of her own from the Rev. Jeremiah Smallplush, about a certain Mr. Randal, whom he had met at Lady Blenkinsop's,--all this had given Miss Jolliffe some insight into the case, and she was really so terrified at finding Julia gone, that in an unguarded moment she had said, in Mr. Seaton's hearing, that she was afraid Julia had gone off with Mr. Randal.Towards the evening, Laura and her husband arrived, and great was their horror and surprise at seeing the sad alteration in Mr. Seaton, and, indeed, in his wife, too!Poor Mrs. Seaton had passed the whole day praying by her husband's bedside, had taken no nourishment, and seemed now almost sinking into

a state of stupor. Yet, when she became aware that the Grays were actually arrived, she experienced a sense of extreme relief, and, bursting into tears, threw her arms round Laura's neck.'Take care of him--pray for him,' she said; and then, turning to Mr. Gray, added, 'I entreat you to make inquiries about Julia, and see what can be done; for I am utterly helpless,--I can do nothing,--no, not even pray. I can only give way to selfish grief, and foolish tears. I have not been able to ascertain anything about Julia.'Poor Laura, though almost broken-hearted at seeing that her adored father did not show the slightest consciousness of her presence, would not allow one moment for the indulgence of her grief. She urged her husband to institute inquiries, while she made Mrs. Seaton go and lie down on her bed.Poor little Margaret, too, seemed quite exhausted; for she would not leave her father all day, and had scarcely been persuaded to swallow any food.'You shall come in here again, darling,' said Laura; 'but unless you keep strong and well, you will not be able to do him any good.''But I am so afraid they will not let me return, if I go away; and Dr. Smith said if papa knew I was near him when his dear mind wakes, it might be of use.''I will promise to call you, darling, as soon as it does I will watch by him now. Go to Norah, dearest, and have some supper, and then go to bed. Now, mind you eat a good supper,' she said, trying to smile, as she gently led Margaret out of the room.Dr. Smith came soon afterwards, and Laura

anxiously watched his countenance as he felt her father's pulse.'Just the same,' he said, in answer to her eager, inquiring glance.'Is there any hope?' she whispered.'Impossible to say, the shock has been so great; yet, his constitution is strong, and, perhaps, if he could see that Miss Seaton were here, and that he could in any way be convinced that his fears were groundless of her having eloped with a worthless man, it might have the effect of restoring his mind. But I fear that is impossible,' he said, as they went into an adjoining room; 'for I hear now there can be no doubt that she went off with Mr. Randal. A strange gentleman arrived last night at the George Hotel, and engaged a chaise and four horses, and went away at one o'clock, on the road to Dover. Indeed, I came now chiefly for the purpose of seeing whether anything could be done to pursue them. I am afraid poor Mrs. Seaton was quite unable to give any orders; I also found out, from one of the waiters, that the gentleman's name was Randal, although he called himself 'Smith;' but the man had seen him in London.'At this moment Mr. Gray returned, in breathless haste, and said he was resolved to pursue them: he had ordered a carriage and horses, and if the fugitives were still in England, he would endeavour to bring back the unfortunate daughter by describing the effect her departure had produced on Mr. Seaton's health and reason. It was certainly better to make the attempt, though Dr. Smith expressed his fears that it must be too late, as they would have already probably crossed over to Calais.'If they have gone abroad, I will return,' said

Mr. Gray; 'as I suppose it would be difficult to obtain any clue to them on the other side of the water.' Thus it was agreed, and with a heavy heart, Laura saw her husband start on his expedition.Dr. Smith found Mrs. Seaton extremely ill, and both he and Laura were much touched by the softening effect this great trial seemed to have had; and how uncomplainingly she now bore severe illness and acute pain, which formerly would have driven her half distracted. Laura found the greatest difficulty in persuading her to stay in bed, and only succeeded by telling her that it would be Mr. Seaton's wish, and for his sake she should consent to follow the doctor's orders.'And you have left all your poor children alone?' inquired Mrs. Seaton. 'It was very, very kind of you. But could you not send for them? for I hope and trust you will not leave us  Pray, pray do not abandon me, for I am very, very miserable,' she said, as she took Laura's hand and held it in her own, with a look of affection and unwonted humility.'I will stay, if you really wish it; and in that case, I am afraid I must send for my children, as I have no servant I can trust them with; I was obliged to take them to Mr. Gladobus' for to-night.''Tell the coachman to take the carriage for them early in the morning,' she said; 'and pray give orders, and manage everything for us, dear Laura. And can you forgive me for having often treated you so unkindly?' she added, with an expression of contrition which touched Laura to the heart.'I have nothing to forgive, dear mamma,' she said; 'on the contrary, I know what a hard, tiresome, proud girl I always was, and that I gave you a great deal of trouble. So it is I who should ask your forgiveness, and try by every means in my power to assist and comfort you in this sad trial.CHAPTER XXVIII.
SUSPENSE.IN the midst of the anxiety which Laura Gray felt for her dear father, and, indeed, also for Mrs. Seaton's bodily health, she could not but feel gratified with the effect of this most dreadful trial on her mother-in-law's disposition.Laura looked anxiously in the countenances of her two younger sisters, Letitia and Jane, girls of thirteen and fourteen, to discover what impression this calamity had made on them; but the result was not very satisfactory. Though much bewildered and saddened, yet there was the same hard, proud, contemptuous look, which she well remembered in herself. Yet she determined to try whether this trial could avail, or in some measure be made to lead their minds to pray earnestly and humbly for the dear father whom they really loved. She reminded them that it is impossible prayers can be granted when any uncharitable feeling lurks in the mind. 'Lay there thy gift before the altar, and go thy way; first be reconciled to thy brother, and then come and offer thy gift;' for if we are not reconciled, that is, if we do not love all mankind,--if we look with contempt on any who differ in opinion with us, then we cannot really pray.Laura described to them what she herself had been at their age; the bitter, hard feelings she had fostered, and that she had never really prayed so long as this uncharitable feeling remained. It was not

until God in his kindness sent great affliction and anxiety, that she felt really humbled, and perceived the mote that had always blinded her own eyes, and made her exaggerate into beams those in many of her fellow-creatures.'At last Laura had the pleasure of seeing that her sister Jane seemed almost convinced; but Letitia did not appear to comprehend her arguments, and stoutly maintained that she had no uncharitable feelings towards any one.'Yet surely I have heard you speak of Mrs. Layton and Miss Barton in a manner that--''Oh! but, dear Laura, you would not have me admire a person so given up to the world as Mrs. Layton; why, she goes to every ball that is given, and has private theatricals at her own house. And Miss Barton--a person who writes novels!--and Letitia pronounced the word with that bitter; crushing tone that poor Mrs. Seaton had used one day in Miss Barton s presence.'That is no reason you should look on them with contempt,' said Laura.'Why, how you are altered! you are like Miss C--, gone round to the world; and have ceased to regard its pomps and vanities with horror.''I am so far altered as to see I was wrong in despising, and consequently not loving those who differed in opinion with me. I would not advise you to attend balls, or do anything that we have been taught to consider as leading us into temptation; but there are diversities of gifts, and if we cast the first stone, and consider ourselves without sin, and entitled to condemn our fellow mortals, we cannot rightly understand the words which tell us, that 'Love hopeth all things;' that 'love thinketh

no ill of her neighbour,' and is 'therefore the fulfilling of the law.'I can't understand it,' said Letitia, with a puzzled look.'Well, we will speak of it another time, dear Letitia. I do not expect you suddenly to see the true sense of that glorious chapter on Charity, when I passed so many years of distress and suffering before I discovered its real meaning.'This conversation had taken place up in the sisters' room, where a bed had been prepared for Laura; but as soon as she had wished them goodnight, she went down to her father's room. And there she remained the whole night, earnestly praying that his most valuable health might be restored, and anxiously watching for some sign of amendment.But he remained apparently unconscious of her presence, though sometimes he gazed on her with a wondering look, and as if searching for something he could not find,--a longing, anxious look, which was most painful to witness.That such a trial should have come to the dear father, who seemed to want nothing now to fit him for heaven--whose whole life had been an unceasing preparation for the great hereafter, was almost perplexing to even her faith in the goodness of God. But she earnestly prayed, not only for resignation, but for a cheerful acquiescence in the judgment,--to be enabled, without murmuring, to accept what must be sent for some good purpose to his family.And God did support her during the many hours of that weary night. A feeling of peace, a sort of heavenly composure, was vouchsafed to her; and her thoughts gradually became pleasantly filled with real vivid hopes of future bliss.How far different were these feelings from the agony experienced by her step-mother, as she knelt on the same spot the preceding day. For Laura's heart had been in a great degree purified, and her bad temper subdued by previous trials, so that it was unnecessary for her to feel the despairing misery which was required by the unsubdued character of Mrs. Seaton.And thus it is. The same apparent trial is so differently felt that we never can judge of the real sorrow of others in this deceptive world; and we fancy the lot of some is all dark, while others seem to be basking in perpetual sunshine.
At Mrs. Seaton's request, Laura had written to several members of her family, to inform them of the double misfortune which had occurred. The intelligence of Sir James St. Lawrence's death had not yet reached them; and Laura had written to him, and also to his sister, Lady Rochford.During the entire of the next day, Mr. Seaton gave no indication of improvement, and the whole family waited with breathless anxiety for some tidings of Julia. Every time there was the slightest sound in the street, they listened with eager expectation; but evening came, and Mr. Gray had not returned. Another night of dreadful suspense,  during which Mrs. Seaton insisted on remaining by her husband's bedside, while Laura went to rest. Another day still more anxious than the preceding, and no tidings from Mr. Gray.Towards evening Mr. Seaton seemed to suffer so much that they almost abandoned all hope of his recovery. Poor Mrs. Seaton was quite distracted with grief and worn out with suspense. She had earnestly prayed for one look of recognition from her adored husband--for one word

of forgiveness before they parted for ever; for it seemed that the parting must be to all eternity, she felt so utterly unworthy of being with him in a better world.Nor could she even now feel as if she comprehended the glorious doctrine of the Atonement,--a doctrine to which she fancied she had all her life been almost a martyr, and the principles of which she had upheld with such unflinching severity! Yet now she felt so guilty, that she imagined no atonement, no Redeemer could cancel her sin.In vain Laura endeavoured to speak peace to her troubled heart; to show her that this infliction was graciously intended to draw her towards God, and fit her for the companionship of her husband in the next world.Mrs. Seaton was too miserable in mind and ill in body to listen; yet she pressed Laura's hand, and by her looks gave evidence that she was sensible of her kind intentions. As the evening advanced, Mrs. Seaton became, so painfully impatient for tidings of Julia, that she could scarcely be persuaded to leave the window of a small room over the entrance-porch, which commanded a view of the road leading to the house. And here she watched and listened, but no sound was heard in this quiet part of the Close but the cathedral-clock, as it struck the quarters and chimed the weary hours  As the time advanced, many of the family collected there. At last little Margaret said that she heard 'a real carriage' coming through the distant gate of the Close.'Yes, it is,' they all exclaimed, as a few moments afterwards the sound became more audible. Then they heard a sudden echoing--the peculiar reverberation of wheels in the narrow

