She had remembered her promise to Edward, and sought for an opportunity to tell him that she was the affianced wife of another, and now her coward heart was failing her." Oh! shame! shame!" and she hid her face in her hands, as if some one were near to read her thoughts. But soon came better, calmer feelings. This was her last struggle; this dreaded interview once over, and all would be ended with him; and, in the months which were yet to intervene before her marriage with Frederick, she would pray and strive, in sincerity of spirit, to render herself worthy of him. True, she had deceived herself; she had deceived him. Hers had been the fault, and hers should be the punishment. Oh! had she never, never met that other! she might have been still deceived; she might have still persuaded herself, that she felt for Frederick all of love that it was in her nature to feel. She remembered the day of Lord Lindsay's marriage, when she stood by the side of Frederick, and Mary knelt before the altar by him, the partner of her future existence, and repeated, in firm and gentle tones, the words by which she vowed "to forsake all other," and keep to him, and him only. Even then her heart died within her; and when Frederick addressed her in such words of whispered tenderness as an accepted lover might utter at such a timé, how had she shuddered and turned away! Lord Raymond stood between them and the altar, and seemed to warn them off. Now she would teach herself to think of Frederick, as if those vows had been already spoken; and then she would shun those thoughts which, for the last few hours, she had allowed to take possession of her mind, as leading to worse than folly-to guilt and misery.

The sound of approaching footsteps was heard. "It is he," she said aloud; and it was he; it was Lord Raymond. She did not rise to meet him; she really felt as if she had not strength to stand; but to outward appearance she was calm, and his first sentence did much to restore her self-possession. It was of Edward that he began to speak. He trusted that Lady Ellen would not think that he had acted officiously, but he had not been able to resist writing to him. He had confessed that he was aware he had been in London; and had besought him, if he were in any dilemma from which a friend could help to extricate him, that he would not hesitate to confide in him, and to believe that nothing but the strongest wish to be of service could have induced him to hazard such uncalled-for interference. As Edward had given him full permission, he now brought her the answer he had received, but he feared that she would hardly think it satisfactory.

Ellen did not trust herself to speak half the gratitude she felt. It was the brother he had been striving to serve, and she must not appear to think that it was for the sister's sake. The letter did not take her long to read. A woman would probably have covered four sides of paper, before she could have satisfied herself, or have hoped to satisfy her correspondent, of the warmth and sincerity of her gratitude. Eight more would scarcely have sufficed to explain, that under present circumstances all offers of assistance were unavailing. Edward, in six lines, evidently written under the influence of strong feeling, conveyed to Lord Raymond his heart-felt thanks for such unexpected kindness; in six more he owned that he was at that time in serious perplexity, but of such a nature, that he thought it not only unfair, but useless, to draw upon even so true a friend, as he had proved himself, for assistance or advice. He concluded by saying, I fear that poor Ellen is more anxious about me than I deserve. Will you add to all your other kindness by telling her that I have declined your generous offers of assistance. It will, I hope, persuade her that my affairs are not in a desperate condition."

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"Dear Edward!" said Ellen, "that is so like him. In all his former difficulties I really believe he thought more of the effect they would have upon me, than upon himself. Dear, dear Edward! whatever he may appear to others, to me he is the kindest, the most affectionate."

She felt that this was a softening subject of conversation; and, interrupting herself, she added more cheerfully, "Well, as he chooses to keep us in the dark, I must try and be content to let him take his own way; though I fear, from the turn of his letters, he himself suspects that at present it is not the very wisest way. At all events I am thankful, now we are on the brink of leaving London, that he is fairly out of it before us. I shall look at no more cabriolets in Park Lane, for fear that comfort should be taken from me."

"Do you, indeed, leave London so soon-so very soon? Nobody is thinking of moving yet. Parliament cannot be up for the next six weeks-if then."

• But I am not in Parliament," said Ellen, smiling; "and papa can leave his proxy. The least sacrifice that you can make to your country and your party, is to stay through the summer and be stifled-but that is no reason why we should stay and be stifled. We will breathe fresh air, which will seem the fresher to us, when we deign to cast a pitying thought on you."

"No; you will not dare to think of us with pity; you know that you will not. So long as London continues true to itself; so long as it is our sovereign wills to leave our country-houses tenantless, and to confine ourselves to this brick and mortar territory; you will look up to us as the originators of all events, the purveyors of all intelligence. The hour in the day which brings your letters from London will be the most important in the twenty-four."

"You are quite mistaken. From the moment I cease to be an inhabitant of London myself, I look upon all those I leave behind, as mere puppets moved by wires, which each pulls for the other. None are left to act from their own free wills. As long as I remain, I am, of course, very proud of this refined slavery; all the victims are so; but the instant I am free, I class myself among a superior order of beings."

