person who can wish me joy; for we have settled, it is to remain a secret for the present." Ellen, "I do wish you joy, dearest-from my very soul. love-I trust you will be happy;" and Edward drew her towards him, and pressed her to his heart. "I suppose," he added, after a moment's pause, "that it would be unpleasant to let your engagement be known, so many months before your marriage; and yet I do not quite approve of this secresy. If I were going to stay on here, to give you the benefit of my prudent care-you may smile, Ellen, but I can be prudent for you I would not repeat now what may worry you; but it is better you should be aware that your marriage to Raymond is very generally reported; and when I saw his manner to you yesterday evening, I can hardly wonder that it should be so. Oh! Ellen, do not start and look so pale. You are not to blame for this-you, who have no thought but for Percival. But tell me, has it never struck you that Raymond loves you better than is consistent with his future peace?” "It has," Ellen answered. "To you, I will not attempt to deny it; but it frightens me to hear that my name has been joined with his. I have strove so hard-I have done my very utmost to show, that for his love I can make no return. Edward, you do not suspect that for a moment I could have been heartless enough to give him encouragement. You, who know that I am no longer free, cannot think so ill of me. could not bear that." I Edward was surprised at the emotion she showed, and assured her again and again that he had not meant to cast the shadow of blame upon her. "It was but for Raymond's sake I spoke. You are now necessarily much thrown together, and your ways are so kind and gentle, Ellen, that till he knows positively that you are engaged to another, he will not cease to hope. It is for him only that I fear. Even were you the heartless coquette none could ever think you, Percival is too generous and confiding to have the slightest mistrust. But if, for a moment, he could suppose that another were preferred to him, he would resign you, though his heart were to break in the effort." Frederick's happiness is dearer to me than my own. I should be a wretch indeed, if I failed in securing that. Edward, I would give worlds, that Lord Raymond and I had never met, or that we were never to meet again; and we shall part soon, and all will then be well. But, in the meantime, what would you have me do? I cannot be colder than I have been already. I cannot be unkind." "I know that you cannot," said Edward, smiling; " and even if you could, he might be perverse enough to love you still. I wish that he knew positively of your engagement." "Then tell him of it for me," Ellen answered eagerly. "You forget, I go to-morrow; and it will be better that you should do it yourself. He deserves that you should treat him as a friend; and though it is all right and fair that Percival's merits should blind you to those of every body else, I can assure you, that as the world goes, there are not many Raymonds to be found in it. No, no, tell him yourself, and throw in a few soothing words, upon the recollection of which he may live, till he falls in love with another; which we may hope in the course of time he will do—the sooner the better for your comfort, Ellen." Ellen tried to look as if this suggestion made her very comfortable, and now thought it quite time to carry the war into the enemy's country. "Edward," she said, "you have talked to me a great deal about myself, and I have heard all you had to say, and have answered all your questions; and I will do as you wish; and now listen to me. There was a time, when if you were troubled, you used to come to me for comfort, or at least for sympathy; and I think that I have never failed you. Yet you are unhappy now, and I do not know what disturbs you. Dear, dear Edward, trust me once more, and let us be what we have been to each other." "You are what you have ever been to me, Ellen. I have no friend so loved as you. There is no secret that concerns myself alone, which I would keep from you. But this!-it would be worse than useless. The time may come, when I shall call upon you for more than sympathy for active kindness and support to one who is dearer to me than life. In the meantime be satisfied that I am not unhappy. I am only —what, to be sure, is almost worse-undecided.” "And cannot I help to decide you?-who is she that is dearer to you than life?—No, you shall not tell me, if you do not wish it. I will guess, and talk on as if you had done so. My poor Edward, I see it all now; and I fear it would be most imprudent. You have no money, and 66 Money! ah, there it is. Money or rather the want of money, has been my bane through life. Do not be shocked, Ellen; but I am quite convinced th which all our happiness tury there can be no delusion in t pockets full of those litt money, you can purchase happiness, as surely as any other commodity. You may shake your head; but I am only saying candidly, what every body feels, more or less. Ask the beggar in the streets-the debtor in his prison-the old and the weak who dig for their daily bread, till their graves are dug for them-ask them, what on this earth they most covet-and they will tell you-money. For want of it all the affections of life, if they still retain any, are sources of added bitterness. And the rich-their dearest ties are broken their nearest relations die, and the luxuries of life close over their losses, and they are comforted; but