other. She might only have been one object to me among many others. It might have been so, though it is difficult to believe it; but we must believe what we see, nor dare to assert that the idol enshrined in our heart in hope, in fear, and in suffering, would have maintained its sway in the dull atmosphere of secure possession.

"We arrived at Elmsley on a lovely evening, and not a room in the house, not a spot in the grounds did I leave unvisited. While Edward and Lawson were engaged on the county registers and reports, as if their whole souls were bound up in them, I stood on the verandah, and looked on each well-known object in that lovely view till the whole was wrapt in darkness. That gradual obscuring of each spot which, when I first stood there, was glowing in the light of the evening sun, reminded me of my last conversation with you, when, in answer to the confession you extorted from me, you took up a book from your table and pointed to these lines, which I only read once, but have remembered ever since:

'Nay, rather steel thy melting heart
To act the martyr's sternest part;
To watch, with firm unshrinking eye,
Thy darling visions as they die;
Till all bright hopes and hues of day
Have faded into twilight gray.'

Christian Year.

“But enough of all this. Our canvass has been eminently successful; Edward has exerted himself amazingly. On the nomination-day he really spoke admirably. It is impossible not to be struck with his strong sense, his uncompromising rectitude and steady moral decision of character. He is so animated, too, by all these subjects; quite enthusiastic, in his way, about the interests of the people, and the new field of exertion which his present prospects open to him. It is plain that he has a genius more fitted for active than for contemplative life, - and so much the better for him; for a man, this is the happiest of dispositions: and he will be happy; for there is nothing in his character incompatible with quiet enjoyment; no violent passions and feelings; no morbid sensibility; with him all is sober, practical, and rational.

"Good-bye, my dear Mary. I am happy to think that Alice is with you. Remember what you promised me; watch over her as you would over a flower which a breath might sully or a breeze destroy. Thank God, you and I are no longer strangers to each other's thoughts and hearts.

"Your ever affectionate brother,

"H. LOVELL."

Could Mrs. Middleton have intended me to see this letter? Had she, perhaps, promised Henry to show it me? No, this was entirely, utterly impossible. It must have been a mistake; and I would not inform her of it, lest it should agitate and distress her. Henry had evidently imparted to her the secret of his unconquerable attachment to me. Was this wise in his own interest? Did it correspond with his usual caution, and, above all, with his recent behaviour? It seemed to me strange; but Mrs. Middleton was easily worked upon: she did not know Henry as I knew him; she thought him like herself; and because their minds were in unison, she fancied their hearts were alike. His power was so great over those who loved him, when he chose to exert it, that it seemed to me, now, as if he had taken up a new position, and, through his wife and his sister, meant to rivet the chain which bound us together. Never did two people know each other as well as Henry and myself. I always read his motives through the veil which he flung over them, and which, perhaps, concealed them sometimes from himself. He was a practical artist; his own life was the canvass on which he worked; and that was the reason why, with a selfish heart and an unprincipled mind, he possessed all the graces of emotion, all the charms of feeling. This letter (clever and well aimed as it for it touched upon the very wound which had been rankling in my heart during the last few days) failed in its object, if, indeed, he had hoped that it would meet my eyes; for, as I read his account of Edward as I felt the pain it was meant to inflict as I acquisced in the truth of some of his remarks, and indignantly repelled others, the cry of my

was

heart, as I threw it from me, was in these words: "Rather be his slave than your idol."

On the following Saturday they both returned to London, and when I found myself again with Edward, I forgot everything in the joy of the moment. But when I was told that the day of our marriage was positively fixed for the following Monday, it seemed to me as if it was the first time that I had really believed it would take place, as if I had never considered before all that that step involved. For the first time I thought of what it would be to one in my peculiar situation, not only to love as I had long done, but to be bound by irrevocable ties to one who, ignorant of all the circumstances of my miserable fate, would wonder over each inequality of spirits I betrayed, condemn every tear I shed, read every letter I received, and, at the slightest appearance of equivocation or deceit, would banish me from his heart, and overwhelm me with his just anger. But it was too late, I said to myself too late to retract, too late to think. I mentally closed my eyes, and passed through the next twenty-four hours like some one walking in his sleep.