alley; then lamps were seen at the farther end. Nearer they approached, 'like two great eyes,' Margaret thought. Yes--a carriage and four post-horses. 'It must be Julia,' they all exclaimed. Mrs. Seaton was the first to dart from the room and rush down-stairs; she had not moved so quickly for years, and the others could scarcely overtake her before she reached the entrance-hall.'Letitia, dear Letitia!' said a sweet, harmonious voice; 'don't be disappointed, it is not Julia; it is your own old sister Helena.' And it was Lady Rochford, who clasped her arms round Mrs. Seaton's neck, and supported her half-fainting sister.'It must be a dreadful disappointment,' said the Countess, 'for I see you were all expecting Julia; but I did it for the best, my poor, poor sister.''It was very kind of you to come,' said Mrs. Seaton, as she rested her weary head on Lady Rochford's shoulder, and felt glad to be there,--even as she had when, in early youth, she had so tenderly loved her beautiful sister.CHAPTER XXIX.
THE SISTERS.WHEN the letter announcing the sad misfortune reached Lady Rochford, she was extremely distressed. She reproached herself for not having cautioned her sister about Mr. Randal; but she thought when Julia left London there was no further danger, as she believed Randal too ambitious to be satisfied with Julia's 1000£ a year. She venerated Mr. Seaton more than any man she had ever met with; and in girlhood she had tenderly loved her sister; but of late years, the repelling coldness and contempt with which Mrs. Seaton
had treated her whenever they met, had much estranged, and latterly quite separated them.Lady Rochford was in the midst of preparation for private theatricals, and some foreigners of distinction were expected at their country place, and she had been looking forward with great delight to their visit. But the words which Dudley had spoken that night when they met, often recurred to her mind--of talents misemployed, time lost, great gifts of pleasing turned to no account, &c. His words now sounded more distinctly than ever in her ears. Should she give up all this pleasant party, and go to her sister and would it be of any use if she made the sacrifice, and gave up all the amusement she was expecting, and then, perhaps, only receive cold looks and words on going to her? Yet something whispered--she had

better try; and the image of her sister, young and handsome, in the days when they were all in all to each other, before the extremes of party feeling and religious prejudices had estranged them--this sister alone with her sorrow, her favourite and beautiful daughter gone--her husband dying!-- The result of those thoughts was that Lady Rochford ordered post-horses, wrote an apology to some of her expected guests, explained the state of the case in a few words to Lord Rochford, and had the gratification of seeing that he was both surprised and much pleased at her decision.He offered to accompany her, if he could be of any use. But she was unwilling to take him from the employments which always interested him during their short residence at their country place. Yet, as he seemed unhappy at her undertaking the journey alone, she determined to take Jane, her third daughter, a girl of fifteen, who was more congenial to her than the others, although equally plain.In less than two hours after the letter arrived, Lady Rochford started on the road to W--, and reached the old town at a late hour the same evening.As she drew near the gloomy-looking gate of the Close, and approached her sister's house, she felt some misgiving, and dreaded almost lest Mrs. Seaton should receive her with cold indifference. She was tired, too, with the long journey, and felt nervous and uncomfortable. She started at the lugubrious sound of the old knocker, when it echoed so strangely through the apparently deserted and silent place; and when the door opened, and she perceived the desolate-looking hall, she almost wished she had not come.But as soon as she saw her poor sister running towards her with breathless haste, and marked the change which anxiety and suspense had produced on her once proud countenance, Lady Rochford was deeply touched, and advanced with all her former affection, resolving to try and comfort the once loved being, who was evidently suffering so severely.So she drew her gently up-stairs, and made her lie down on the sofa in the drawing-room. She then took a low stool, and sat down by Mrs. Seaton, and stroked her hair, and kissed her again and again, and wiped the tears from her cheeks, which seemed to have been running down unheeded and uncared for.'And you had no one to comfort you, my poor; dear Letitia!--no one, I believe, but this little child?' she said, when Margaret advanced, as if to show that her poor mother was not quite neglected. And Lady Rochford kissed the beautiful child with an admiring affection that soothed and pleased little Margaret beyond measure; and she gazed up into her aunt's lovely face with wondering admiration, as if she were basking in the sunshine of those beautiful violet eyes.'Oh, no; I have not been neglected,' said Mrs. Seaton. 'I ought to be most grateful, for besides my dear children, who have been very kind, there is-- You remember Laura, don't you?' she said, motioning towards the other end of the long room; 'Mr. Seaton's daughter, Laura Gray.'On hearing the name, the great lady looked up quickly, darting one of those repelling glances which were then called 'an Almacks;'--and of all the exclusives who formed Lady Rochford's particular set, none knew how to make their glances

more severely cutting than Lady Rochford, when she chose to exercise her power, and keep any 'pushing persons' at a distance. For well did she remember the ungraceful girl--the Laura of eighteen; and her exquisite taste had been sorely shocked by the uncouth creature who dressed so badly, and, like many serious girls of that day, had been wont to wear her hair in, those ungrateful-looking curls, that always seemed to go the wrong way,--and the knot at the back that was put up in the most unbecoming manner; as if their very hair was resolved to protest, in its unbending sturdiness, against the vanities of this wicked world.But Lady Rochford's quick and experienced eye now at once saw the difference between that girl of former years, and the subdued and careworn looking woman, who stood there in an old and faded, but not ill-fitting dress; her hair simply arranged in bands that no longer refused to look graceful, and she saw that her large eyes had acquired something of the touching expression of her father's.The Countess was much pleased at the change; and rising from her low stool, she advanced towards Laura, and extended her hand with a look of kindness and respect, which the sight of genuine goodness and true humility generally inspires even among those who are considered the most worldly and fastidious. Laura saw that this advance was kindly meant, and therefore would not show any consciousness of Lady Rochford's previous haughty look, but responded to the kind pressure of her hand with a warm sweetness of manner which the discerning Countess felt was almost as fascinating as her own when she particularly wished to please.Thus we often see that real Christianity--that to live, according to the true interpretation of scripture, in perseverance of the pursuit of 'whatever things are lovely,' and in devout imitation of Him in whom all perfection dwells, often gives to a more ungainly countenance than Laura's a charm greater than can be ever acquired without it, by the greatest beauty, in her best efforts to please.CHAPTER XXX.
THE GREAT LADY AND THE AUTHORESS. 'OH, mum,' said Phoebe, Miss Barton's maid, the next day, as she ran with breathless haste into the room, 'here's the beautifullest lady as ever I see'd, down a waiting at the door, and she give me this card to show you,--for she ward not corn up, corze of interrupting of you; but if you would fix any time, that is, if you like to see her, she said;--but lawk, the sight of her would anybody's eyes good; sure, if there was a Queen of England, I should think it must be she! And she spoke to me so civil, too--just as if I was a lady; and there's a young lady with her!''The Countess of Rochford!--say we shall very glad to see her,' said Miss Barton, as she showed the card to her sister. 'How very strange! could she have come here to see her poor sister?''Oh!' said Miss Polly, in dismay, 'what shall I do?--that awful lady will never like to see me,--and with my shabbiest dress on, too!'At this moment the door opened, and Lady Rochford, with her most gracious smile and graceful air, appeared, fully doing justice, the sisters thought, to Phoebe's enthusiastic praise. She was accompanied by her daughter Jane, a plain but interesting looking girl.'How very kind of you to see me,' said Lady Rochford, taking their hands in hers with a soft touch, in the feel of which the Miss Bartons per-

ceived an indescribable charm, as her beautiful hand seemed to linger with a sort of respectful affection in theirs. 'But it quite goes to my heart to interrupt that writing,' continued the countess, looking towards the manuscript which lay upon a table near; 'yet I thought you might like to hear something of poor dear Mr. Seaton, so I determined to come here the first thing this morning, and introduce myself. You know Julia has not arrived, and he continues much in the same state. Poor man!--it is all very dreadful,' she continued, as the tears started to her eyes. 'My sister is so changed, though much improved, too. And now I wish you would go on with your writing, and not mind me, dear Miss Barton, while I try to amuse your sister Polly,' she said, taking a chair near the invalid's sofa. 'You know I am well acquainted with you both, from Linda's description; and I know everything in this dear room,' she said, as she looked round with a quick, pleased glance. 'This carpet you bought out of the profits of Maple Tree. And how delightful it is to see your face! I shall now enjoy your beautiful writings more than ever. I am quite satisfied with it, though I have so often been disappointed with the faces of my favourite authors;--quite satisfied,' she continued, while her lovely eyes lingered with a bright gleam of intense enjoyment on Miss Barton, and she seemed to read her with admiring delight. 'You have suffered very much,' she said, after a pause, and rising from her chair she again took Miss Barton's hand; 'and that is why you describe so well, and have learnt to know all the varieties of human nature so deeply. Now sit down at your own writing-table, for I am not worthy to engross your time; you should give it all--all your best

thoughts to the public. There now, I will go, and chatter to your poor sister;' and she resumed her place near Polly's sofa.Of course, Miss Barton could not and would not write, though she continued to sit near her writing-table, that Lady Rochford might fulfil her kind and thoughtful wish of devoting herself to the invalid.Lady Rochford talked most amusingly to Polly, relating the last joke of Sidney Elwards, and Mr. Roland, and occasionally drawing out Miss Polly to speak also, and making her feel as if she too were contributing her part to the conversation. And Polly felt very much pleased, and more at her ease than ever before; and, to her surprise, she found herself uttering thoughts and feelings in an agreeable manner, as if she had suddenly acquired a new power of speech. For Lady Rochford possessed, when she chose to exert it, that rare talent of true agreeability, which consists quite as much in drawing forth whatever good or brilliant qualities others possess as in exercising one's own.'So you expect me to write my own fiction,' said Miss Barton, after enjoying a hearty laugh at some joke Lady Rochford repeated of the great wits of the day. 'I could not do better than write word for word what you have been saying; and you have even contrived to make my poor sister say some things which would do very well in print.''Well, if you will come and join our foolish chatter, I must try to find something that will interest you; and I suppose there is nothing you care more about than to hear of dear Linda. I had a letter from her only two days ago, and she seems really so happy--it is quite delightful.''Yes, so it appears; and yet I can scarcely believe it is quite genuine,' said Miss Barton, with a serious look.'I was afraid of that at first,' said Lady Rochford; 'for though Mr. Grant is a good, and in some respects, really a most delightful man, yet he is certainly by no means equal to Linda; but I daresay you know much more about the secret history of her heart than she would ever let me see, continued Lady Rochford, with one of her penetrating glances.'No, I only exercised my imagination,' said Susan; 'for she was much too reserved to show her feelings; and, indeed, I fancy that the last time we met she was not herself aware of them, and I hope she never made the discovery.''I am afraid she did, though; for I discovered it only a few days before her marriage.' 'And was it too late--could nothing have been done?' eagerly inquired Miss Barton.'Surely it was, it must have been, too late,' said Lady Rochford;. 'besides, Mrs. Delamere would never have consented to let her marry a penniless younger brother.''I do not think she would have objected, for she has no ambition--her only object was to ensure Linda's happiness.''Oh, if I had been quite sure of that!' said Lady Rochford. 'But, then, what a dreadful thing for Mr. Grant, and what a sensation it would have caused!--just two days before her marriage!''Very dreadful for poor Mr. Grant, certainly!' said Susan; 'but better for all parties concerned, than that she should suffer during a whole life; for if my surmises are right, and that her heart was touched, it is for life; she will never change--

