"She loves!" cried a voice within him, and involuntarily he exclaimed, "You love, Mary! I now know all-you love!"

Mary trembled, laid her hand upon her heart, and looked up to Lord Ormond with an inquiring glance.

"You love, dear lady," he continued, in a tone of sympathy, for she seemed to wait for some sound from his lips; and, as if struck by a sudden perception, he added, with the force of conviction, "you love Richmond!"

Her eyes kindled at these words, and pressing her hand on her heart, she sank down fainting, without a sound. Ormond repressed his own agitation at this sight, and opening the casement, he placed her gently on the window-seat. She was colourless, and resembled more a marble statue than a living being. Yet a smile played round her mouth, and the autumnal sun illuminated with pale golden streaks this saintly image.

It was soon evident to Lord Ormond that she was reviving her breast heaved as gently as if she were sleeping, her smile became sweeter, and a few drops, forcing their way from beneath her eyelids, fell like pearls upon her bosom. But she did not open her eyes, and Ormond remained watching her in mute expectation. His words had unveiled the secret of her heart, and this seemed to give him so powerful a right over her, that her consciousness was lost. It was scarcely a swoon by which she had been overcome: dreams and realities were strangely mingled in her mind. She was conscious that she lay on the window-seat, within reach of the sun's rays; she knew that Ormond stood by her side, protecting her; and yet, without any transition of ideas which could estrange her from the reality, it seemed if the as bay-window divided itself before her, and left her an uninterrupted view of the beautiful landscape. She appeared to be sitting upon a height, from which she overlooked a beautiful country, rich with handsome cities, powerful castles, and lofty towers and cathedrals. She saw distinctly many active people, engaged in their different pursuits, and all belonging to former times. It appeared to be a festival day throughout the land, for the crowd poured on in one direction, and from a distance came sounds of music, mingled with the voices of men, the clang of arms,

and cries of joy. An enamelled green covered the hill upon which she lay, and it appeared as if its base did not touch the ground. She felt a soothing pleasure, a heavenly deliverance from all earthly care. Near the edge of the hill was an oak wood, upon which the sun shone, and the ground glistened with the fresh green of the moss, and the shadows of the oak leaves danced like flowers upon it. Then she heard a sacred chorus of priests: they sang an Agnus Dei, and soon they appeared on the wide road, walking two and two, with the saints, and with sweet boys, who bore silver vases, from which curled the blue smoke of the incense. These were followed by knights in golden armour, and with waving piumes. Others next bore upon their shoulders a silver coffin, surmounted by a golden crown, and boys, clad in dark silk and gold, held the corners of the royal purple pall. Many others followed, in mourning dresses; and then the wide road was empty, and only the sun played with the leaves upon the fresh ground. Lively strains now resounded. The wood was obscured, yet the new tones were those of trumpets, which announced a marriage feast; and soon a gorgeous train appeared, arrayed with all the richness and magnificence of regal pomp. The golden stuffs in which the noble dames and stately cavaliers were clad, the precious stones, and the many-coloured feathers, sparkled brightly in the sun. The prancing steps of the splendidly adorned steeds appeared more inspired by the trumpets, than guided by the light pressure of the golden bridles. Beauty heightened magnificence, and happiness and pleasure joined in sweet harmony. At last the chief attraction of the train approached. Two charming young boys led a milk-white palfrey, which bore the young beauty, who, in the adornments of a queen, appeared crowned with leaves, moss, and flowers, like a wood-nymph. She had woven a web of delicate threads around a handsome, regal-locking man, who, fervently devoted to her, was chained by her lovely eyes. The train approached, and seemed to mount the hill. The lovely woman nodded to Mary, and raising her white hand, she placed her delicate fingers in the golden circlet of a crown, which she extended towards her. The man by her side raised his eyes, and looked ten derly upon her.

"My uncle!" she exclaimed. The whole picture-the sweet dream-had disappeared. She stood up suddenly before Lord Ormond, who was imploring her to awake. She looked at him with the sweetest smile; her eyes sparkled, as if illuminated by some light within, and soft blushes covered her face.

"Yes," said she, as if Lord Ormond had only just spoken the important words" Yes, you have said it; I know it now-I love him !"

