would pack up their luncheon, and little Ellen's cloaks, in the pony-phæton, and arrange Edward's fishing-tackle, and ejaculate over the artificial flies of her own invention; and when they were out of sight, she would potter back into the house, with something between a grunt and a sigh, to watch the clouds, and hope the children would not get into mischief. An intimate of the family saw her one day standing near the window which looked on the lawn. There was evidently something to be seen that was interesting, and that it was amusing too, might be guessed, from the involuntary shaking of her shoulders. "Well, Mrs. Renardin," was the friendly greeting, “what are you so busy about, that you cannot turn round to say a word to an old acquaintance?" "Ah! pardon, Monsieur, mais regardez donc ces enfants. C'est qu'ils sont fous, vraiment fous; et ce méchant Capitaine Edouard, qui m'a promis d'avoir bien soin de Lédi Ellen, parce qu'elle porte une si jolie robe ce matin. Ah! je le gronderai bien, je ne rirai pas, je ne rirai pas," added the old lady, shaking her head at him, and laughing till she was forced to sit down in an old-fashioned arm-chair, which Edward and Ellen in early days had joined their pocket-money to buy for her. A glance from the window showed that there was good cause both for her provocation and amusement. Percival, then staying there for the long vacation, was walking first, carrying his own and Edward's gun; Edward followed, heavily laden with the birds they had killed; and Ellen closed the procession, dragging after her, with difficulty, two enormous hares; "la jolie robe" giving evident signs that a hedge, or a ploughed field, had been no impediment to her devotion in her calling. The clattering of feet was heard upon the stairs, and Ellen, relieved from her burthen by Percival, bounded into the room. For a moment she stood at the door, glancing through her shining ringlets with an air, half bashful, half assured, while Edward, with his pocket handkerchief to his eyes, gravely advanced to the old lady, and deposited his birds in her lap. "Ah! méchant," she began; but Ellen's arms were round her, and Edward's mock contrition grew vociferous, and Percival's voice was heard petitioning for leave to enter, and, as usual, Mrs. Renardin allowed herself to be pacified, and to listen to the adventures "the children" had to tell. Those were happy days. Another year, and time had done its usual work; and hearts which seemed too light and bounding for any shadow to overcast, "Sunk low with sorrow, or beat quick with pain." Edward's imprudence had already involved him in difficulties, which, after many struggles, Ellen prevailed upon him to confess to his father. Then followed scenes of remonstrance, and late repentance, and resolutions of amendment, too soon forgotten. Ellen saw Lord Mordaunt's deep vexation, Lord Lindsay's cold displeasure, and sank under Edward's errors and unhappiness as if they were her own. He rejoined his regiment, and Ellen wept at parting as she had never wept before. "Oh, Edward, be good and prudent now-for my sake, dearest, if not for your own." He pressed her to his heart, and soothed and comforted her; but it could not be the past had taught her to fear for the future, and her feelings of security were gone, and for ever. There was another parting, too. Young as Frederick Percival was, his talents had already brought him into notice, and he had scarcely left college when he was called upon to take an active part in the politics of the day. His family were shortly expected to return to England. For the first time, for some years, he left Mordaunt Castle, without any definite moment being fixed for his return. He loved Ellen, with all the warm devotion of a first early love; and now the avowal of that love was made; and alt he felt, and all he dared to hope, was rapidly poured forth. His father's ruined fortunes would be retrieved. He felt he had that within him, which would work his way to fortune and to fame. "Only give me hope, Ellen, only tell me that when the day shall come, when I shall dare demand you from your father, you will not turn from me. We are both so young; a few years may pass, and we shall yet have a long life of happiness before us. Ellen, do not turn from me; speak to me, love, and let the recollection of words of kindness and encouragement be my consolation in this long absence.” These words were spoken: Ellen only saw Frederick's unhappiness-Frederick, whom she had loved as another brother. Unhesitatingly she gave him the assurance of affection he pleaded for; unhesitatingly promised that Edward only should be told of all that had passed between them. Had Ellen considered the solemn nature of the engagement she was entering into, she would have paused; but she was yet a child in feelings and in years; she had no mother to check or guide her; small wonder, then, and yet smaller blame, that at such a moment her better judgment failed her. "I am so glad that he is happy and satisfied now," she thought, when she found herself alone. "But why should he have doubted my affection? we have never had a quarrel; and who have I ever seen that I could care for, like him and Edward? In time, I suppose, like every body else, I must marry; and when Frederick gets money enough, if papa does not object—and I hardly see how he can--for he is always telling Edward that he wishes he was as steady as Frederick --it will be better that we should marry one another, than two strangers, that we know nothing about now." And having arrived at this conclusion, she ran out of the house to feed her chickens. It was some months after that a letter from Edward, enclosing one from Percival, roused her to a fear that she had acted wrong and rashly. It was the first that she had ever received