never!' said Miss Barton, with a sad and almost solemn expression.'You quite frighten me with your anxiety, for, indeed, I--I--was so possessed with the idea that Mrs. Delamere would refuse her consent, that I thought it would be much kinder not to run the risk of their meeting, and so I will confess that I contrived to hasten his departure from England.''Oh,' said Miss Barton, 'you have separated two hearts that were formed for each other. They were both so very superior to the generality of mankind, that neither could have been expected to meet any one to suit--to understand-- Oh! you have done a fatal thing. And was that your only motive?' said Miss Barton, fixing a gaze as penetrating as that of the Countess on Lady Rochford's countenance, which showed some signs of embarrassment, and, for a moment, of annoyance.Then, resuming her good-humoured air, Lady Rochford said, 'I see I cannot deceive you, so I need not try; but I think I may sincerely say that I did what I thought was the best for all parties. But you are not satisfied, I see you are displeased with me; yet, are you quite sure they would have been so very happy as you fancy? I should have thought their dispositions were too similar. I do not think, in general, that the happiest marriages are those where the dispositions resemble each other most.''They are only alike in their extreme superiority to the generality of mankind; in some respects they are very different. Poor Linda has a sad want of faith, she seems to have been born almost a disbeliever, while Mr. Aylmer is quite the reverse.''Yes, in that respect he is, indeed,' said Lady Roch-

ford; 'for I never met with such a glorious spirit of hope and confidence in eternal happiness. I shall never forget his words during the only time that I had the pleasure of conversing with him. He seemed to read my most secret thoughts; indeed, he discovered more than I was aware of in myself. It was as if he held up a looking-glass before my mind, and brought every quality, good and bad, into the broad light of day. His words quite haunt me, or rather they sometimes seem to be the only light spot I can see; as if the words were written with sunbeams on a dark, black world. I hope they never will be effaced,' she continued, with an air of touching contrition; 'and, indeed, I have sometimes tried to follow his advice since, and that made me come here to try and be of use to my poor sister.'My poor sister!' she continued, 'and those ugly bare rooms of hers are enough to drive me melancholy mad. I wish she would take example from the beautiful cathedral, and not make them like methodist chapels. But what a darling child that little Margaret is, in spite of all the disadvantage of her mother's education, and that dreadful Miss Jolliffe! and how lovely the child is too! And they all say she is like me. It is really very hard that I have no child like myself; mine are all so provokingly like Lord Rochford. But I am forgetting all my resolutions of not taking up your time, and I see Jane feels the same compunction, and is looking wistfully towards your manuscript. She reads all your works, and I hope they will keep her from the two extremes of high and low church; I begin to think that the high is as dangerous as the low. I was so afraid of my girl becoming like what I remember of that poor dear

Laura, that I rather encouraged them to cultivate the high church, as at all events they don't dress badly. But it has not answered at all with Helena, my eldest, and I am afraid I did a very foolish thing in making up that marriage. It has not turned out at all well,' she said, with a look of thoughtful melancholy, which Miss Barton admired almost more than her usual sprightliness. 'No, I am afraid it does not do at all to be ambitious; but my girls are so plain that I thought it better to secure such a rich young marquis. But another time I shall think of Mr. Aylmer's words, and not be so worldly. Yet, I should not like them to be poor, either, it must be so dreadfully uncomfortable,' she said, with a little shudder which made the folds of her rich silk dress rustle. 'Yet you are not uncomfortable,' she continued, looking round the room,--'quite the reverse; this is the only small room I ever liked; it is really cheerful. But, then, you have your mind and imagination, besides having all the pleasantest houses open to receive you. Any one would be enchanted to have you--all the greatest and most influential people. Ah, there is nothing like intellect--no riches, no beauty, is ever valued so much. I would gladly exchange all my beauty and fashion for your mind; for you are more powerful, you have more influence over mankind. I rule by my beauty and charm--you by your intellect. I am so stupid; I never could learn anything. Never could get beyond knowing that two and two make six. Yes, if a really leading person gives a dinner; in the important choice of who is to be invited to make it most agreeable, such as you would be placed on the golden list, and my name scratched out.''I cannot think,' said Miss Barton, 'why authors are so much sought after; for, as you so justly observed, the best part of their minds are generally given to their works.''It is not exactly for what they say, but it is so delightful to be understood; they seem to enter into one's thoughts and feelings, without one's having the trouble to express them,' said Lady Rochford. 'Besides, we do not want people always to talk, however cleverly they may do it; and I have sometimes been tired of laughing even at Sidney Elwards's wit. I would rather be understood as I see you understand me,' she continued, turning to Susan, 'even though it is sometimes inconvenient. You saw into me just now more than I wished; I could not deceive you, though I tried; and I feel as if you had really divined--or rather your penetrating glance has, like Dudley Aylmer's, brought to light, and stirred up my guilty conscience to acknowledge that there was a more selfish motive than I imputed to myself. So you have done me good, too, by holding up a looking-glass of truth, which brings to light all my deformities. But now I must really run away, or you will discover some more, and then you will hate me quite,' she said, taking Susan's hand, and pressing it even more warmly than before.'I want you to tell me where I can find an old shop,' continued Lady Rochford; 'I mean where I could get some picturesque old furniture. There ought to be plenty in this place,--what an interesting old town it is! We explored our way here, and lost ourselves in several such curious old streets. It is so strange,--I thought this such a dull, gloomy town, when I was here before, eight years ago. I suppose it is that I am grown so

much older that I harmonize better now with its venerable look.''There is a very good shop in the next street,' said Polly.'I want to get a few things to decorate that nice old room looking into the garden down-stairs. I have expelled the servants from it; my sister was actually so barbarous as to make a housekeeper's room of it.  I discovered, or rather dear little Margaret told me of a beautiful old carved chinney-piece that was there, when she heard me lamenting over the hideous modern things they have put into the sitting-rooms, and I went there and saw it. It is carved all the way up to the ceiling, something like yours, and there is some real old painted glass in the window, between the carved stone-work  So I am going to make such a beautiful little boudoir of it for dear Mr. Seaton to surprise him when he recovers, for I cannot think he will die,' she continued, with tears in her eyes; 'it would be too dreadful--such a man! He ought now have been Archbishop of Canterbury, if he had any ambition, but he has refused everything. He is a perfect angel; and then this illness, all caused by that detestable, silly Julia; how provoking that: such a worthless man will get all her fortune--and a my brother's too: it really drives one mad to think of it; and I feel so sorry that I did not try to ingratiate myself with my brother, and induce him to leave it to one of my children; I quite regret not having been selfish, but I really thought such a dear man as Mr. Seaton deserved at one of his children should inherit my brother's wealth. Julia was utterly spoiled by that odious Miss Jolliffe. I am resolved to expel that woman,' she said, while her eye flashed with a powerful

determination, which quite startled poor Polly: 'she has entirely spoilt the three eldest, quite.''I am afraid so,' said Susan; 'yet she also brought up Laura Gray, and she is now a very interesting person.''Yes, she is indeed; I am quite remorseful at having despised her so much, and never even tried to help them to a living, which might so easily have been done; and now her poor little old faded dress, which she wears with a sort of moving grace, and her careworn looks, all seem quite a reproach to me. But I hope soon to get something for them, for I am very much pleased with her. But you will think I am going to remain here for ever, so I will go and buy some pretty things; for I know poor Mr. Seaton always suffered from the ugliness of his rooms; and I am no use to any one. I can only try to make everything look pretty and cheerful for him when he recovers. And he will recover, don't you think so?' she added, looking anxiously in Miss Barton's face; for her sunny mind and buoyant disposition could not contemplate such a misfortune as his death. 'But you look sad; oh, don't make me think he will not, pray; for I am fonder of Mr. Seaton than of any one, and I should be utterly miserable if he were to die without a word of forgiveness to my poor sister. She has tried him dreadfully, and now she is so full of remorse. Come, Jane;--why the child has actually been reading your manuscript.''Yes, and I am so much interested in it; I long to know what you are going to do with those delightful characters. I shall be so proud, when I read it in print, that I have actually seen it in your own handwriting,' said Lady Jane, with

something of her mother's winning fascination. 'But you will let us come again, won't you?' she continued.'Yes, I see they will,' said Lady Rochford; 'and I hope to bring better news of Mr. Seaton.'When they had left the room, Polly exclaimed, 'Well! now she is gone, I am all surprise--utterly astounded; for I fancied she was the most fashionable, the greatest lady in England; yet while she was here she made it all seem so natural, that I scarcely even felt surprised at finding myself talking with her; it was almost as if she were my sister.''I suppose we saw her to great advantage,' said Susan; 'for Linda's sake she wished to please us.''Well,' exclaimed Polly, 'I really did enjoy it! she was so pleasant to look at, too, and the tone of her voice so beautiful, it seemed to make one quite happy, like cheerful birds singing; and it was as if the room was full of sunshine, and that it has gone in since she went  And her talking to me, too--to poor, stupid, dull me ! whom nobody cares to notice; is it not perfectly astonishing? and are you not quite enchanted?''I am very much pleased; and she showed great tact and extreme good taste in directing her conversation to you, because she rightly judged that you have fewer opportunities of seeing or hearing any news, or amusing yourself, than I have. Yes, it was very kind, and the motive good; though it may only proceed from that high breeding, the habit of doing the thing most agreeable to others, which seems hereditary in some people, and which makes those who are really well bred so peculiarly attractive. It seems to attain the grand principle

of Christianity, real charity, and love. Yet I am afraid-''Oh, don't say a word against her. I see you are not half enthusiastic enough in your admiration. I shall be so provoked if you say a word in her dispraise.''But remember you had a greater prejudice against Lady Rochford than I had, before; and you often wondered why Linda could be so much with her.''Yes, but then I had not seen her, nor experienced her extreme kindness,' said Polly, with glowing cheeks.'She was certainly kind; and I think I can see now, the reason why Linda was so much attracted by her.''How beautiful those violet eyes,' continued Susan, after a pause, 'and her ever-changing expression; lovely by nature, yet much assisted by a long course of success in pleasing, and a strong wish to inspire love and admiration.''But surely she has no affectation!' said Polly, indignantly.'Not exactly; it can scarcely be called affectation, because that generally only exists where there is contempt for others, and an evident wish to domineer--to force others to believe we possess some quality which we do not feel conscious of really having; whereas, when Lady Rochford wishes to please, she seems to be quite absorbed in admiration and interest for the person she is addressing. I am very glad to have seen her! very glad to see that London society has such good taste, and that the idol which fashion has set up is, in its way, so well worthy of being worshipped;--for it must be important in these days, when there is no queen.''What did she mean about your seeing into her more than she wished ?' asked Polly; 'it seemed so honest of her to confess that you did.''I saw that she had some selfish motive in preventing poor Linda from meeting Dudley, and she acknowledges she has done wrong; but I am afraid, if again tempted, she would do the same. Lady Rochford is very delightful, but I could not quite trust her! Poor, poor Linda!'CHAPTER XXXI.
THE HONEYMOON.PARIS is a place où l'on peut se passer de bonheur,' said some wise person, and--'how seldom does the fulfilment of our wishes bring the happiness we expect!' said another.Julia Seaton experienced the truth of both these axioms during the honeymoon she spent in Paris, after her runaway marriage. She had always, from earliest childhood, longed to go abroad and see foreign countries. Being debarred by her education, and afterwards by the strength of her own prejudices, from reading any work of fiction, the only amusing books that came within the pale were travels. And now the intense longing was gratified, and in company, too, with the husband of her choice,--the man for whom she had sacrificed all those principles and duties, upon the scrupulous fulfilment of which she had always prided herself so highly.His fascination had made her forget all her long-worshipped code of morals, and she found herself attending the theatres, and doing all those things she had been accustomed to regard as crimes of the deepest dye.Sometimes she enjoyed it all with a feverish intensity, and rushed more and more into dissipation; but it was with something of the feeling of a condemned criminal, who seeks to drown in intoxication the remembrance of his doom. For

