shock. The anxiety of our protracted suit had long shattered his health: this fresh blow killed him, after lingering the owner of that beautiful old place, without a day's enjoyment of it, for five years. At that time I-(shall I, can I, tell her?) yes I, the consumed, faded, worn out one you see, I this fretful, shrivelled, morbid thing-had my admirers: for I was then, they used to tell me, agreeable, clever, beautiful. But he I loved was not my admirer. He was a barrister fast rising into fame, and had been retained, and earnest, on our side. And I helped him, as I told you, in his labours, and for a time we met and lived as friends, sister and brother-like. And then when his eloquent and gracious oratory, and his long honourable industry, and clear unerring fore-sight had placed us in our rightful home, we had him often as our guest, a dearly welcome guest, in very gratitude at first. And there he said he loved to come, whenever he could snatch repose, and drink in life among the braes and old encampments of Northumberland.

You

would have called his beauty womanish for a man-yet oh! it was so faultless! with a soul within that grappled gallantly, and yet grappled unequally, with the stern life he was leading. And I think his hard life killed him. But I never knew for certain, for I could not bear to speak of him, after I knew he did not love me, though I would have given worlds to do so. But I think his hard life killed him. And he sank into his grave, a beauteous, gentle, muchloved youth-just my own age. Of all men I have ever seen, in figure and in presence, he resembled most St. Just. And sometimes I have thought he knew his own dear life was ebbing and so would none of earthly love. For he was a long while ill-and those who watched him closely could perceive yearly death gaining on him, even through that full, fair, blue-eyed face. Thenceforth I grew a nervous, irritable, horn-hearted thing. Oh! quite, quite altered: reckless, morose, and set against mankind. I know that it was wrong in me, but my whole after life was changed-changed by that

one blossom-blighting spring. And I have set myself-my only consolation-in memory of him to ponder on the studies he pondered so excellently well upon -(that so our thoughts must often meet)—even though they dried the of his sweet life from out of him.

sap

"I told you, (did I not?) my father lived five years after his success; the property then passed to your grandfather, and we, that is I, made room for him, as he who was before us had for us. A sad removal, and yet perhaps less sad than to remain, by all the sorrows I have hinted at. And then my uncle took me, who, from oversight or whim, had not been written in the entail, yet has by his own wits and God's good blessing, as you see, brought himself from nothing to more rank than ever the Squires of the family: and he has been to me a father, and I to him a daughter.

soft fit has had its

Never refer to it.

dear cousin."

And now that my weak run, let us no more of it.

Now help me to my note,

"How very, very, sad, but very interesting; "

said Annette, who really had been very much interested. "But his name, dear, his name; you must tell me his name?"

"His name! no, never! sooner than breathe it, shall my heartstrings crack, and my lips be sealed for ever. No never! none ever knew I loved him. Not even his dear self. And none but you has ever known thus much. To the grave shall his name descend with me, clasped in the secret-keeping depths of my own soul; hallowed, and ever in my prayers; but-uttered? —never!”

She spoke these last words with such unnatural vehemence as half frightened Annette: then laying down her tambour frame, walked abruptly to the window. Annette thought she saw her brush a tear away, but her back was turned to her, and in a few minutes she had regained the self-command which she could exert in so extraordinary a degree, and her features their wonted composure; and without any further reference to what had passed, she read aloud to her cousin, with a calm voice, as she penned

with an untrembling hand, the following lines.

"The writer of this has reason to know that Miss Stuart remains attached to Mr. St. Just; the writer has also reason to believe that this announcement will not be unacceptable to Mr. St. Just, who is therefore advised by one who wishes him well, not to trust any false reports to the contrary which may have reached him. The writer has the best authority for the truth of this, and Mr. St. Just may therefore rely on the accuracy of the communication."

Harold had left London, immediately after the assistance which, by the strange coincidence we have mentioned, he was enabled to render to the cousins, to agitate the all-absorbing question of Reform in the provinces in conformity with the resolutions passed at Wiseman's rooms. Thither Virginia's note followed him, and was put into his hands at the moment he was about to address a numerous audience on the subject. He affected to receive it with a stern incredulity, and reasoned logically enough with himself for