song was written, and of its anthor's fate! The story ran, that a boy-a Wykehamist it was said-was, for his idleness and ill-conduct, left at school during the holidays; he pleaded hard to be forgiven, but his friends were inexorable. Accordingly, as soon as the last chaisefull of his companions had driven off, he retired to his solitary chamber, wrote the song, of which the above is part, and died at the end of a few days, of a broken heart. It may seem childish to record such a legend at this time of the day, but the feelings which are allied to it are too vivid not to sway the heart even now.

It is certain, at least, that the two young gentlemen, whose return from school has suggested the foregoing reflections, would have thought them childish enough. They were Eton boys, near the top of the school, between seventeen and eighteen years old, and, of course, far too manly not to hold in scorn all the more juvenile associations from which such thoughts spring. Still, delighted they were. Youth, health, high spirits, ardent anticipations-what needed they more? Joyous, indeed, was their conversation, and short seemed the way, as they rattled along as rapidly as oaths, promises, and double-pay could urge the post-boy.

Get on, my lad, get on, we shall be late,' exclaimed one of the travellers, letting down the front window of the chaise, 'I want you,' he added, turning to his companion, to see the view from the top of the hill, and it will be dark if this fellow does not get on faster. See, yonder are the out-lying woods of Mabledon ; but it is three quarters of a mile from there to the Park-gate.'

They reached it at last: the porter's wife at the lodge beamed with smiles as she flung the gates wide, and exclaimed, God bless you, my lord-you are welcome home,' as the chaise whirled through. Now, St. John,' he exclaimed, 'look on this side; there is the river, and yonder is the obelisk; and you can just catch a glimpse of the clock-house over the stables, in the angle of the valley-the weather-cock is glittering in the sun. This view from the London lodge we reckon our crack prospect, I can tell you.'

And well they might: it was a view such as is to be found only in England; and there only in the seat of an ancient and wealthy family. The scene consisted of two boldly swelling hills, along one of which they were now passing, clothed with the most luxuriant woods, whose tufted tops were glowing under the splendour of a July sun-set. The trees, advancing more on some points than on others upon the brow of the hills, gave beautiful variety to the ground, by thus affording vistas into the thick of the woods, and by the picturesque effect of the dotted clumps and single trees, which formed their termination. Between these hills stretched a broad and beautiful valley, with a fine stream running throughout its whole length. At the farther extremity appeared a bridge, near the opposite side of which some of the chimneys of the house were visible. 'It is beautiful, indeed,' exclaimed St. John, most beautifulmost magnificent! and he continued to gaze with increasing admiration and delight, as Lord Mabledon pointed out to him feature after feature of the prospect as they advanced.

At length, as the chaise proceeded along the brow of the hill, and, subsequently, began to wind down it, the house appeared in full view. It was of white stone, and of the Ionic order of architecture, simple, grand, and of vast extent, such, evidently, as could be occupied

only by a man of princely fortune. St. John gazed in silence the image of his own humble home rose upon his mind, and the contrast was too forcible to be pleasing.

She ap

'See,' Lord Mabledon cried, they have perceived our coming, and are on the steps to receive us-but where can my sister be, that she is not there?-she used always to be the first to welcome me. Ah! here she is, I declare,' he exclaimed, as, at a turn in the road, they beheld a female figure, on a white poney, coming at three-parts speed to meet them. proached;-nothing could have formed a more charming object for a painter than on that which St. John now looked. The poney, milk-white, and with its long, silken mane and tail floating on the wind, was, to ordinary horses, what an Italian greyhound is to the rest of his species. But St. John saw not the horsethe rider rivetted his looks and thoughts. It was a girl about sixteen; tall, and slenderly formed, but already with that beautiful outline of form, which is always accompanied by grace, and which gives the promise of full developement at maturity. Her hair, brilliant and profuse, was blown by the wind in dishevelled luxuriance about her cheeks, glowing at once with the effects of exercise and of emotion. Her large full eyes flashed through their long lashes with the animation of joy; and as, stretching out her hands with delight towards her brother, a smile of affection irradiated her whole countenance, St. John thought he had never beheld a being so lovely. She was not encumbered by a habit: she seemed to have started upon horseback to meet her brother: a velvet foraging cap was flung lightly upon her head, giving her streaming hair to view, and her ordinary gown betrayed a foot like Cinderella's in the fairy stirrup.

