name.

I could not eat one morsel of the man's collation-so- -Ring for dinner, and let us say no more about the matter at present: there is my oath against it, you know-there is an end of the matter -don't let me hear a word from you, Harrington-I am tired to death, quite exhausted, body and mind."

I refrained most dutifully, and most prudently, from saying one word more on the subject, till my father, after dinner, and after being refreshed by a sound and long-protracted sleep, began again to speak of Mr. and miss Montenero. This was the first time he omitted to call them the Jew and Jewess. He condescended to say repeatedly, and with many oaths, that they both deserved to be Christians—that if there was any chance of the girl's conversion, even he would overlook the father's being a Jew, as he was such a noble fellow. Love could do wonders-as my father knew when he was a young man-perhaps I might bring about her conversion, and then all would be smooth and right, and no oath against it.

I thanked my father for the kind concessions he now appeared willing to make for my happiness, and from step to step, at each step repeating that he did not want to hear a syllable about the matter, he made me tell him every thing that had passed. Mowbray's rivalship and treachery excited his indignation in the highest degree: he was heartily glad that fellow was refused-he liked the girl for refusing him-some spirit-he liked spirit-and he should be glad that his son carried away the prize.

He interrupted himself to tell me some of the feats of gallantry of his younger days, and of the manner in which he had at last carried off my mother from a rascal of a rival-a lord Mowbray of those times.

When my father had got to this point, my mother ventured to ask whether I had ever gone so far as to propose, actually to propose, for miss Montenero. "Yes."

Both father and mother turned about, and asked, "What answer?"

I repeated, as nearly as I could, Mr. Montenero's words-and I produced his note.

Both excited surprise and curiosity.

"What can this obstacle-this mysterious obstacle be?" said my mother.

"An obstacle on their side!" exclaimed my father: " is that possible?"

I had now, at least, the pleasure of enjoying their sympathy; and of hearing them go over all the conjectures by which I had been bewildered. I observed that the less chance there appeared to be of the match, the more my father and mother inclined towards it.

"At least," said my mother, "I hope we shall know what the objection is."

"It is very extraordinary, after all, that it should be on their side," repeated my father.

My mother's imagination, and my father's pride, were both strongly excited; and I let them work without interruption.

CHAPTER XVII.

THE time appointed for Mr. Montenero's final decision approached. In a few days my fate was to be decided. The vessel that was to sail for America was continually before my eyes.

It was more difficult to me to endure the suspense of these few days than all the rest. My mother's sympathy, and the strong interest which had been excited on the subject in my father's mind, were at first highly agreeable; but there was so much more of curiosity and of pride in their feelings than in mine, that at last it became irksome to me to hear their conjectures and reflections. I did not like to answer any questions-I could not bear to speak of Berenice, or even of Mr. Montenero.

I took refuge in silence-my mother reproached me for my silence. I talked on fast of any thing but that which interested me most.

My mother became extremely alarmed for my health, and I believe with more reason than usual; for I could scarcely either eat, drink, or sleep, and was certainly very feverish; but still I walked about, and to escape from the constraint to which I put myself in her company, to avoid giving her pain-to relieve myself from her hourly fond inquiries-from the effort of talking, when I wished to be silent-of appearing well, and in spirits, when I was ill, and when my heart was dying within me, I escaped from her presence as much as possible. To feed upon my thoughts in solitude, I either shut myself up in my room, or walked all day in those streets where I was not likely to meet with any one who knew me, or

whom I knew; and there I was at least safe from all notice, and secure from all sympathy: I am sure I experienced at this time the truth of what some one has quaintly but justly asserted, that an individual can never feel more completely alone than in the midst of a crowded metropolis.

One evening when I was returning homewards through the city, fatigued, but still prolonging my walk, that I might not be at home too early for dinner, I was met and stopped by Jacob: I had not thought of him lately, and when I looked up in his face, I was surprised by an appearance of great perturbation. He begged pardon for stopping me, but he had been to my house-he had been all over the town searching for me, to consult me about a sad affair, in which he was unfortunately concerned. We were not far from Manessa's, the jeweller's, shop; I went in there with Jacob, as he wished, he said, that I should hear Mr. Manessa's evidence on the business, as well as his own. The affair was this: lady de Brantefield had, some time ago, brought to Mr. Manessa's some very fine antique jewels, to be re-set for her daughter, lady Anne Mowbray. One day, immediately after the riots, both the ladies called at Mr. Manessa's, to inquire if the jewels were ready. They were finished; the new setting was approved: but lady de Brantefield having suffered great losses by the destruction of her house and furniture in the riots, and her son, lord Mowbray, being also in great pecuniary difficulties, it was suggested by lady Anne Mowbray, that her mother would be glad if Mr. Manessa could dispose of some of the jewels, without letting it be known to whom they had belonged. Mr. Manessa, willing to oblige, promised secrecy, and offered immediately to purchase the jewels himself; in

consequence, the jewels were all spread out upon a little table in the back parlour-no one present but Jacob, Mr. Manessa, and the two ladies. A great deal of conversation passed, and the ladies were a long time settling what trinkets they would part with.

It was very difficult to accommodate at once the personal vanity of the daughter, the family pride of the mother, and their pecuniary difficulties. There occurred, in particular, a question about a topaz ring, of considerable value, but of antique setting, which lady Anne Mowbray wished her mother to part with, instead of some more fashionable diamond ornament that lady Anne wanted to keep for herself. Lady de Brantefield had, however, resisted all her daughter's importunities-had talked a vast deal about the ring -told that it had been sir Josseline de Mowbray'sthat it had come into his possession by ducal and princely descent—that it was one of four rings, which had been originally a present from pope Innocent to king John, of which rings there was a full description in some old chronicle *, and in Mr. Hume's History of England, to which her ladyship referred Mr. Manessa: his curiosity †, however, was perfectly satis

+ For the satisfaction of any readers who may have more curiosity upon the subject than Mr. Manessa had, but yet who would not willingly rise from their seats to gratify their curiosity, the passage is here given gratis. "Innocent wrote John a mollifying letter, and sent him four golden rings, set with precious stones; and endeavoured to enhance the value of the present, by informing him of the many mysteries which were implied by it. He begged him to consider, seriously, the form of the rings, their number, their matter, and their colour. Their form, he said, being round, shadowed out eternity, which has neither beginning nor end. Their number, four, being a square, denoted steadiness