from Frederick: she had positively refused to correspond with him unknown to her father; and he, respecting her scruples, had not pressed her to do so. He now only wrote to tell her of his acceptance of an office, which, though small, gave an opening for future advancement. He recalled to her their parting words; he warmly repeated his assurances of attachment; his reliance on her sympathy in his sanguine views for the future. There was a devotion in his expression that almost startled Ellen. Since they parted, he seemed to have thought of her alone: his hopes, his fears, had all centred in her; and for the first time she doubted whether the affection she felt for him could satisfy such feelings. The season was come, when they were to leave Mordaunt Castle, and she was to make her first appearance in the London world. Frederick would again be a constant visiter at their house. "Do not laugh at me, dearest Edward," she wrote to her brother, "when I tell you that I am almost frightened at the thought of seeing him again. I feel now that the fear of making him unhappy led me into promising what was very, very wrong. Day after day we must meet-we have always met; but deeper thoughts and feelings will be ours. If papa knew all, I should be happy, as I used to befor, indeed I am often unhappy now, when I think I keep any thing secret from him. But Frederick begs me so earnestly to wait another year, when he says he trusts his father will return, relieved from all his difficulties, and then he will ask papa to consent to our marriage, and tell him how long we have loved each other. You know I have always loved Frederick;-only sometimes I wish that he were less grave, and more like you; for the thought of seeing you never frightens me, my darling Edward." The London season passed, unmarked by any event but Elizabeth's marriage; another season was now come, and Ellen felt that the crisis of her fate was approaching. Frederick had not deceived her; already he was advanced to a situation where eloquence and talents such as his had field for display. Lord Mordaunt spoke of him with pride and affection; Lord Lindsay, in his letters, mentioned him with increasing consideration, as one of the most rising young men of the day. Charles Dalrymple constantly plied him with cards of invitation to dinner, and almost as constantly apologised to himself and his guests for the empty chair, which he felt assured that nothing but Frederick's devotion to the good of his country, could prevent him from occupying. And Ellen!-none could suspect how deep was her interest in his success. With the fear of betraying their engagement-with her self-condemnation for the rashness with which she had formed it she almost shrank from his society; even Elizabeth's manner was warm compared to hers; and the Beaumonts, who in direct contradiction to the Harrisons, had always declared that the intimacy would end in marriage, were completely puzzled. But Frederick, from whom she could not conceal her secret agitation, who knew her motives for reserve, was satisfied. He saw her surrounded by admirers; but jealousy itself could have found no cause for distrust. He saw that her spirits were unequal, and rejoiced that the time was come, when the mystery that weighed upon them might be done away with. There was one who had sometimes suspected that a deeper feeling than appeared subsisted between them. Lord Raymond watched Ellen, with the anxious watchfulness of one whose every hope of happiness would be wrecked in the confirmation of his suspicions. Firmly, though gently, she had repressed the avowal of a love, which seemed to him a part of his existence; yet still he lingered near her. He saw that, though free and unembarrassed with all others, her eye sank beneath the passing glance of Frederick, her voice faltered as she named him. In vain he tried to turn from the convic tion that her love was his; and when at her father's house, he witnessed the agitation she could no longer conceal, his heart sank, as he felt there was no hope for him. CHAPTER IV. Is there a tear, a human tear, Upon a duteous daughter's head.-SCOTT. "You have "LET me answer some of these letters, papa," said Ellen, as she pressed her lips to her father's forehead. written quite enough; more than is good for you. Now make over these congratulations to me, and you will see how prettily you will feel happiness, and satisfaction, and gratitude; and how there never was such a son as Lindsay has been, nor such a daughter-in-law as Mary will be. You will let me try to be of some use to you to-day, will not you? for since we came to town I have been quite idle, and good for nothing." "You have been amusing yourself, my child, but you have not neglected your old father; no daughter-in-law can be to me what you are, my darling Ellen." "The tears started into Ellen's eyes, and as she knelt by her father's chair, she fondly raised them to his. "Then it would grieve you, papa, to part with me, as you have parted with Elizabeth ?" "Not if it were for your happiness, my child-and yet," he laid his wrinkled hand upon her shining hair, "perhaps it is an old man's selfish thought; but I would wish to keep you a little longer with me; a little longer," he repeated, half unconsciously," and then our earthly parting may be spared." "Oh! I will never leave you, papa, never, never!" burst from Ellen's lips. The next moment she was started by a well-known knock at the door; she was calmed at once. is Frederick, I believe--yes, I heard his voice." It “Then I must make him over to you, as well as my letters," said Lord Mordaunt: "go to him, love, in the drawing-room; I am too tired to see him now." Ellen obeyed, and as her father kissed and fondly blessed her, her resolution was taken; but she slowly ascended the |