'Dear, dear George!' she exclaimed, as she rode up to the chaise; welcome home a thousand times! how delighted I am! And you're looking so well! We did not expect you for this hour, or I intended to have met you at the gate!' Lord Mabledon greeted his sister with equal fondness; and it was only after a dialogue of some duration that he turned to his friend, saying, But I forgot--Arthur, I must present you to my sister. Emily, this is my friend, Mr. St. John; Mr. St. John,' he added, with mock formality, this is Lady Emily Lorraine.' Lady Emily smiled, and bowed, and, looking at the disorder of her dress, blushed a little, saying, I will canter on and put Titania up; you will find them all in the hall, waiting for you; and, giving the rein to her little mettlesome steed, off she sprang as rapidly as she had come.

A few minutes more, and they drove up to the great entrance. Lord and Lady Missenden were in the porch, and Mabledon was eagerly embraced by each. Their son was evidently an object of equal pride and affection. As soon as the first greetings were over, he hastened to present his friend, and as the friend of such a son was he received. Lord Missenden was a man somewhat under fifty; tall, handsome, and of peculiarly gentlemanlike aspect. His countenance was usually thought to wear an expression of coldness, but at this moment it was lighted up by all the warmest and strongest feelings of his nature. His Countess was little turned of forty, with more than the remains of great beauty, and possessing those manners, the perfection of which is perhaps to be found in no other person than an

Englishwoman of condition, who is no longer in her youth. Their polish, grace, and fascination may exist at any age; but their full ease can scarcely be possessed until the consciousness which must ever attach to a beauty' has in great measure passed away.

་

In a few moments, Lady Emily again joined them, and they proceeded together to the drawing-room. It was full of company, a large party being then at Mabledon; and to most of them Lord Missenden presented his son and his son's friend. To this last, every thing was new and dazzling. The splendid room, opening en suite to the library and music-room, crowded and glittering with all the varied and brilliant luxuries of of modern furniture; the exotics which shed their per fume through the windows opening to the ground; the lovely home-view which was seen through them, beautiful as that at the entrance of the park had been noble ; the grand scale on which every thing around him seemed modelled; all served to strike St. John at once with admiration and even surprise. His home was widely different. A small parsonage, with a parlour on each side of a narrow hall-modestly furnished; such was the dwelling in which he had been born, and in which his holidays had hitherto been spent. His father, who was, as I have said, a clergyman with a moderate living, seeing the promise of strong talents in this his only child, had sent him early to Eton, with a view to the advantages of the connections that might be formed there, aad with especial injunctions to the hoy to neglect no opportunity of making them. The father had calculated correctly as to his son's talents; his advancement was rapid, and his distinction great; but he had utterly mistaken his fine independent spirit, when he had tried to instil into his young mind the mean maxims of a tuft-hunter. Arthur St. John was a noble, open, and generous boy, whose very last idea was the worldly advantage which such or such a liaison might prove to him eventually; and holidays after holidays, when his father asked him, in Eton phrase, 'Who is your chief con now?'-he had the mortification to hear the plebian names of Jackson, Thompson, or Jones, in answer. But, at length chance effected what would never have been accomplished by design. The circumstance of two or three boys leaving school at the same time, brought young St, John next to Lord Mabledon, the eldest son of the Earl of Missenden, a nobleman of immense wealth, and great political influence. The two boys became inseparable; in all schemes, whether of study or pleasure, they were united Lord Mabledon, without having the striking talents of his friend, was sufficiently quick and clever to appre ciate, and go along with him; and so total, at the same time, was the absence of all rivalry, that his gratification at the distinctions which St. John's talents gained him, was scarcely inferior to that of Arthur himself. Content, as the school-phrase goes, 'to do his own,' Lord Mabledon aimed at no more; and, consequently, his anxiety for his friend's success was unmingled with any feeling of personal emulation or jealousy.

The boys rose together; and their friendship continued unbroken. Each constantly spoke of the other at his home; and, at length, the proposal of Lord Mabledon to bring his friend home with him the next summer was readily acceded to by both fathers; by the one merely to gratify his beloved son,-by the other with the view to his son's advancement.

As Arthur stood, nearly unnoticed, in the magnificent drawing-room at Mabledon, gazing upon the brilliant scene which still dazzled his eyes, even when his mind had recovered from that sensation-the contrast of the little parlour at his father's parsonage, with its plain paper, and mohair chairs, and old-fashioned window-seats, rose, with a somewhat painful vividness, before his fancy's eye. But his good feelings soon drove this idea from his mind: ‘Of all things in the world,' he thought to himself, the last allowable to me is to cherish feelings of envy towards Mabledon. Generous, open-hearted, noble fellow that he is, I can feel nothing towards him but friendship and esteem! He is the best friend I ever had in the world; and long, long may we remain so.'