there seemed to be always a shadow between her and everything. She saw and felt it, even when laughing at Randal's jokes,--for he was most amusing; his ready wit was peculiarly formed to dazzle such a mind as Julia's, where good taste and the aspiration after real beauty had never been cultivated, but rather repressed. And there were moments when the image of her father, as she had last seen him in his library that fatal night, stood before her with fearful distinctness; and when she heard the sound of his voice in memory's ear, then all the mirthful tones of music and laughter seemed to jar with discord in her ears.She had written as soon as they crossed the water, and inclosed her letter to Laura. It had been a most difficult letter to write, for her proud spirit rebelled and writhed at having to acknowledge she had done the very thing at the idea of which she had before been so indignant, when Laura or Miss Barton expressed their fears that it might be the result of her intimacy with Randal.The words she had so proudly uttered to both--'Of course I shall sacrifice my own wishes--of course I shall never marry a man my dear father has the slightest objection to,' rose up with fearful distinctness as she tried to write. And many letters were destroyed, and many bitter tears shed before she was at all satisfied with what she had written. At last it was finished, and her husband took the letter to put into the post himself. But no answer had as yet arrived, and she was becoming more anxious every day to hear whether she had any prospect of being forgiven.They had taken a splendid apartment in the Rue de Rivoli, and were surrounded with every luxury and enjoyment which that most luxurious place can produce. But Julia was becoming almost

tired of it all, as day after day passed and brought no letter from home.On their return one evening from a long expedition to Versailles, Julia saw some letters on the table, and anxiously rushed to ascertain who they were from. But there were none directed to her, and Mr. Randal quickly put them all in his pocket,  saying that they were on business, and could consequently contain nothing of interest.He then hastily left the room, and went to read them in his own boudoir. As soon as he had locked the door, he tore open one of them with a look of feverish anxiety, and devoured the contents. 'Surely this cannot be,' he thought, as he stamped his foot violently, and read some passages of the fatal letter again--'made a new will, and left all his fortune to. Margaret Seaton!''It is impossible; there has been some base trick practised when they found Julia had eloped; yet Parke says the will is quite in due form;' and again he read over the letter, as if he hoped he could not have understood it before. Pale with agitation, he then opened the other letters.'Debts, debts, nothing but debts;--yet stay, here is one from Joe Linton--perhaps this may throw some light on the cause of this confounded change.' He tore it open, and as he again eagerly perused the page, his countenance became livid with anger. He struck his clenched hand on the table, and stamped with fury.'Dudley Aylmer, again-supposed to have been done by his advice, as he was the only person Sir James St. Lawrence saw during his last illness. That man is certainly my evil genius,' he continued; 'but for him, Linda would have been mine--her fortune and herself! She is the only woman I could ever really love; yes, I could have

loved her even more than poor Paulina, for her soaring intellect and transcendant genius are worthy of mine. And she shall be mine still. I will be revenged on this Dudley. He shall have the misery of knowing that his adored Linda has fallen a prey to my designs. Yes, I can--I will accomplish this; and Julia shall be my tool. I will keep well with her--I will rivet more firmly my influence over her mind. Ha! I see it all!'And Randal stood for one minute buried in thought, while a smile of exultation glared on his features, and his form of godlike beauty seemed to be transformed into the abode of an evil spirit. 'But I must act at once,' thought he, rousing himself from the contemplation of future triumphs. 'Something must be done immediately to avert the consequences of utter ruin. I must go to England,' he thought, 'and see whether it cannot be possible to suppress this will; and Julia had better know nothing about her uncle's death for the present. How fortunate that I destroyed the letter to her father she gave me to put in the post.' Then he carefully locked up the letters, and assuming his usual look of gay indifference, returned to the drawing-room.Julia was deep in the second volume of a modern French novel--that fascinating distraction with which she now sought to stifle though during the short intervals between the amusement and dissipations of the hour. For Randal had laughed away her scruples about novels; and the very first work of fiction that the poor girl ever read was one of the most powerful of Victor Hugo's.She started as Randal came into the room, and announced his intention of leaving Paris for London immediately. 'Such tiresome lawyers'

letters as I have received--I must run over and see about them. But I shall not be gone many days,' he added, on seeing her look of dismay.'But why can't I go with you? I would give anything to hear something of dear papa, and--''It is impossible,' he said, with a look of such powerful decision that it made her tremble, and she felt it would be useless to urge the matter; yet she was not accustomed to be ruled, and she said,--'Tell me why,--why is it impossible?''In the first place, your going would detain me much longer. I shall go bydiligence, and without any servant. Then I thought you wished to travel through Germany and Italy,' he said, with a winning smile 'I thought you were looking forward to see the Swiss mountains, before the snow prevents our making excursions among them,' he continued, with a persuasive look. 'Therefore, why should you wish to do what will hinder--perhaps quite prevent--our making the delightful tour we have so long been contemplating?''Dear Julia,' he said, putting his arm affectionately round her waist;--'there, I see you are satisfied, now. I shall soon be back; and remember, we have a box at the Italian Opera for to-morrow night, and you can ask the Miss Conways and their brother, if you like, to accompany you. Then there is the party for Fontainbleau for next day, and Demidoff's private theatricals, and a dance at that agreeable Due de Longchamp's for Thursday. Then you have all those delightful books to read,' he said, pointing to a pile of fascinating yellow-bound volumes, fresh from the booksellers, with uncut leaves, and such a pleasant smell 'Then you have

your carriage and horses; and you can ask any one you like to dinner, or do anything you fancy. There, my darling Julia; now don't look sad, for I shall be back at the latest in a week--this day week; and make some pleasant engagement for that day.'Julia saw it was inevitable, and tried to feel pleased with the prospect of all the gaieties which her husband had enumerated, but she could hardly repress her tears; and when the carriage came to the door, and she saw him actually drive off, a sense of such desolation came over her that she sank down in utter despair.In vain she tried to read--the story had lost its interest; and her fears about her father, and anxiety to hear from him, became most painfully intense. She walked about the room with impatient steps, and as her eyes fell on the costly and beautiful objects it contained, she felt how gladly she would exchange all this, for a sight of the poor old bare rooms in the Close at W--, and even of her mother's table, the bare ugliness of which she had often contemptuously abused. Then she turned with a sort of sickening horror from the sight of all this grandeur, and hastened to the window, in hopes of finding some distraction for her most painful thoughts. She looked out on the Tuileries gardens, where groups of merry children were plying; but their joyous laughter, and the sound of their hoops, reminded her painfully of her dear little sister Margaret--that beautiful child whose love she had so often repelled with proud coldness. Every recollection was fraught with misery--all happiness seemed to have gone for ever; and now that she was no longer under the fascination of her husband's presence, she felt pro-

voked with him for leaving her, and then almost angry with him for having tempted her to fly from her dear father, and act a part opposed to all her own principles and determinations.Thus she seemed suddenly deprived of everything. She had lost all confidence in her peculiar faith. The whole fabric of the religious belief in which she had- been educated was shaken, and she had gained nothing else. There seemed nothing to which she could cling-nowhere she could turn for comfort or relief from this dreadful misery. Like her mother, she seemed suddenly to discover that her creed had been wrong and uncharitable,--for now was not she herself given up to worldly pleasures, just like those she had always condemned? And she now felt she had never really prayed; but, unlike her mother, she had found no better faith,--no refuge,--no hope even in penitence,--all was perplexity, misery, despair. She could not pray.CHAPTER XXXII.
SUNSHINE.'I AM sure he is better to-day; I am certain he will recover,' said Lady Rochford to her sister.Mrs. Seaton looked up with a faint smile, and said,--'You have often said so, dear Helena, and I know you mean it kindly; but I can't think it, for I do not deserve ever to hear the sound of his dear voice again. If you knew how much I pained him, how cruelly I thwarted his wishes and feelings, you would feel as I do, that it is a judgment upon me. I feel it is intended to punish me; but I also feel that God in kindness has inflicted this misery, in order to fit me for him--to enable me to enjoy an eternity of happiness with my dear husband.''I trust you will, indeed; but I also cannot help hoping that you will be able to enjoy a long life of happiness with him in this world, too. Then, everything is happening just as we wanted: that darling Margaret, whom I love better than any of my own children, to have all our poor brother's fortune!--she is exactly fitted for it, dear child! She will never be spoilt--never. She will be so much better than me. And all this having been brought about by that enchanting Dudley Aylmer,--he seems to have been everybody's good genius.''Yes; we ought, indeed, to be most thankful;--and to think that Mr. Randal should be so taken in.''It is delightful to think of--quite; and I

see poor dear Linda, though she feels so much for you all, yet she cannot help letting me see by her letter that she considers her mother has really had an escape, and that Randal had contrived to ingratiate himself much more than she had any idea of. It seems he has been writing to Mrs. Delamere constantly; and I suppose he really would have succeeded in inveigling her into a marriage, if he had not thought Julia's prospect of 12,000£ a year more inviting!''Poor Mrs. Delamere! I always thought she was a weak, silly woman,' said Mrs. Seaton, with a slight tinge of her old hauteur; but suddenly remembering herself, and that her own daughter, in whose high principles she had always had such implicit confidence, had acted much more weakly still, she added, with a look of contrition,--'But I know it is very wrong to judge or condemn anyone harshly; and I often think how glad poor dear Mr. Seaton would be if he saw how changed I am; for I know he used to think me harsh and wrong, though he never found fault with me; but he did so often with himself--though why, I never could make out, for he never condemned anyone; on the contrary, he always made excuses for them. He did for you, whenever I-- But I see now how dreadfully, how completely I misjudged you,' she continued, throwing her arms round her sister's neck.'So you abused me, did you?' said Lady Rochford, laughing; 'but I am afraid you were right,--only it is a great comfort to know that dear man could see some good in me, for it is the greatest encouragement for me to deserve it. And you have no idea how much better I have become since I arrived here. I am sure there is a blessing in this old house, from the spirit of that dear Mr. Seaton;