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"I must believe you;. and, indeed, I have observed, that there is a sort of mutual contempt established between the inhabitants of town and country, which is very satisfactory to both. You will despise us because we are dependent for our happiness upon the passions and caprices of others; and we shall despise you, because you are in ignorance of the daily results to which those passions and caprices lead. The mere narration of events will do you no good, unless you are blessed with some intelligent correspondent who will tell you what to think of them. I have been very much shocked sometimes, at the comments a friend in the provinces has sent me, in answer to some of my communications. The misguided creature reasons fearlessly upon his own judgment, and puts out an opinion in direct contradiction to that which, after some wavering, has been fixed upon as the proper one to be universally adopted. I burn his letter; and try to forget I ever received it."

"I will not risk shocking any body by my opinions," said Ellen, laughing; "from the moment I pass through the lodgegates, and catch the first glimpse of Mordaunt Castle, I mean to forget that London is in existence."

Her laugh seemed to make Lord Raymond grave. "I do not understand you," he said thoughtfully; "I try to understand you in vain. Do yon, indeed, wish to forget London, and all those you leave behind?”

"No, not all," said Ellen, in a low tone; and she blushed the deepest crimson.

"I am distressing you," said Lord Raymond; "I, who would sacrifice all I possess on earth to ensure your happiness

to obtain the power of contributing to it-forgive me!-oh, forgive me!"

Ellen did not look as if her anger were very terrible, and he rapidly proceeded-" Lady Ellen, you who must long have seen the passionate feeling which now presses me on to speak, will bear with me. Gentle and kind you have ever been, though invariably cold to me. Still, there were moments when I dared to hope that time, and the deep devotion of such love as mine, might soften you towards me. Do not turn from me. I know that that hope was vain."

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He paused as if he expected her to speak; but there was no other sound than of those short quick breathings by which women so often betray their inward agitation. Again," he cóntinued, "I must entreat your forgiveness; for I have that to say, which I fear will make you think that one whom you have tacitly refused as a lover, is too presuming as a friend; for a friend you must still allow me to be: no word, no look, shall betray that I ever aspired to be more. Friends, we shall always be," he repeated anxiously; and this time Ellen found voice to answer, “ Always."

"Heaven bless you for that word!" he said; "now I will venture to go on. I did not quite despair, so long as I could believe that all were alike indifferent to you-I did not, till I found, or fancied, that another was allowed to hope for that happiness denied to me; another who, even a rival must own, is so rich in virtues and in talents, that few can hope to equal him. Yes! though to him, I owe hours and days of misery, I can feel nothing but admiration and respect for one so gifted as Frederick Percival. Lady Ellen, tell me if conviction of my own unworthiness has led me into over-rating his influence-tell me if there is yet the shadow of a hope for me, or if it is indeed too late?"

"It is too late," said Ellen. "Oh! that we could both have been spared the pain of this moment. But we shall be friends-always friends." She dwelt upon those words of his, as if they could reconcile him to what must follow:"Lord Raymond, it has long been my wish that you should know the truth. Even before I knew you, I was no longer

free."

It is strange, but a painful conviction, which has long been familiar to us, seems fraught with added bitterness, when we find it clothed in words. Some moments elapsed before Lord Raymond spoke again, and when he did, his voice was hoarse with emotion.

"I thank you for this confidence," he said; "I thank and bless you for those tears: Ellen, dearest and best beloved, farewell!"

The hand she held out to him, he had pressed to his heart and to his lips; once more he had bid Heaven bless her, and the door was closed upon him. Ellen gave one glance to assure herself that she was alone; then burying her face in the cushion of the sofa, she gave way to the emotion she had so long restrained, and sobbed as if her heart would break. Her tears flowed long and bitterly-such as we shed in youth, and think their agony cannot be surpassed-such as we look back upon in age, and find

""Tis far worse murmuring o'er those tearsWould we could shed them now!"

CHAPTER XIX.

He sits 'mongst men like a descended God.
I am sprighted with a fool.-SHAKSPEARE.

Those that pine

In love's despair and hope's decline,

Can love the most, when some sweet spell
Breaks the seal on affection's well,

And bids its waters flow, like light

Returning to the darkened sight.-L. E. L.

Ir began to be very apparent that the Lindsays, having now passed ten days of uninterrupted happiness, would not only be resigned but grateful, if any little event should happen to occur that would break the uniformity of their lives.

Letters came, pressing letters, both to Ellen and Lady Elizabeth. Lady Lindsay begged and entreated they would come. She was the happiest creature on earth; but to have them as witnesses of her bliss would make her happier still. Dear Raymond had made his house so nice-it was a perfect paradise. Could they not all come and stay there for two or three days?

Lord Lindsay added a sober postscript. He was afraid that his father would not be persuaded to move, and Ellen