There are music and cards, Mr. St. John,' said Lady Missenden, coming up to him; but I conclude you will be of the party in the music-room. Miss Brabazon is a most celebrated singer; and I will venture to say you never heard a finer finger on the piano.'

'I dare say not,' thought St. John, as he followed his noble hostess to the music room.

There sat, at the instrument, a tall, bold-looking girl of four or five-and-twenty, who, after vast tumbling over of music-books, and shifting of the lights, and divers other of the minauderies usually let off by distinguished lady-performers, at last fixed on a bravura from an opera then in vogue, and began to play the symphony in certainly a very masterly way. She then sang-correctly, brilliantly, powerfully-but the performance gave St. John no pleasure-it was all headwork, the feelings had no share in it.

How divinely Miss Brabazon sings!' exclaimed aloud, at the end of the piece, a powdered, formal, old man, rising from a sofa on which he had been asleep during its course; don't you think so, Sir?' But without waiting for St. John's answer, he continued, She was under Tramezzani for two years, and he said he never had a pupil of such excellence. Lord Mabledon,' he added, bustling up to him, 'do persuade Lady Emily to sing one of her charming little French songs; pray do, Lady Emily, let me intreat you;' and, when he had fairly seated her at the piano, he went back to his sofa and his sleep.

Lady Emily sat down smiling and blushing, as young ladies still can do before they are out-and pulling off her glove (manches a gigot were not then in fashion) displayed an arm which St. John thought the whitest and most finely turned he had ever beheld; and though his experience was only that of a stripling under eighteen, he was not far wrong in his judgment. Lady Emily burst at once into her song, which was one of those of delicate archness and malice, which no language but French can express, and to which the music (it is the point beyond which French music should never attempt to go) is at once so beautiful and appropriate. St. John almost started as she began; her voice was a round, rich, contr'alto-and, though he did not know it by its technical name, yet he felt that it was not the voice he had expected from one so young and apparently so delicate. But his delight equalled his surprise she seemed to revel in the gay, yet wild, notes with which the burthen was brought round again at the conclusion of every verse-and, each time there was some new out-break of beauty, some new combination of sweet sounds.

Oh! how delightful it is to gaze on an object such as this a young creature, beautiful as the day, beaming with youth and gushing spirits, and the consciousBess of exciting and deserving admiration-her eye flashing her voice quivering—as a smile, bright as the first rush of sun-light over the sea, seems almost struggling with the music for possession of the exquisite lips! Oh! at such a moment we forget that so bright a being can be born for aught save happiness, and love, and joy-still more, that the very excess of her fascination is but too probably in exact proportion with her future sorrows!

St. John thought not thus. He gazed, he listened -both yielded him delight unspeakable-but he was contented to feel it, he did not analyse it. At his age, indeed, we enjoy happiness; we do not pause to dissect and demonstrate it. When we do that, our hearts are already beyond the power of experiencing its full and unsophisticated joys, In the prodigality arising from plenty, in youth, we fill the cup of ecstacy to the brim, and empty it at a breath. Afterwards, it is scantily filled, and we pause to savourer every drop,

Again!—again!-pray, again!' exclaimed half-adozen voices at once. Encore!-I beseech you, Lady Emily, encore!' said Mr. Evans, the powered, formal gentleman, awaking from his sleep. St. John did not speak; but he fixed a look of mingled admiration and entreaty, which nothing but a warm and passionate heart could give to the face-and beneath which Lady Emily's eyes quailed, as she blushed deeply-and, after a pause to collect herself, began her song again.

It was long before Arthur St. John could close his eyes in sleep that night. The emotions of the day, so many and so various, had excited him far beyond the pitch to which rest will come. Above all, the strongest passion of human nature had that day dawned in one of the most passionate hearts which the hand of that nature had ever formed. Arthur St. John, for the first time, had felt love.

Lady Emily had had great curiosity to see Arthur St, John. Her brother had been in the habit of speaking of him constantly as his dearest friend; and she knew from the same source that his reputation for talents was pre-eminent among those whose occupation it was to judge of talents. The arrival of a person, whose coming had been prefaced by circumstances such as these, could not be an indifferent event to a young lady of sixteen, whose feelings and ideas had not as yet been fashionbitten and made worldly by joining in that most heartless, selfish, cold, mercenary, intercourse, called, emphatically, Society. If her passions were not as yet deep and powerful, her feelings, at least, were quick and sensitive. The romance natural to her age lay piled within her heart, ready to take fire at the first touch.

