last scene the truth had been revealed to myself as well as to him. The slight links which bound me to him had in a moment snapt; but he loved me-with a fierce and selfish love indeed—but still he loved me; and if there is torment in unrequited love, if there is agony in reading the cold language of indifference in the eyes on which you gaze away the happiness of your life, that torment, that agony, should be his. These thoughts were dreadful-I shudder as I write them; but my feelings were excited and my pride galled nearly to madness. I remember that I clenched with such violence a smelling-bottle that it broke to pieces in my hand, and the current of my thoughts was suddenly turned to Mrs. Swift's exclamation of 'La, miss! you've broken your bottle, and spilt the Eau de Cologne! What could you have been thinking of?'

What had I been thinking of? Oh that world of thought within us! that turmoil of restless activity which boils beneath the calm surface of our everyday life! We sit and we talk, we walk and we drive, we lie down to sleep and we rise up again the next day, as if life offered nothing to rouse the inmost passions of the soul; as if hopes tremblingly cherished were not often dashed to the earth; as if fears we scarcely dare to define were not hovering near our hearts, and resolutions were not formed in silence and abandoned in despair; as if the spirit of darkness was not prompting the soul to deeds of evil, and the hand of God was not stretched out between us and the yawning gulf of destruction. And others look on, and, like Mrs. Swift, wonder what we can be thinking of. God help them! or rather may He help us, for we need it most.

At the end of the second day we reached the well-known gates of Elmsley, and in a few moments more I was locked in my aunt's embrace. I wept bitterly as I kissed her, and she seemed to consider my tears as perfectly natural; her whole manner was soothing and sympathising. My uncle

received me kindly enough, though rather coldly even for him. I longed to explain to Mrs. Middleton that I did not care for Henry, and that my uncle's decision against him. was not the cause of the deep depression which I could neither struggle with nor conceal; but how could I disclaim that cause and allege no other? Also the intimate intercourse which had been formerly habitual between her and myself had been broken up, so that my heart had become as a sealed book to her, and I dared not open it again; its one dark page formed an invincible barrier to that communion of thoughts which had been ours in bygone days.

And so days and weeks went by; I heard nothing of Henry nor of Edward, though both were almost constantly before my mind's eye; in this perpetual wear and tear of feeling my health began to give way, and I grew every day paler and thinner.

About three months after my return to Elmsley I was sitting one afternoon at that library window where I mentioned once before having often watched the sunset with Edward. The autumnal tints were gilding the trees in the park with their glowing hues, and the air had that wintry mildness which is soothing though melancholy. The window was open, and, wrapped up in a thick shawl, I was inhaling the damp moist air and listening to the rustle of the dried leaves which were being swept from the gravel walk below; the low twitter of some robin-redbreasts was in unison with the scene, and affected me in an unaccountable manner. My tears fell fast on the book in my hand. This book was the Christian Year, that gift of Edward which I had thrust away in a fit of irritation about a year ago. I had opened it again that morning, and, partly as a kind of expiation, partly with a vague hope of awakening in myself a new tone of feeling-something to put in the place of that incessant review of the past around which my thoughts were ever

revolving-I forced myself to read a few of the passages marked with a pencil. I had been interrupted while so doing, but had carried away the book with me, and now again applied myself to the same task. I read stanza after stanza which spoke of guilt, of suffering, and of remorse; but I did not close the book in anger as before. It was true that they were carefully chosen, pointedly marked; but what of that? Was I not guilty? Was I not wretched? Did I not deserve worse at his hands? Nay more, had I deserved the forbearance, the mercy, he had shown me? Ought I not to bless him for them? It was such thoughts as these that made my tears flow, but that at the same time soothed the bitterness of my feelings.

I put down my book, and, while gazing on the darkening clumps of trees before me, I watched the approach of the boy who was riding through the avenue to the house with the letter-bag strapped before him. I heard the step of the servant who was crossing the hall on his way to my uncle's study. In a few moments I heard Mrs. Middleton's voice on the stairs; and about half an hour after that, when it was getting quite dark, and I was leaving the library, I met Mrs. Swift, who told me that my aunt wished to speak to me in her dressing-room.

There is something very apt to make one feel nervous in the fact of being sent for, and if it happens to be immediately after the arrival of the post, all the more so. I walked upstairs in consequence with a kind of feeling that something had happened or was going to happen; so that when I opened the door, and saw at one glance that my aunt was much agitated and in tears, I felt frightened.

'What has happened?' I exclaimed. 'What is it? Who is ill?'

'Nobody-nothing of that kind,' she replied, 'but it is painful' (she paused, struggled with herself, and went on)

'it is painful, and you must prepare yourself, my dear child, to hear something that will shock and grieve you. Henry' (she looked into my face with intense anxiety)—' Henry has made us all very unhappy, but you, my child, you' (she seized both my hands and put them upon her eyes, as if to give herself courage to speak)-'it will make you miserable. What shall I say to you, my own love? He is utterly unworthy of you; he has forgotten you, Ellen-given up all thoughts of you; he is'

'Is he going to be married?' I eagerly exclaimed ; 'speak, dearest aunt, speak-is it so ?'

'He is married,' she replied in a tone of deep dejection, -'disgracefully married!'

She looked up in my face and seemed quite bewildered at the expression of my countenance. I was expecting her next words with breathless anxiety, and could only repeat, 'To whom, to whom?'

'You could not have imagined it,' she answered; 'you could not have believed it possible; he has married that girl whom you saw at Bridman-Alice Tracy.'

Married to Alice Tracy! Was it possible? What a crowd of conjectures, recollections, suppositions, and fears, rushed upon me at that moment!

'What does he say about it? What does he write? When did it happen? May I see his letter?' were the questions which I addressed with breathless rapidity to Mrs. Middleton, who seemed entirely taken aback by the manner in which I received this startling intelligence.

'Here is a strange letter,' she said, 'from Henry himself; another from my father, who, as you may imagine, is indignant; and one from Mrs. Tracy, which is at once impertinent and hypocritical. I hardly know whether I am acting rightly in showing you Henry's. It is so extraordinary ; but you must explain to me several things which I have

never hitherto questioned you about; and perhaps, together, we may find out the secret of this wretched marriage. I have not ventured to show this strange letter to your uncle ; he thinks that it is only from my father that I have heard of Henry's marriage; and I am afraid I am doing wrong in letting you see it; but I am so bewildered-'

I interrupted her by drawing the letters almost forcibly out of her hand. She suffered me to do so, and watched me while I read them. I was conscious of this at first; but the interest was so absorbing that I soon forgot her presence, and everything but the letters themselves. I read Henry's first; it was as follows:

'MY DEAR SISTER-You have known me long enough not to be surprised at any extravagance that I may be guilty of. You know also that I am somewhat of a fatalist, and that I maintain that our destiny in life is marked out for us in a manner which we can neither withstand nor counteract. I have just done what is commonly called a foolish thing— very likely it is foolish; all I can say is that I could not help doing it. It is done, and therefore the fewer remonstrances or lamentations that are made on the subject the better. I am married. Last Thursday I married at Church, Mrs. Tracy's granddaughter. Her name is Alice; she is very pretty, and has been well brought up. She has five thousand pounds of her own, left her by an uncle, who died some time ago. I have, as you know, about as much. My father, of course, refuses to see her, and I conclude Mr. Middleton will do the same. Do you remember, Mary, the time when, sitting at my bedside, you would kiss my forehead and tell me how you would love my wife? We used to talk of her and describe her. She was to be tall; her eyes were to be dark, and their long fringing lashes were to sweep her cheek; her throat was to be white and graceful as