She pressed her hands upon her breast, as if she would secure the new-born conviction. She seemed to have forgotten entirely what Lord Ormond had said to her of himself, and was endeavouring to make him the confidant of her now intelligible feeling. Ormond sank down kneeling before her, his face hid in her hands, which she had allowed him to take, and remained mute with emotion.

A loud convulsive sob, close to her, awoke her out of her inspired reverie. Ormond jumped up, and Mary looked round. Olonia Dorset stood opposite to her, weeping bitterly, and her pale face bearing an expression of deep despair. As soon as she saw that she was observed, she flew to Mary, and embracing her, said,

"Thou lovest him! Oh! thou happy one! And thee-how he loves thee! Oh, take him-take him! Olonia can die for you both! Yes, you belong to one another: so let it be. How could he love me, when thou wert present? Oh, Mary, I could sometimes even hate thee, because thou hast destroyed my happiness. Yet I-I cannot hate thee-I can only love thee the more; for thou appearest to me yet more worthy of my affection, since he has awarded thee the meed of his love!"

"Oh, God!" exclaimed Ormond, quite distracted on perceiving the grief of this affectionate creature, who had now declared what he had long suspected that she loved Richmond in secret, and had been unable to restrain her feelings on learning that Mary was also attached to him. His heart was at this moment divided between his niece and the dear object of his love. Mary pressed Olonia to her heart, without speaking.

"She will faint," said she gently, and with Ormond's assistance she placed her on a chair.

"Alas!" said Ormond, sighing, "must thou, too, feel the pangs of unrequited love! How often have I prayed that she might be spared this trial. And yet I guessed her love-yes, I wished it, before I could suppose it, that my noble Richmond should win this high prize."

"You are mistaken,' said Mary, lightly: Lord Richmond does not love me, and that feeling which taught me the name of love, has no response in his bosom. Olonia loves not Richmond: she loves you, dear Ormond-you! whilst you have deceived yourself, and, till this moment, have overlooked it. Without naming you, she long since betrayed her secret to me, and I hope that you share her feeling."

Ormond's surprise deprived him of the power of reply. Her simple and decided words left no room for misinterpretation, and the conviction of the truth, supported by a thousand proofs, forced itself upon him. But only a short time was allowed him for these thoughts. Olonia recovered, and opening her eyes, she looked terderly at the two individuals standing before her. Then taking Ormond's hand, and placing it in that of Mary, she said gently,

"You two are then one and thou, best and dearest of mankind -thou wilt be happy!"

She endeavoured to raise herself, but was obliged to be supported by her two friends.

'Olonia," said Mary calmly, "thou hast joined two hands which were already united in friendship, but love will not follow. Now," added she, turning to Ormond, leave our dear Olonia to my care. I will take her away in safety."

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Ormond pressed the hands of both to his heart, and hastened away in increased anguish.

CHAPTER XIX.

The following day was the last that Lady Mary was to spend under the protection of this honourable family, and she had the heavy task of concealing her agitated feelings. If anything could counterbalance her anxiety, it was the explanation which Ormond's words had given of her feelings; and in spite of outward circumstances, she found time fully to understand herself. She was surprised at having been able to bear this so long incomprehensible secret; and she blamed herself for having lost, in confusion and disquiet, that love and joy which now appeared the treasure of her soul, ennobling her, and appearing to give her a more exalted being. Her clear understanding at once satisfied her that these feelings must not be cherished, and that she would only be worthy of herself, and might indulge them with propriety, when she exercised a perfect resignation.

Thus she sanctified her thoughts, and when she looked forward to her future life she became more calm. Her mind no longer pondered on the sacrifice required by the step she was about to take, but merely on the doubt whether that step were the right one. The only thing that could overcome her irresolution was the letter; but even the dearly-loved writing could not assist her in conquering her reluctance to trave with Lord Membroke; and after many vain efforts, she allowed herself to yield to that feeling.

Strangely did she meet Richmond's look when she first saw him again at table, and she would have borne his glance with difficulty, had not her perfect resignation made him appear simply as the beautiful ideal of her love. An unspeakable peace penetrated her heart, and she descried the melancholy expression of his eye, which gave her the sad conviction, that he regarded her relation with Lord Membroke with compassion. A sigh betokened the painfulness of the sacrifice which was laid upon her; but she felt some consolation in the thought that as her feelings had never found an echo in his