But St. John felt far more strongly still, and saw and guessed nothing of all this. Fielding has somewhere said, in substance, that it is seldom that a very young, and consequently inexperienced, man expects to meet with villany in the world; for how should he know of it, unless he be a villain himself, and thus be prompted by suggestions from within? And how, therefore, should St. John be able to guess the paler affection which existed in Lady Emily, while he burned with a passion, fated to give its colour to his whole life.

If a party in a country-house be deserving of the praises I have showered upon it in the opening of this paper, it is certain that it possesses at least one advantage in an incomparable degree-viz., the ease and rapidity with which we become acquainted with those with whom we sympathise. In London, three years will not make two persons of opposite sexes so well known to each other as three weeks will do in the country. Three weeks!-why, in that space there may be condensed the whole history and fate of a human heart; opening, crisis, and catastrophe!

And so it was with poor Arthur. Lady Emily's attachment to her brother was great; and, while he was at home, she was constantly in his company. She rode with him in the morning; she got into the same little coterie at night; and in all this St. John mingled. He admired her exceeding beauty; he was fascinated by the grace, animation, and even archness of her manners he was touched by the sentiment which was constantly upspringing in every word she spoke. Above all, he was dazzled and made drunk by her very manifest admiration of him. Nothing, indeed, adds more strongly to the fascination of a young and charming girl than the circumstance of those fascinations having the assistance of her evidently appreciating our sweet self, according to the modest estimate which we ourselves are apt to form of that person.

She

She

And thus did Lady Emily look on St. John. hung upon all he said, and gazed upon his face as she spoke; she appealed constantly to his opinion; and exclaimed Oh! how beautiful! when he once repeated to her a couple of stanzas of his composition. would sing his favourite airs; and shewed deference to his taste and judgement in every thing. Was it possible to resist this? Wandering in magnificent woods, in the most beautiful summer evenings that ever came out of the heavens, (at least, they seemed so,) with sunsets, and moons, and poetry, and fancy, and feeling, and the most accommodating tièrs in the world, in the shape of a careless, boyish brother, who thought no harm,' and saw and heard nothing that was not on the surface, and thus gave the danger of a tête-à-tête, without its consciousness in such circumstances as these, what could St. John do, but fall in love? He did;-and that with all the headlong powers of a passionate heart, and, alas, with all the fixed intensity of a firm one :

'What sky'st thou, wise one? "That all-powerful love
Can Fortune's strong impediments remove;
Nor is it strange, that worth should wed to worth-
The pride of Genius with the pride of Birth.'

I do not say that soaring visions like these were thus accurately defined in St. John's mind; but that certain vague images of an elegant and picturesque parsonage, with a honey suckle growing into the windows, and a green lawn stretching down to a trout stream, with a couple of children playing on it, and Lady Emily sitting under the trellis-work, smiling as she watched them that such some such picture as this did occasionally form itself in St. John's imagination is most certain. It was foolish, perhaps, but so it is to be in love at seventeen, and yet very sensible people are so, every day.

Lady Emily's feelings, on the other hand, were far from being so definite as this, She was thrown into the intimate society of a most striking young manher brother's chosen friend; she felt the brilliancy of

his talents, and the general superiority of his manner; and, above all, she was touched and delighted with the manifest power which her attractions had over him, and which she continued to exert more and more, as she perceived their daily increasing effects. This was not coquetry, properly so called: it was not done for the purpose of display or tyranny-but she felt it altogether to be delightful, and she indulged in it, without enquiring as to wither it was to lead, or what its effect might be upon either St. John or herself.

re

Thus days and weeks rolled on. The young men were not to return to Eton, but were to commence sidence at Oxford at the end of the long vacation. Thus they were to pass the three months from Election to the beginning of Michaelmas Term, at Mabledon. The proceedings of theyoung people were little observed: they were thought almost children; and if Lady Missenden sometimes perceived symptoms of admiration for her daughter in Arthur St. John, it was merely with a smile, and without an idea of danger for either party. But danger there was, and that deep and imminent. One evening, in the beginning of September, Lady Emily had strolled with her brother and St. John as far as the London lodge, of which I have already spoken. The air was of that rich, balmy temperature, which the close of day, in a fine autumn, so often possesses; and a glorious harvest moon shed her luxurious and luxuriant light upon the scene. When they reached the gate, Lord Mabledon recollected that he had some directions to give to the game-keepers, whose lodge was about a mile farther on, along the skirt of the park; and, thinking that it would be too far for his sister to walk, he desired St. John to take her home.