for though he appears unconscious of all around, I feel as if he were always praying for us all.''I had no idea before, it was possible to exist in such extreme dulness,' continued Lady Rochford. 'Here I have been for three weeks, seeing no one but you, and living in rooms I thought would drive me mad--(to be sure, I have turned the rooms pretty well topsy turvy--there is no fear of their looking bare again); but one would think the sight of your sorrowful face would not be cheering; and those poor dull girls, who seem in mind and body like birds moulting; they have lost all their former proud plumage, and most of their prejudices, and yet don't quite know what to believe or think about themselves, or anybody else; but I have some hopes for them. Well, here am I, without any of my own high set,--no luxury, no amusement, no flirtation,--yet I do actually feel happy. Yes, though you are so miserable, too, dear Letitia; but I see it is good for you, so I don't mind it, if that dear, good angel of a man would but recover.''What is that?' said Mrs. Seaton, starting up; 'there is something going on in Mr. Seaton's room? Why, surely, can that be Margaret singing? how could she be so thoughtless!' continued she, going towards the door which separated the rooms.'Why not?' said Lady Rochford, putting hand on her sister's shoulder. 'Stay! do not interrupt her. I have such faith in that child's fondness for her father. I never saw such love. I am sure she will be the means, in some way, of his recovery.' 'But the child must be mad!''Hush!' said Lady Rochford, opening the door gently. 'How beautifully she is singing that air; I dare say it was a favourite one with her father. What a sweet voice the child has!'Mrs. Seaton listened in silent awe. There was something so solemn in the sound, proceeding, as it did, from a sick-room, where for three long weeks of misery they had all watched and prayed in silent, ceaseless agony--where no sound was ever heard above a faint whisper.Little Margaret proceeded steadily with her song, her voice gaining power as she continued. At the end of the last verse, they heard a cry of joy, so loud and rapturous, it made them start.'Papa, dear papa, you know me? oh, I see you do. Dear papa, what joy to find you again! Oh, mamma, come!' she called, as she heard them outside; then sank on the bed, fainting.Mrs. Seaton and her sister rushed into the room.'My dear Letitia--and Helena! is that you? where am I?' said Mr. Seaton, as he gazed on them with his former affectionate earnestness. 'Where am I? what has happened?''Nothing,' said Lady Rochford, with much presence of mind; 'only I am come to see you all.'Then she lifted little Margaret gently up, concealing her as much as possible with her own figure, and took the fainting child out of the room, while Mrs. Seaton threw herself on her knees by her husband's bedside, and leaned her head on her clasped hands to hide her emotion. For she felt Lady Rochford was right, and that she must subdue her feelings, and try to appear as if nothing had happened. But who can tell the joy, the intense gratitude and bliss she felt! Her prayers had, indeed, been heard; she had seen her husband gaze on her with kind forgiveness. She could scarcely believe it was not a delightful dream, and felt afraid to move; almost to look at him again, lest she should see the unconscious look return.CHAPTER XXXIII. 
FIVE YEARS.FIVE years have passed since the events related in the last chapter, occurred.Linda had given birth to a girl at the end of the first year after her marriage, and old nurse Eleanor had entirely recovered her reason, when the little Ethel, a real living child of her beloved family, was put into the empty cradle, which she had unconsciously rocked for so many years. She seemed endued with renewed youth; and the only trace she retained of her former state of mind was a clearer or quicker perception, which by many was considered supernatural  This perception she exercised particularly with regard to Linda, whom she idolized with ever-increasing intensity, often saying, to old Mrs. Grant's surprise, that she was too bright and good even for her dear master; and at times she showed so much anxiety for Linda's bodily health as to alarm Mrs. Grant.'Her spirit is wearing her out,' she would say; 'she is too good--too unearthly for this world.' There was much truth in this, for it did seem, almost unnatural that, as the old nurse said, Linda was 'never fashed wi' anything.'But Linda was now much happier than formerly, for she had attained the great object of her life. She could hope, and pray, and look forward with a blissful confidence to perfect happiness in another world. This gave her a sort of strange indiffe-

rence to the little rubs of everyday life, which must be experienced, even by the most prosperous. Yet she still retained an ever-enduring conviction of the error she had committed in having married. The void in. her heart was there still.Yet Linda enjoyed a great amount of real happiness; and not the least part of it was the consciousness that her presence diffused so much joy on all around. Mrs. Grant, as well as the old nurse, seemed to have grown young again.Mr. Grant was as happy as one of his kindly disposition could be, who was always desirous to do good to his fellow-creatures, and possessed ample means for carrying out his wishes; blessed, moreover, with a beautiful child. The only regret of all was that there was no boy--no other child to prevent the little Ethel from being utterly spoilt,--for she was the great darling of three mothers.Mrs. Delamere, who had always imagined she disliked children, and fancied she never could love anybody very much, except her own daughter, seemed to have her capacity for loving doubled when little Ethel was born.The great object now of Linda's life was so to educate her child as to prevent the ill effects of the extreme adoration she received. As heiress of two fortunes, and representative of two old families, Linda trembled to think what temptations would beset her child's path.Linda felt the errors in her own education,--the disadvantage of being an only child--the reserve which had been the consequence of it, from rarely having had any little familiar companion to excite her feelings and perhaps passions, and the consequent suffering which this reserve and solitary isolation of soul had caused.Perhaps from her fear of too much spoiling, she herself was rather too severe, and thus lost some portion of influence; but were this so, it certainly was the more wholesome extreme of the two, considering the giddy elevation on which little Ethel would be placed.They passed most of the year at Craggie; but during the time that Mr. Grant thought it right to attend the sittings of Parliament, Linda and her mother preferred being at, Delamere. Its nearness to London made it very convenient; and besides, they thought it right to reside for a little while every year among their own tenantry. They passed but a very short time each season in London, although Mrs Delamere still retained her beautiful house in Park-lane. They were never there long enough to enter into general society, but they enjoyed the gratification of seeing some of their old friends.The Randals lived chiefly abroad: with their limited income, they found a larger amount of luxuries and comforts could be procured on the Continent, with small means, than was possible in England.But whenever Mrs. Delamere and the Grant were passing through London, it invariably happened, by some strange coincidence, that they always met George Randal.Sometimes he had come over on pressing business; at other times he had brought over his wife to see her family; and he continued to keep up his hold on Mrs. Delamere's mind, by appealing to her pity for what he described as his ill-assorted marriage with a silly, weak girl. He complained that her religious changes were extremely trying to bear, alternating between High and Low Church,

--sometimes on the verge of Catholicism, at other times adopting the most extravagant Calvinistic views.Although apparently reconciled to: her own family, Julia never appeared to be quite at her ease with them. A barrier of reserve seemed to have sprung up, which her father tried in vain to break through. Her visits were generally hurried, and Mr. Seaton sometimes fancied her husband prevented her being much alone with him;--perhaps, from knowing the objection there had been to the marriage, Randal might fear that her father would prejudice her against him.But to a disposition so sensitive and affectionate as that of Mr. Seaton, this sort of mysterious reserve was most painful.In fact, among the minor trials of life, few are more depressing than the sort of inexplicable estrangement which sometimes separates old friends and even relations. They continue to meet and talk together, apparently as before; but the mainspring of confidence, the connecting link that once bound their inmost souls, is gone.It was the same with Julia's letters, when they were abroad. She wrote often, and amusingly enough; detailing particulars of all she did and saw, and relating anecdotes, and giving descriptions of the clever persons they met, or interesting places through which they passed. They were letters almost good enough to print, but they were not such as a loving daughter would write to a kind and forgiving parent.Julia often wrote to Linda and Mrs. Delamere, and always expressed extreme anxiety to hear from them, and made minute inquiries about all they were doing, and begged them to tell her of every-

thing that interested them. Yet Linda always felt, without knowing why, that Julia could not really care to hear from them, though she thought it right to answer her letters.But it became rather irksome; and then, Julia, as if aware that her letters had ceased to interest her old friends, used to write to Linda on religion, imploring her to give her counsel and advice, for that she was tormented with doubts and perplexity. Yet these did not seem to spring from her hearts and Linda began to fancy they were dictated by her husband, from some strange motive.At last Julia wrote a most touching letter, detailing all her doubts, and saying that she feared she should become a Roman Catholic, unless Linda would take compassion on her, and allow her to come and pass some little time at Craggie. She said a priest at Naples had obtained such hold over her mind, that she felt herself wavering; but for her father's sake she wished, if possible, to avoid the  élat which her conversion would, naturally cause, and the pain it would give to him; but that she had no confidence in any one's judgment but Linda's,--she alone could save her from what she feared would quite break her father's heart.'After having almost killed him by my marriage with a man whom he justly condemned, I want, if possible, to spare him the misery of my becoming what he has such an extreme prejudice against; for you know,' she continued, 'that he has always belonged to the evangelical party, and, as the friend of Hannah More and Wilberforce, he regards Roman Catholics as worse than infidels.''That I am sure he does not,' said Linda, who had been reading the letter aloud to her mother

and Mrs. Grant. 'He is totally devoid of any prejudices; and I never will believe that dear Mr. Seaton ever thought, much less uttered, anything harsh or condemnatory of any class of Christians, however widely their opinions and practices may differ from his own.'There was also a letter from George Randal to Mrs. Delamere, complaining of the influence of the priest, and imploring her to use her influence with Linda to allow Julia to visit them at Craggie.'Poor Mr. Randal!' said Mrs. Delamere; 'he has a hard lot with that wayward wife of his.'When she had left the room, Mrs. Grant looked up from her knitting with one of those far-sighted glances which Linda knew so well.'That man has some design on you, I am certain, dear Linda, after all I have heard of him, and his bitter and double disappointment and humiliation in being deprived of both your hand and your fortune when you refused him! Depend upon it that he has never forgiven you, and that he is now acting a part.  Lady Rochford told me one day during her last visit here that she was sure he was your bitter enemy, and hers also.'Linda had told Mrs. Grant everything--no reserve crept in to chill their loving intercourse; but she had never disclosed the secret of her life to her mother, for she knew--poor Mrs. Delamere would reproach herself so bitterly for not having divined her real feelings, and ensured her happiness.'What can be his motive?' said Mrs. Grant, while she gazed on her daughter with such intense affection that she seemed to forget the question she had asked. 'You are thin, dearest Linda, and pale. Oh, if I could see the roses on your cheeks that you brought when first you came to Craggie,

six years ago! I know you are far happier now, but your bodily health has suffered,--you have those dreadful headaches so often. Old Eleanor is anxious and unhappy about you, and she wants me to persuade you to go to the south. I sometimes have a strange idea,' continued Mr. Grant,--'I want you to see him! I think that if you met, and became friends, as you were when you were children, you would be much happier. It must be so trying to remain in a state of reserve with old friends,--and, in fact, with all his family.''How strange it is,' said Linda, after a pause; 'that you and Eleanor can always read one so plain; she saw at first more than I  knew myself.''She thinks you a being of a very superior order to all us mortals,' said Mrs. Grant, smiling. 'She thinks you scarcely belong to this earth; and she feels sure the person who excited your love must also belong to the spiritual world. She says it could not be like any other two people.''What a blessing it is that you know all, and that I have no secrets from you and dear old Eleanor. I quite regard you both as oracles--in fact, she is a complete sybil, and there would no use trying to conceal anything from her.'CHAPTER XXXIV.
THE SNARE.MRS. GRANT was right about Linda's health,--she was very delicate; and the winter before had been so trying to her, that she was ordered to live entirely in two rooms of the same temperature. Mrs. Delamere was also most anxious that she should try a winter in Italy, and she often complained much of her own health; so, after a little time, Linda reluctantly consented to go abroad.'I do not think it is right,' she said to Eleanor,--'we are all so happy. Are you not afraid to dispel the charm by sending me away so far?''Maybe there is a fear that we shall never meet here in this world again,' she said, looking intently at the blue distant mountains; 'but if you remain in this cold north another winter, the flowers of spring will bloom on your grave;--you would then be happier far, but you must not leave that child yet,--she has much to pass through: a heavy weight of care, with all the gold and lands she is heir to. Ye must watch over her.' Linda sometimes wrote to Lady Theresa, but they had never met since her marriage, and she felt there was a restraint in her old friend's letters;--she felt that Theresa had never forgiven her for disappointing her brother, Lord Clanville. And Mrs. Grant was right,--it was very sad to be thus estranged from her earliest and most intimate friends  Linda's heart often yearned towards them