On the next day (Sunday) I saw Henry for one moment as we were walking out of church. I told him, in a low voice, of Robert Harding's appearance in the parks on the last Wednesday, and of his following us through the streets.

"You saw him," he exclaimed. fancy?"

"Then it was not Alice's

"No, no- I could swear to him. He had followed us, and stood at the shop-window long before Alice observed him."

Henry looked extremely discomposed, and muttered something to himself; then turning to me, he said —

"That fellow has been desperately in love with Alice for years since she was quite a child. Her grandmother turned him out of the house on that account three years ago. Just before our marriage took place, he made some outrageous scenes; I threatened to give him into custody, and warned

Mrs. Tracy that I should do so. Two or three days after, she told me he had sailed for America, and from that day to this I had heard nothing more about him; but I must find out if she knows of his return. Perhaps she employs him as a spy. I shall let you know what I hear."

After a pause, I said, with a great effort

"You must not write to me on any account; remember that, Henry. Edward will read all my letters; he is already in the habit of doing so."

"It was exceedingly foolish of you not to object to it. Pray, how am I to communicate with you if anything should occur to make it desirable? Is your maid to be trusted?"

I coloured with anger and with shame, and gave Henry a look of indignant reproach.

"I really beg your pardon if this offends you; but it is not for my own sake that I ask the question. You yourself employed a third person when you required my assistance."

"I was not married then, Henry; and deceit, contemptible as it always is, was not as guilty as it will henceforward be. For God's sake, spare me the shame of a secret correspondence. You need not be afraid of my being too happy, or of my forgetting that you hold my fate in your hands."

"Do not impute to me as a crime, Ellen, that, unfortunately, your safety depends on my conduct. I have exercised the greatest control over myself lately, and I had hoped that you would have done justice to my motives."

As he said this we had reached the door of our house, and anxious not to part with him in anger, I whispered to him, as we shook hands

"I do you justice, Henry. Forgive, and spare me!"

He wrung my hand and walked away, without waiting for his wife, who had gone into the house with Mrs. Middleton.

Mr. Lovell, who was at that moment calling on my uncle, took her home in his carriage. When I heard my aunt arrange with them at what hour they were to be at church the next day, and ask them to come home to luncheon afterwards, I stood by in a sort of stupified bewilderment. I then went into the

back drawing-room, and wrote a note to Mrs. Hatton, to ask her to be present at my marriage the next day. As I was finishing it my aunt came in, and tried on the wreath of orange flowers, and the veil which she had chosen for me.

I walked up and down the room-I stood at the window — I wished that Edward would come; I was getting frightened at my own nervousness. I went to the pianoforte, and sang Mrs. Hemans's "Two Voices," that cry of alternate mournful depression, and highly-wrought enthusiasm, in which the words and the music seem to be but the expression of one thought. My voice was unnaturally loud and thrilling; there was a sound in it which I could not bear. A moment afterwards I was desired to go to my uncle in the library; Edward was with him, and Lawson, the man of business. I was directed to sign some papers. I did so, and Lawson left the room. My uncle then said to me —

"On you, Ellen, and on Edward, I have settled all my property. Since the day that I lost my only child this has been my fixed purpose. I was anxious to live long enough to see it accomplished, and I am thankful that wish has been granted. I have one request to make to you both. Call your eldest girl Julia - make her wear this chain it was round my child's neck when she died — and if I live, let me see her often. Now go, and God bless you both!"

I don't know what I said or did; these words fell like burning lead on my soul, and I almost sank on the ground. Edward took me out of the room; and the only hour of relief which that day afforded was when, with his arm around me, and my head on his shoulder, he suffered me to weep in silence.

with

. Then he raised my head gently but forcibly; then, his sweet smile, and his low deep voice, he whispered to me that his happiness was unutterable - his love boundless — his soul mine for ever. His words words of passion from him whom I worshipped - at whose side I felt myself unworthy to live at whose feet I would have been content to die; - those words, those looks, those tones, thrilled through my whole

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