Alas! what a dangerous position is this! Two persons, young, beautiful, full of poetry and romance, and whom the constant intercourse of a considerable period had been drawing nearer and nearer to each other, were thus placed alone in a scene, to the loveliness of which nature and art had both contributed their utmost;-it was evening-there was a deep, soft stillness-they were beneath that light

Which ev'ry soft and solemn spirit worships,
Which lovers love so well

their arms were linked, and the quickned pulsations of the heart of one were felt against the bosom of the other-which thrilled at the touch. Ah!-one has known such moments-and years of pain were well repaid by one of them;-one has-but it is no use plunging into one's own reminiscences: my present business is with St. John and Lady Emily, whom we left walking home together from the park-gate.

They proceeded in silence down the hill; but the thoughts of both were busy. Their conversation had been more than commonly animated while Lord Mabledon had been with them, and the revulsion was consequently felt the more. It is probable that, at no moment of their intercourse, had Lady Emily felt more strongly or more tenderly towards St John. The subject on which he had previously been speaking, though a general one, he had contrived to turn so as to give individual application to his feelings towards her :-he had spoken warmly and eloquently-and she was touched. He was now silent-but she was well aware of what nature that silence was.

At length he stopped suddenly. The place where he

hate me.'

Hate you! oh God!' exclaimed Lady Emily-and, suddenly checking herself, she was again silent.

St. John hung on her words, and paused, expecting to hear her continue;- Speak to me,' at last he said, 'will you not speak to me?'

'Mr. St. John,' she answered faintly, this must not be, You are my brother's friend-and my-she paused for a word-' my-regard for you is great, but I must not hear this.'

And why not?' interrupted St. John- Why not, unless you despise me?-why not hear me speak thus, unless I am hateful to you?-I know that I am poorI know that your rank places you infinitely above meI know the country clergyman's son has no right to look up to the earl's daughter-but I love you-l doat on you- I feel this, and it annihilates every other con sideration, And, oh! if you have even the slightest atom of that regard for me, which I have sometimes dared to hope-(and the joy of the idea has almost driven me wild)—you surely must compassionate the state of feeling which has driven me to this disclosure.' 'I cannot be insensible,' said Lady Emily, to the value of such feelings from one like you-I cannot but feel pride of the highest kind at having excited them -for I believe you. I am very young, Mr. St. John, and I know you are too generous to deceive or trifle with me--'

·

་

By heaven' exclaimed St John-but I shall not detail the protestations of a lover in answer to a speech like this; he was any thing rather than a hackneyed one-and yet his expressions were, I will answer for it, exactly what a Richelieu or a Valmont would have used upon a similar occasion. Nature teaches; these artists of lovers only imitate what they recollect once to have felt.

Suffice it, that before they reached home that night, Lady Emily and St. John had sworn to each other unlimited and eternal love and the first burning kiss of passion had been impressed upon her beautiful lips.

I shall not dwell on the period which passed between the scene I have just described, and that fixed for the the young men to go to Oxford. The disclosure of their passion went no further than to each other. It has been said, and most truly, by a great master of human nature, that Quand on est d'accord l'un et l'autre, on sait tromper tous les yeux: une passion

naissante combattue éclate; un amour satisfait sait se cacher.' The word satisfait, as used here, carries with it, it is true, a far more extended meaning than can be applicable in the present case; but still it is appli cable; for, in the innocence of their youth, their passion was satisfied by the very fact of its confessed existence, and by the almost unlimited intercourse which it was in their power to command. To Lord Missenden the idea of his daughter's forming an attachment to a person of St. John's rank in life never occurred; nay, he had not ceased to consider her a child, and the subject was altogether foreign from his habits of thinking. Lady Missenden, besides also continuing to regard her daughter almost as a child-a mistake into which handsome mothers will frequently fall-never dreamed of such a thing as a serious attachment springing up between a school-boy and a girl of sixteen. She might, perhaps, sometimes fancy there was a childish flirtation arising merely from the juxta position of the parties but this amused her, without exciting any stronger feeling.