all, and longed ardently that they would look upon her as they all did before that fatal proposal Lord Clanville's.In the autumn of that year, Linda's health seemed failing so fast, that everyone felt no time was to be lost in taking her to a warmer climate. So they all arranged to go; but Linda's great sorrow was the idea of leaving Mrs. Grant. She could not be persuaded to accompany them;--she felt she should be of more use in remaining at home while her son was abroad with his wife. Linda offered to leave Ethel with her grandmamma, but Mrs. Grant would not consent to separate the doting mother from her only child. So they started towards the end of September, and travelled by easy stages to London.The day after their arrival a letter reached them, which, in some degree, altered their plans. Mrs. Grant had been taken suddenly ill, and though she sent a message in the letter to beg they would proceed on their journey, Linda felt too uneasy to do so, and she and Mr. Grant left Mrs. Delamere and Ethel in London, and travelled back to Craggie with as much speed as her delicate health would allow. It was even more serious than they expected, and Linda was most thankful to find herself in this hour of anxiety by the bedside of one so dearly loved, and not, as she might have been, hundreds of miles away.In the meantime, Mrs Delamere had met the Randals in London, and they tried to persuade her to accompany them at once to Italy. They said that Linda must follow, if she and Ethel were gone: whereas, if she were to remain in England, Linda, who was so averse to go abroad, would be sure to frame some excuse for staying at

home, and thus run the risk of another trying winter.Their arguments seemed so plausible that she consented; and after writing to explain the state of the case, and expressing a hope that Linda and Mr. Grant would overtake them in Paris, she started on the journey with the Randals.Linda was extremely annoyed when she read the letter, and felt almost inclined to be angry with her mother for having acceded to the Randals' proposal. She was also afraid that poor Mrs. Grant would be still more annoyed, if she knew that Mrs. Delamere was actually gone; the more so, as Linda saw that her own return to Craggie had greatly aggravated Mrs. Grant's illness;--and Linda begged her husband not to mention anything about the Randals in his mother's presence.'Certainly not, if you wish it,' said Mr. Grant, who could never see any bad in others;--'but I can't imagine what crotchet you both have taken into your heads about that Mr. Randal. Surely he has acted in this instance from a kind motive; and you are more likely to follow quickly, and reach a place which will benefit your health, if your mother and child are gone on before. I really think you and my dear mother judge that poor man very harshly; he can't want to marry your mother now that he has got a wife. But you really had better go at once, and overtake them in Paris, as Mrs. Delamere advises. I have just been thinking that you should go before the cold weather comes, and so you really must start with them, and I will follow as soon as I see my mother safe through this illness.'Linda was most unwilling to leave Mrs. Grant,

in her dangerous state; still, a vague anxiety about her mother and child preyed upon her mind, and after some consideration, she consented to follow her husband's advice.'In the meantime, Mrs. Delamere proceeded rapidly on her journey towards Italy. The day after their arrival in Paris, Mr. Randal said he had received a letter which convinced him that his presence would be requisite at Naples with as little delay as possible. He was again successful in surmounting Mrs. Delamere's scruples, and she consented to travel with them as quickly as they required. Moved by his arguments, she began to exult in the idea that Linda now must pass the winter in Italy; and the faster they travelled the more she seemed pleased.In about three weeks they arrived at Rome, but poor Mrs. Delamere's health had suffered much from so hurried a journey, and they were obliged to remain there a few days, that she might rest. A letter reached them there from Linda, in which she announced her intention of proceeding without Mr. Grant.'Poor Linda!' said Mrs. Delamere; 'she will be obliged to travel quite alone all the way from Paris, besides the other miserable journey from Scotland.''Depend upon it, nothing will do her more good,' said Mr. Randal. 'Nothing rouses people more from their bodily sufferings than being obliged to exert themselves; with her courier and maid, she can meet with no real difficulty; and then she will find you comfortably settled in a nice house at Naples or Sorrento.--I should advise Sorrento, warmer and more sheltered from the cold winds, and also more quiet,-as I suppose Linda will not care much to enter into society if Mr. Grant does not come.'Mrs. Delamere had enjoyed the journey extremely, notwithstanding the fatigue of travelling so quickly, for Mr. Randal had proved a most amusing companion. She wondered more and more why Linda, and little Ethel even, should dislike him, for nothing could appear more amiable than he showed himself. He treated his wife, too, with much kind consideration; always asking her opinion, and endeavouring to promote her wishes in everything. All his anxiety seemed, for some time, to have been the fear of her becoming a Roman Catholic; and now that Linda would probably pass the winter in the same place, he felt confident that her advice and good sense would prevent this misfortune.He seemed very contented, too, and often expressed his extreme satisfaction that Sir James St. Lawrence had left all his fortune to little Margaret.'We should not have been half so happy,' he often said, 'if we possessed such riches,--though I can't always convince my wife of that,' he added, turning to Julia, whose sullen and contemptuous looks, and disappointed air, did not seem to intimate that she fully appreciated the advantages of poverty, or put much faith in her husband's indifference to riches.'But I know we are happier,' he continued, with a cheerful look, 'for had Sir James made Julia his heiress, then there would have been no excuse for our living abroad, and doing what we like, and going where we choose. We should have considered ourselves bound to live at that ugly old family place in Northumberland, and improve the tenantry, and teach the school-children, and all those sort of disagreeable duties, which never seem

to be of any real use, that I could discover, except to make both teachers and children cross and stupid. But now we live with artists and poets, and all the really agreeable people of all countries. You will see what pleasant society we shall have at Naples. By the bye, Julia's cousins, the Kilgrogans, are to be there, I believe. Not that I mention them as pleasant people--quite the reverse; but they are both examples of the evils of trying to do good. Helena was full of wild projects of reforming all the people, high and low, in their Irish neighbourhood; she built churches, I believe, or, at any rate, endowed schools, and began to learn the Celtic language, that she might exhort and teach the poor people in their own dialect; but she soon became sick of it all, and disgusted with the ingratitude and opposition she met with. And in the meantime she had neglected her husband's comfort, and bored him to death; he took to gambling again, and lately I hear she has followed his example, and plays very high. She lost so much this autumn that they are actually obliged to come abroad to economize.'When they arrived at Naples, the English doctor, Leighton, who happened to be there, and who had known Linda in London, strongly advised Mrs. Delamere to take a house at Sorrento for the winter. He knew of a beautiful villa to the south, which would just suit them, commanding such a lovely view, that the scene alone would effect a cure on her daughter, he said.Dr. Leighton had been a great admirer of Linda, and knew her constitution well. He said that her sufferings arose more from the state of her nerves than from any real derangement, and he felt confident that the sort of scenery in and near Sor-
rento, and its quiet, would do her more good than the comparative bustle and gaiety of Naples.'Why her nerves should be at all shaken is a mystery I never could fathom,' he said to Mrs. Delamere, who was informing him of her daughter's extremely delicate state of health. 'But I observed, during her visit to London, three years ago, that such was the case. It is strange, when she is enjoying such uninterrupted prosperity--such a husband, and the man of her own choice, too! Such a darling child as that, and so happy as she appears to be in herself,--having the enjoyment of all her varied talents!''Yes, thank God,' said Mrs. Delamere, 'no one can be happier than she is in every way, and no one makes everyone around so happy as she does; but I am afraid you will think heir health sadly changed, and I hope you will be able to attend her if we go to Sorrento, though I am afraid you intend to remain here.''I shall often be obliged to go to Sorrento during the winter,' he rejoined, 'as I have a very interesting patient who is soon going there.'Mrs. Delamere was now quite resolved to follow his advice, and Mr. Randal offered to accompany her to see the villa Dr. Leighton recommended; while he seemed disposed to give up his apartment at Naples, and try to get a small one at Sorrento, that Julia might have the delight of being near her old friends.The villa Palavicini proved to be the most attractive residence possible, and Mrs. Delamere felt sure that Linda would be enchanted with it. There was, fortunately, a small lodging near, still vacant, which Mr. Randal engaged at once,--for every other house there was already taken. The

only other large villa, besides Mrs. Delamere's, had lately been engaged, they were told, by an English milord, whose name they could not learn. Its beautiful gardens almost joined those of the villa Palavicini. Milord had not yet arrived, but was expected shortly, with his suite.Mrs. Delamere was charmed with her residence. She went from room to room, and passed the evening in the balcony, enjoying the splendid moonlight view with Julia. Mr. Randal had returned to Naples to make some arrangements about letting his apartments there, promising to come back if possible the next day. The next morning, however, Mrs. Delamere was seized with one of those feverish colds to which she was rather subject, and soon became quite ill. Dr. Leighton was, fortunately, expected in the evening. He was coming to the next villa, with the English milord, whose sister was very ill. So Julia sent a note there to beg his attendance on Mrs. Delamere as soon as possible, and in the meantime she remained by her sofa in the drawing-room.CHAPTER XXXV.
THE SHADOW OF THE PAST.LATE in the evening Dr. Leighton made his appearance, and after prescribing for Mrs. Delamere, whose illness he hoped would soon pass off, with care, and having cautioned her to beware of the treacherous climate, which English people at first never understood, he said,--'I find that you are an old acquaintance of your next door neighbours.' Mrs. Delamere then heard with great pleasure that her unknown compatriots were Lord Clanville and his poor sister, Lady Theresa Aylmer. 'Poor girl! hers is a most interesting case--almost hopeless. I wish you could have seen the intense delight,' continued Dr. Leighton, 'that it gave her to hear that you were here, and your daughter expected. 'I only wanted to see Linda again, and then I should be perfectly happy,' she said. Their brother, Mr. Dudley Aylmer, is expected to-morrow for a few days; he is coming from Vienna to see his poor sister.''Oh, I am so glad!' said Mrs. Delamere. 'I hope Dudley will come and see me; tell him to come at once--as soon as he possibly can leave poor Theresa; there is no one I ever liked so much in the world; and I have not seen him for eight years--never once. I am sure it would make me quite well only to see his dear handsome face once more.''It is, indeed, a sight that must do everyone good,' said Dr. Leighton; 'there never was such--''What sight is it that must do everyone good?' inquired Mr. Randal, who had stepped in at the low window from the balcony, having just returned from Naples, and come straight to call on Mrs. Delamere before he went to his own lodgings.'Dudley Aylmer--dear, dear Dudley!' said Mrs. Delamere.A momentary expression of dismay flitted across Randal's features; but he felt that the quick and scrutinising eyes of Dr. Leighton were upon him, so he instantly assumed an indifferent air, as he said,--'Oh, have the Clanvilles then got the next villa? How very fortunate, now, that you fixed on Sorrento for the winter. It will be delightful for Linda to be near her old friends.'He then inquired with great solicitude after Mrs. Delamere's health, and scolded Julia for having allowed her to sit out so late on the terrace. After spending so many winters in Italy, she ought to have known better.Dr. Leighton prescribed extreme quiet, and gave Mrs. Delamere a composing draught, promising to come and see her in the morning, and inform Mr. Aylmer of her wish to see him as soon as he could come in. Mr. Randal then went to see that every arrangement was made for her comfort, while Julia confided Mrs. Delamere to the care of her maid; and then the Randals walked home.It was one of those lovely evenings when everything seems to breathe peace and happiness. The smell of the orange-trees, the gentle plashing of the sea on the shore beneath, the various sounds of nature, and the melodious southern voices of the few boatmen within sight--their musical shouts