reduce them to poverty, and every hour they will miss some lost comfort, and they will pine away their lives, sighing for their lost money. "I do not agree with you," Ellen began; but it was not her turn yet. "No, I dare say not," interrupted Edward. "You have never known what it is to be balked in every turning of life for want of money. I have kept to the last, the most harrowing case of all-that of younger brothers. They must not look for amusement out of doors, because they cannot af ford to pay for it; nor think of leading domestic lives-for how are they to feed their wives and children? and if for a few months they forget their miserable conditions, and allow themselves a few scanty necessaries, they get into difficulties, from which they only escape at the expense of being schooled, reproached, and distressed for the rest of their lives." Edward felt better after having spoken the last sentence; it bore very hard upon Lord Lindsay; and we all know, that when somebody has said an annoying thing to us, which, for some reason, at the moment, we have put up with in silence, there is great relief in talking at the offending individual, and his provoking theories, for the rest of the day. "Poor fellows! theirs is a heart-rending case indeed, particularly when, as sometimes happens," said Ellen, smiling, "their views of the necessaries of life are rather extended. Perhaps, as you say, I am not a fair judge, having never felt either the privations, or the temptations, that the want of money can bring. Yes; once I did-when I longed to help you, and could not. But of one thing I am certain;-there es too, which the more or the less you should make up enough to live upon, now that you are grown so prudent? Is Harriet Rivers quite without fortune?" "Harriet Rivers! again Harriet Rivers! and you, Ellen, too, are fancying that! I tell you, that if Harriet Rivers had as many thousand pounds as I have miserable shillings, she is the very last woman I could marry. But ask me no more; already I have said too much." Ellen's wish to hear more no longer existed. A sickening conviction came over her, that she, for whom Edward bespoke her support and kindness, was one with whom, but for his sake, she could hold no communion-one who, when she should wake from the madness of that infatuation which was leading her to break through the sacred ties of home, to brave guilt in the sight of heaven, and infamy on earth, would be beyond all the comfort she could offer: between them there could be no feeling in common. Edward seemed to be unconscious of the train of thought he had awakened; and after a short silence, he added: "Dear Ellen, I must once more repeat, that if this mystery were only mine, it should no longer be a mystery to you; or if advice could help me, to you only would I apply for it. But no advice can be of service here-none can judge for me, in what is simply a case of feeling." "And of principle?" asked Ellen. But Lord Mordaunt's entrance precluded the possibility of an answer, and she was left more perplexed and dissatisfied than ever. There was only one source of satisfaction left; but that was some comfort to her: Edward would be gone the next day-there could be no catastrophe yet. He spoke to He remained now but a short time longer. his father of his hopes of being able to pay a short visit to Mordaunt Castle, in the course of the shooting season; promised Ellen that he would write often; embraced her affectionately; and departed to fulfil his engagement to the Howards. CHAPTER XII. When he would smile, "Tis like the gleaming of December's sun; "Tis done-the last bright gem is set On Eva's sparkling coronet; A soil on her rich veil appears— Unsuiting here-and it is tears.-L. E. L. It was Lord Lindsay's wedding day. As Charles Dalrymple had portended, all the connections of both families were invited, and carriages were rolling rapidly in the direction of St. George's church; and Mary stood before the glass, arrayed in all her bridal splendor. Ellen had placed the wreaths of orange flowers upon her head, and was arranging, in graceful folds, the long rich veil which was to hide the tears, and blushes, and tremors of the bride. And Mary stood like a statue, and submitted to be decorated, as a necessary part of the proceedings of the day; but there were as strong emotions gathering within, as it was in the power of her soft and loving nature to feel. Her mother stood before her, and gazed upon her with all a mother's pride; but not with pride alone. Recollections of former years came over her. She remembered, as if it were but yesterday, the dawning of her bridal morning, when her heart beat high with tenderness and fear, and she too was surrounded by admiring friends, and was beloved, and young, and beautiful. But her marriage had not been happy; and though she had grieved, in agony of heart, over the untimely death of the father of her children, he had lived long enough to teach her how bitter can be the feelings of a neglected, yet still loving wife. And now her heart sank within her, as she looked upon her gentle child, and thought that such a trial might be reserved for her. Lord Lindsay's manner was cold and stern. Oh! would he make her happy! How should she bear to part with her darling Mary, the comfort of her years of widowhood? But why recount the fears and misgivings which all mothers, even worldly and ambitious mothers, must feel, when the hour is come that those awful, binding vows are spoken, from which, |