Lord Mabledon, from his more constantly being in the company of his sister and his friend, was not quite so blind. He saw that they were becoming attached to each other; but as his own feelings on such subjects were much more those of an Eton boy, than such as many lords of eighteen feel now-a-days, he never thought of its acquiring sufficient importance for him to interfere. He was exceedingly fond of both he was delighted in their society, and he was glad to see they were fond of that of each other. The whole business had no graver character in his eyes.

At length Michaelmas term called St. John to Oxford, and the lovers parted. He left Mabledon with an additional pang to those naturally occasioned by his first separation from the first object of his love: for, in despite of all his entreaties, Lady Emily refused to write to him. By some strange contradiction of principle, though they had for above a month carried on the intercourse of clandestine attachment, yet she could not be persuaded to consent to a clandestine correspondence. Whether it was the actual tangibility of communication by letter, or the extreme difficulty which would attend the establishment of such a correspondence, or both certain it is, that St. John could obtain nothing more from Lady Emily than the permission of now and then adding a few words at the end of her brother's letters, and of having sometimes a message addressed to him in her own. How different this was from a direct correspondence, I leave it to those people in the world to judge, who have ever written or received such letters themselves.

Two years passed away, and St. John and Lady Emily had not met in the interval. Lord Missendon had gone abroad with his family, which had occasioned this separation. But, in the midst of change of scene, and severe study, and active exertion, the image of Emily Lorraine was still constantly present to Arthur St. John. It was the spur which goaded him to struggle for distinction; it was the sweetest part of his triumph when he obtained it. His disposition was keen and warm, but it was also firm and intense; his passion had been formed under the operation of the former qualities, it was retained and cherished under that of the latter. He had set all his heart upon one cast; the hazard of that die involved the extremes of happiness or anguish.

Lord Mabledon had left college and gone into the army, and was at this time abroad with his regiment; so that the interruption of St John's intercourse with Lady Emily was total.

At length, Lord Missenden's family returned to England. It was the month of April, and they fixed themselves in their house in town, in order that Lady Emily might come out,' She did so; and was soon in the full whirl of that monstrous compound of selfishness, wickedness,, frivolity, and folly, a London season.

It was in the middle of June that St John was able to get away from college, and, hastening to London, the first thing he did was to hurry to Grosvenor Square

Is Lord Missenden at home?' he said to the powdered, fat, grumpy personage, who emerged from his leathern tub, with all the brutality, at least, if possessing none of the other qualities, of Diogenes'No,' said Cerberus.

Is Lady Missenden ?'

'No.'

Is Lady Emily?' he was in the act, though not strictly according to etiquette, of asking, when he caught a glimpse of her bounding across the hall, and up the stairs. It was but a glimpse; but sufficed to throw the blood into his face, and back again to his heart with a rapidity that took away his breath. He was going to enter, without waiting for an answer to his last question, when the porter again reverberated his emphatic No!' and, sorely against his inclination, St. John was obglied to retire in despair.

·

Three days afterwards a card came, with due formality, from Lord and Lady Missenden, to request the honour of Mr Arthur St. John's company at dinner,' that day three weeks. Not a word of old friendship or recollection: no three-cornered billet from Lady Missenden, beginning, Dear Arthur,' as of yore; all was chilling, stately, and exceedingly proper. Arthur could not endure the suspense: he twice, in the interval, called at Grosvenor Square, but he never could gain admittance. The torment he suffered during those three weeks, I would not, though I am poor man, undergo for as many thousand pounds. Now, he doubted of the endurance of Lady Emily's attachment: surely, surely,' said he, she might, under such circumstances as these, have broken through her resolution not to write, and given me one line, if it really were only one, to say that she was unchanged, that she loved me still. But she has been half over Europe, she has been 'La belle Anglaise' in half-a-dozen capitals; she has forgotten the poor, lonely student, who was far away, and who had nothing but his imperishable love to offer her.' But then again the recollection of all that had passed during that dear summer at Mabledon rose upon his mind, and he would exclaim, No! it is impossible!— that creature can never be false !" At length the day came. St. John found a large party assembled. Lord Missenden received him cordially, and Lady Missenden with the most friendly kindness. She enquired with interest about his progress at Oxford, and communicated her last news of Mabledon, and gave his last letter to read. St John was touched and gratified at this, but is eyes were wandering in search of one, a single glance of whom was to decide his fate. But she was not present; and she entered only just before the servant who came to announce dinner. The crowd pressed forward, and they did not

6