rendered by distance still more harmonious; the sky of a pale green towards the horizon, faintly streaked above with purple-tinted clouds--all was redolent of exquisite never-ending beauty.But neither Mr. Randal nor Julia seemed to feel its charm; both appeared to be pre-occupied by unpleasant thoughts. At last Julia said,--'Why are you so sorry the Aylmers are come? I see you do not like it at all. When Dudley's name was mentioned you looked quite fierce. I did not know you were even acquainted with him.''I am not,--nor do I care in the least whether they are here or not. You mistook me, I was only annoyed at the failure I had at Naples in letting our apartments, as we are so dreadfully poor.''Is that really all? I never can quite understand you, nor do I see why you are so extremely anxious to have Mrs. Delamere and Linda here,' she said, in a tone of jealousy and pique. 'Why do we not go back to Naples instead of incurring the expense of two houses?''Why? because I thought you wanted to be near the Antoninis; and it was to please you that I incurred the additional expense of taking these lodgings, and moving here. How ungrateful you are!' he said, with one of those looks which always convinced her for the time of his love and devotion.'Oh no, I am not, indeed, dear George; and it is most kind of you--for I know you do not quite like my intimacy with them, and you always think the Princess Antonini wants to convert me.''Yes; and then instead of appreciating my tolerance and consideration for your wishes, you are only out of humour with me, and give me suspicious looks.''Well, well, I know I was wrong--I continually am; and you are always kind,' said Julia; 'and I ought to be the happiest creature in the world,' she continued, with a smile and a sigh too; for she did not feel happy at all, for many reasons, as will be seen hereafter.'Where are we going?--this is not the way to our lodging,' said Mr. Randal, when the short twilight had almost ceased.'Certainly not,' said Julia--'and I could not make out why you took that turn by the end of the orange-grove instead of the right one; but I thought you might wish to prolong the walk this lovely night. But what is the matter?--you look as if you had seen a ghost; you are quite pale,' she added, seeing that he shuddered and turned hastily back.'This is a most lonely-looking spot,' she continued; 'and that old ruined cottage appears very desolate. I remember visiting it last year, when I came to spend the day with the Antoninis. We all remarked its blackened walls, and we felt as if some curse were hanging over the place.''There is, indeed!' said Randal, in a solemn tone. 'Come away;'--and he dragged her with hasty strides up the height, down which before they had been gradually descending.'What is it?--tell me. I never saw you so agitated before,' she said, as soon as she had recovered her breath.'I will tell you all about it when we get home. It is a long story,' he added, with assumed indifference; 'I remember hearing it when I was here, many years ago;' and he laughed at her and himself for thinking about it.'I never knew you were superstitious,' said

Julia; 'I really think that you must have seen a ghost there.''What a fool I was to come here,' thought Randal. 'Poor Paulina!--I had almost forgotten her; and now that my evil genius is come--that confounded Aylmer, I almost doubt whether my designs will prosper. He will perhaps again foil me in this deep-laid scheme I have been planning for years! However, I will hold my ground, and then there will be a dire trial of strength.''How very sad you look--what can be the matter?' inquired Julia, when they had reached the street, and the light of the lamp fell upon Randal's haggard countenance.'Nothing--don't torment me!' he said, in an angry tone, which effectually silenced Julia, who well knew that he was in one of those humours when she dare not speak to him. So she was obliged to moderate her curiosity to hear the history of the ruined cottage, until this sort of black fit, which sometimes came over him, should have passed away.CHAPTER XXXVI.
THE OLD FRIEND.THE next morning, Dr. Leighton found Mrs. Delamere suffering much, from pain and oppression in the chest.'You must keep very quiet, and not attempt to get up until near the evening, and then, perhaps, you will be well enough to see Mr. Aylmer. He is just arrived, and if anything can save and revive that poor, interesting Lady Theresa, it will be the presence of her favourite brother.  Lord Clanville was obliged to return to Naples this morning for a few days; but he charged me to express to you the great delight he felt at finding you were so near,--and so did Lady Theresa. I have not seen her so pleased at anything for many months.''It is most delightful,' said Mrs. Delamere; 'such very dear old friends--and how glad Linda will be!--I don't think she has ever once seen, any of them since she married. And Dudley! I have always loved him as if he were my son--how soon will he come?' she inquired, looking anxiously at the clock. 'Why can he not come before the evening?''He wishes to devote the first few hours to his sister--for he has not seen her since her health became so very delicate, and he is sadly shocked at the change. Besides, it will be better for you to rest some hours, and not talk. You must keep 

grandmamma very quiet,' he said, turning to little Ethel, who sat listening to all he said, and watching him with her earnest eyes, and grave, anxious looks, which excited his surprise.'What is the matter?--you look sad, my darling child; you must not be anxious about grandmamma; she only requires a little care and quiet.''I cannot think what ails that dear child; she has never been happy since we left Linda and her 'greatmamma,' as she calls Mrs. Grant. Nothing pleases her--though, I am sure, Mr. Randal was most kind, and tried to amuse her in every way.''I do not like him,' said Ethel, with a little shrug of her pretty shoulders; 'he has two faces, and one of them is like one in that large picture at Delamere, that always frightens me so much, of the Evil Spirit standing over Cain. Oh, it is dreadful!' she continued, with a shudder, and clasping her little hands with a look of dismay. 'I wish they would go away and leave us. I don't like old friends at all, and I am very sorry to hear there are more coming,' she said, while the tears started to her eyes.'She is a most strange child, and takes the most violent likings and aversions to people,' said Mrs. Delamere. 'No, I don't,' said Ethel, with a pettish look; 'I never disliked anybody before; but you called Mr. Randal an old friend, and said you were so glad to see him; and I am sure he is not fond of you at all, because when he thinks you are not looking, he has that dreadful face.''Well, we will not disturb Mrs. Delamere any more now, and you need not fear that the other old friends have dreadful faces. I know you will love them,' he said, patting Ethel's head, with a

kind look, which brought a pleased and hopeful smile on her expressive countenance. He then gave Mrs. Delamere a composing draught, and returned to Lord Clanville's villa.He found, as he had expected, that Lady Theresa was more composed, and looked much better for having passed an hour with Dudley; but he could not allow her to prolong it for the present.'But you must tell us how you found dear Mrs. Delamere?' inquired Dudley.'Rather better; but she has a very severe attack, and will not easily or soon shake it off  She is looking forward with the greatest anxiety to see you, and I told her you would call about five o'clock. And I trust your presence will do her as much good as it has done to your sister,' he continued, as they left the room, and proceeded to walk on the terrace.Dr. Leighton was the same who, in companionship with Dudley, had attended the deathbed of poor Sir James St. Lawrence; and therefore they now met again as old friends.'Is Linda--is Mrs. Grant really ill? I hear it is for her health they come here,' inquired Mr. Aylmer, with an anxious look.'I am afraid she is, from all I hear; although I cannot understand why. She is so beautifully made, and has such a powerful and apparently well-regulated mind, that she ought never to be ill. There is some mystery about her I can't fathom.''She is quite happy in her marriage, is she not? It was quite one of choice, I believe.''I suppose so; and she seems most devoted to her husband,' said the Doctor; 'indeed, too much so, I almost think. I should not have imagined that he was exactly the person to engage and absorb in

himself all her powerful energies and capacities. You have known her from a child, I hear. Could she have been attached to that Mr. Randal, who now seems to have such a wonderful influence over poor Mrs. Delamere?'Dudley started, and mused for a few minutes. 'I should scarcely think it possible, although I hear he is most fascinating, and, besides, very handsome and clever; but that such a mind as Linda's should be dazzled by him, I cannot think possible. She refused him, I heard, and perhaps he has never forgiven her.''She may have refused him because she saw he was not worthy; yet, still, she may have loved him; and that may be the cause of her illness. Have you never seen her since she was quite a child ?' continued Dr. Leighton, turning round, with a scrutinizing glance, as if a sudden idea had struck him.'Never since she was seventeen, and then only for a few days; so I cannot possibly know the history of her heart,' he said, with a sad look.As the hour approached that was appointed for Mr. Aylmer's visit, Mrs. Delamere became more and more anxious to see him. As she lay on her bed, too ill to read, and without any amusement to distract her thoughts, the memory of old times--of Linda childhood, and of the happy days she had spent with the young Aylmers, returned with striking distinctness; and she wondered at herself for not having felt more acutely the separation,--almost estrangement, which seemed to have taken place ever since Linda's marriage.  Then she began to think and wonder why it was Linda had refused Lord Clanville.  To be sure, Mr. Grant was a superior man,--stronger-minded, and of more solidity altogether; but she was not even

acquainted with him then; and it seemed hard why Linda could not have been satisfied with so amiable and excellent a person as Lord Clanville, whom she must have loved as a brother;--and Dudley--how inseparable he and Linda always were as children! Strange that she could have given up such dear friends so completely, and never even written to them.A few minutes before five, little Ethel came in from her walk, and she had been attired, according to her grandmamma's order, in her prettiest dress.Mrs. Delamere looked forward to Dudley's visit as to a fête, and wished him to admire Linda's child.Ethel ran bounding into the room, with a more healthful look and joyous air than Mrs. Delamere had seen since she parted from her mother, and exclaimed,--'Oh, I am so happy, dear gran'mamma;--I have seen--I have seen such a delightful person: he is like everything beautiful,--like the smell of sweet flowers, and the view from Ben Lomond;--or no, better than that--he is like what I think of and see when I am very, very happy; and he is really like mamma, too, when she sings; and his forehead is like that distant sea,' she continued, pointing to the blue Mediterranean; 'there seems no end--no end; or like the clusters of stars I like best to look at on a warm fine night. I can't make out what I mean; but you will see him,' she exclaimed, clapping her hands with delight,--'for he is your friend, Mr. Aylmer, and he knew me from my likeness to mamma;--and here he is,' she said, jumping and dancing she went to meet him at the door. 'And now you will get well, I know; and mamma will come back, and we shall all be so happy.'It was a joyful meeting.Dudley was even more pleased than he anticipated to find himself once more with Mrs. Delamere; and when he looked at Linda's lovely child, it seemed like coming home again after a long, weary exile.Yes, he might love her child!--He took the darling on his knee, and kissed her soft cheek, with a feeling of respectful love, or rather reverence and adoration.'Oh, how glad I am,' said little Ethel, 'for I am sure you love me already as much as mamma does--how good I must learn to be!'And she played with his dark curls, and passed a her little hand over his forehead, and said,--'And will you love mamma, too?--I am sure you will, for you are so like her.'Mrs. Delamere smiled, and said, 'I never was struck with that resemblance before, but I see what she means, and I think Linda has grown something like you.''Yes,' continued Ethel, pointing to his eyes,--'like mamma when she is praying, and when she is very much pleased with me because I have been good,--and when she is telling me about Heaven, and how happy we are all to be!--and I think if I could always see her eyes as she looks then, I should never want any other happiness.''And she is not five years old yet, is she?' Dudley inquired, with surprise.'No, only four and a half; but in some things she is very backward, and Linda does not care to make her learn. I am afraid she will grow up quite a little dunce; she can't read a word yet, although sometimes she says things just like an old woman,--so full of thought and reflection. I

fancy she has learned a great deal of it from her greatmamma, who is a most charming person, full of talent and originality,--and from her old nurse, Eleanor, who is a kind of sibyl, and certainly gifted, like some Scotch people, with second sight. She is a very odd child, much more so than Linda was--and she was odd enough at times, as you must well remember.''Don't look so,' said Ethel, as she gazed on Dudley; 'your forehead is like Loch Lomond, when the wind is blowing and the sun is gone in; I like the sunshine best, when the lake is smooth--so,' she said, with a satisfied smile, as she passed her little hand over his forehead, where she had seen a momentary cloud of sadness pass. 'So, now--I like it better than ever,' she continued; 'it is more beautiful still from the dark cloud that has gone over it, when the sun suddenly lights up all the colours of the forests and shining purple rocks, and it is all reflected in the waters below.''How strange!' said Mrs. Delamere, 'that she talks to you so, when she is generally so reserved with strangers''This is not a stranger,' said Ethel, indignantly; 'I have always known him--always,' she continued, looking upon his face with an expression of thoughtful wonder. 'I have seen you always, but at a long, long distance. I was not good enough for you to come so near before. But I have been very dark lately,--so dark in this bright country; but I prayed very much, as mamma always tells me to do when I feel dark, and now God has sent light to me; it is shining bright all round you, and I feel as if I should never be in the dark again!'CHAPTER XXXVII.
THE SOUTH.WHILE Mrs. Delamere was suffering from her feverish attack, which during the following days got rather worse, Linda was pursuing her journey from Craggie.It was the first time in her life she had ever been alone; the first time since her marriage when there seemed to be a cessation of the constant daily duty of cheerful happiness which she had prescribed to herself at the beginning, and which had been strengthened by her increased faith and knowledge of scripture, under the able guidance of Mrs. Grant  Not that she allowed herself now to be sad, or to indulge in repining thoughts, but as the necessity for mental exertion was removed, she had more time to feel how deranged her bodily health had become, and how very much she suffered. And travelling affords more leisure for thought than any other occupation; particularly such a hurried journey as Linda's was,--for of course she did not remain anywhere long enough to see anything interesting, but only to allow herself a few hours rest from the jolting of the pavés--those dreadful paved roads, and French posting.All that she saw of the country was from her carriage window; and all she saw of the towns was from the window of her hotel. She suffered much from exhaustion and almost constant headache,

which prevented her from reading, yet was not sufficiently acute to deaden her thoughts. She wondered whether she should recover, and enjoy the feeling of health, of freedom from pain, which she had not sufficiently valued before she lost it. Yet still she was so far happy as to be able to realize, most vividly, happiness in the next world; but she did not feel herself entitled to enjoy it yet: not that she imagined any good works would entitle her to everlasting rest, for she had a perfect faith in the necessity of the Atonement; still, she had made so little, or rather such a late use of her great talents, that she felt a kind Father would demand more from her, and give her further opportunity of attaining, at last, a greater 'weight of glory.'Therefore, she thought she should not die soon--perhaps she would recover her health; and although she scarcely wished her existence to be prolonged, she would not shrink from the duties of life.'Yet why do I not wish to live?' was a question she more than once asked herself. Surely it was scarcely right or natural not to desire to remain with the beloved ones with whom her home was blessed., Although she saw and felt that this world was not her rest--that here she had no continuing city,--still if the bands of love that were round her heart did not succeed in making the 'wilderness of this world bloom as the rose,' so long as they were spared to her, she began to reproach herself with the thought that her heart could not be in the right place. 'If thou lovest not thy brother, whom thou hast seen, how canst thou love God, whom thou hast not seen,' appeared to be written in condemnation of herself. Why

should she wish to leave her dear mothers, and husband and child?The question had been tormenting her--particularly one day as she was crossing the Simplon. The magnificent scenery seemed to crush and depress her spirits, instead of elevating them, as she felt it ought. 'This must be all wrong,' she thought, as she turned with a feeling of horror from the grandeur of the view. And she shut her eyes, and tried to rest her aching head in the corner of the carriage, while she drew the hood of her cloak round her, and shivered with the icy wind that blew from the eternal snows around.She then dozed uneasily for some time; but at length a sensation of warmth--a genial feeling in the air, a strange sort of well-being, made her put aside the hood of her cloak, and she looked out. It was a lovely evening in early autumn. She was descending the south side of the mountain pass, and obtained the first sight of Italy! And of all the approaches to the sunny south, none has more charm than the descent from the Simplon towards the Lago Maggiore and the Isola Bella. The whole character of the scenery changes as if by magic. There is a sudden transition from the stern grandeur and grotesque picturesqueness of the north, with all its elaborate beauty, both of nature and architecture, to the graceful, harmonious, and more simple south. The air, the smell, the calm waters of the lake, the white towers of churches and villas, all breathe harmony, and awaken love.In such minds as Linda's especially, full of a love for the beautiful and grand, intense pleasure must be felt at the first view of the Lago Maggiore; for it comes nearer to the beau-idéal  of beauty

than most other scenes. It fully answered her expectation. A bound of joy and hope brought the colour to her cheeks, and she breathed more freely, and seemed to live more vividly than she had for a long, long time. But she started to find that this scenery recalled the image of Dudley most strangely to her mind, and she felt as if she heard him sing. For a few moments she gave herself up to the delightful recollection, and listened in a sort of rapturous trance to the well-remembered songs. Then she wondered why she never sang them now, and why she had neglected music so much of late years? Another question--another feeling of self-reproach, and her despondency was returning. Then again she gazed on the entrancing loveliness of the scenery, which reminded her more and more of Dudley,--in hopes it would renew the delicious feeling of happiness and peace. Again she experienced the bounding sensation of joy, and the question which had perplexed her for years is answered!--She still loved him,--perhaps too well.'I see it all now,' she thought, with dismay, while her cheeks were covered with burning blushes and she burst into tears. 'I see why I never could write cordially to dear Theresa,--it was all my fault  And yet, was I really wrong?' she thought, smiling at her own dismay. 'Is it not natural this scenery should put me in mind of him, because he is a most perfect being, and he was my dearest and earliest friend. I may have been foolish to shrink with such fear from his image; it must have led me insensibly to imagine there was something wrong in the feeling. Yet dear Mrs. Grant always wished we might meet; and perhaps we may, she thought, for now she remembered that

poor Theresa was ill, and had been ordered to pass the winter in Italy. 'And how delightful if we could all meet, and be again to each other as we were in early youth; and why not? Dudley could have had no feelings--no foolish, morbid imaginings--such as trouble me! He never could have wished that our friendship should cease.' And the more she reflected the more anxious did she become for a renewal of their intercourse; and resolved to write to Theresa as soon as she had joined her another at Naples.She had received no intelligence from Mrs. Delamere since she left Paris, so that she had not heard of their intention to pass the winter at Sorrento. But she hoped to find a letter on her way through Rome. She had never been separated so long from either Mrs. Delamere or her own child; and as she approached Rome a feeling of depression and anxiety made her very nervous and uncomfortable. She ordered the courier to drive straight to the Post-office before she went to the hotel, and waited with breathless anxiety while he took in her passport to inquire for letters. She was extremely fatigued, too; for she had only allowed herself to sleep one night, or rather part of one, at Milan, since she left Geneva. The courier came out with a letter in his hand for her, but it was not directed by her mother: it was from Julia. Poor Linda's hand shook so, she could scarcely open it, and she felt as if she were going to faint. But she made an effort to read it, and fortunately caught sight of a part of the end, where there was a bit of her dear mother's writing. But it was written in such a weak and tremulous hand that she, had great difficulty in deciphering the following words:--'Don't be frightened, dearest Linda, but come to me as quickly as you can;--only don't tire yourself, for I am well taken care of. Dear Dudley is here, and the Randals most kind. Ethel quite well. Oh that I may live to see your dear face once more! I know you will pray for me, darling. May God bless you!'Julia told her that Mrs. Delamere's illness was inflammation of the lungs, and that Dr. Leighton considered her in some danger; but as she had every care and attention, and the best medical advice, they all hoped Linda would not travel too fast. She said that her mother had taken a villa at Sorrento, and that they themselves had lodgings quite near; and that she might rest assured Mrs. Delamere had every attention.Linda felt there was something cold and harsh in Julia's expressions, and was still more miserable to think that she was with her mother at such a moment. But she scarcely allowed herself time to think; she did not even drive to the hotel, but took post-horses at once, and proceeded south. She tried to sleep and arrest her agonizing thoughts; for she felt it was her imperative duty to economise her strength.Her maid was quite astonished at Linda's apparent composure, after having read the letter which her mistress had silently put into her hand. Mrs. Grant then said,--'You see we must not allow ourselves a moment's rest, as my mother is so ill; but tell Francesco to get us something to eat, that we may not be obliged to stop anywhere on the road.'Hannah was fortunately a sensible woman, and forbore to remonstrate. She and the courier contrived to procure a stock of the most nourishing

things, and then, settling some soft cushions round her mistress, persuaded her to follow her own example in trying to sleep.And fortunately Linda was able to sleep for some hours. It was night when she awoke, and the glorious moon of the south was shining on the sea, and illumined the heights around, and the old ruined castle of Terracina. She felt most thankful for the long rest; and although there was the dreadful awakening to anxiety, and the rush of sad thoughts and fears, yet she felt more refreshed than she had done after any sleep she had been able before to have while travelling.'Can this be Terracina--and are we really half way to Naples?' she inquired, when the courier came to the door.'Si, signora; and if we continue at the same rate, and without accidents, o per strade o per briganti, we shall be at Napole in five hours.''But miladi will not think of proceeding at night, and the whole country infested by banditti?' remonstrated the innkeeper.'It is dangerous, certainly,' said Francesco, who was the same experienced courier that had gone abroad with the Clanvilles five years before. 'But I know the signora will not wait, so we must trust in God, and take an escort.' There was some delay in obtaining one, and Linda did not put much faith in it. However, the delay made her journey less dangerous, as there would be fewer hours of darkness on the road. Linda did not feel afraid of banditti; or rather her fears and anxieties were all centred in her dying mother. But in those days travellers were often attacked and robbed on that part of the road, and she could not help remembering the various

stories she had heard, and how only a few months ago some old acquaintance of her own were murdered on the road to Pæstum.Yet she thought it right to proceed; and having made up her mind, she felt she must not allow herself to be depressed by fear. So she again attempted to sleep; but the nearer the time approach when she should see her dear mother again, the more anxious she became; and the dreadful apprehension tormented her lest she should arrive too late.And Dudley, how strange that he should be there! She could scarcely realize it, and began to think she must have read the word wrong. And now, although she had wished for a renewal of their intimacy, an indescribable dread seized her at the idea of meeting him again. She wished now he was not there. Yet she felt how wrong and cowardly it was to shrink from an interview, when his presence must be such a comfort to her mother; and how thankful she ought to be that Mrs. Delamere had so much a better companion than the Randals. It was very ungrateful of her to dread seeing him--very. And her child. Her darling Ethel. How pleased she ought to be to think that Dudley was near to cheer and soothe her sensitive nature at such a moment; for she knew the poor child had a most painful dread of Mr. Randal, and was very uncomfortable with Julia.Then Linda prayed long and fervently for judgement to think and act aright, and that she might see her way clearly through what certainly appeared perplexing paths; and the bad health she had so long experienced gave a morbid sensitiveness to her conscience which was at times very depressing.

She prayed, too, for her dear mother's recovery; and as they proceeded at a rapid pace along the road to Fondi, and she sat with her hands clasped in supplication, a feeling of peace and hope seemed to dawn upon her, like the soft calm moonlight which illumined the lovely scenes around.END OF VOL I.LONDON: SAVILL AND EDWARDS, PRINTERS, CHANDOS-STREET.