She raised her eyes slowly to the duchess, and whoever saw this look would have devoted themselves to her for ever. The lady was again agitated, and her eye remained fixed upon her, as if she could not remove it, whilst her feet were in the act of walking away. The colour on her cheeks changed, and she stammered, almost inaudibly, a few farewell words. She hastened to the next room, and stood still before Pons, who, bowing, inquired her commands. She saw him not, and his words did not reach her ears: her eyes were fixed gloomily on the end of the hall, as if she there descried some object. Pons raised his head, surprised at her silence, and perhaps expecting a continuation of some former jest. But so striking was the expression on the face of the duchess, that he sprang back, and looked inquiringly at the spot on which her eye was fixed.

Just at this moment Morton entered, and her voice was heard by the lady.

"What do you require, Morton? What have I done? What do you say?" cried she hastily.

"Pons is waiting your grace's commands," replied Morton, in a firm voice.

The duchess passed her hand over her forehead, and then pointed to the door which led to her mother-in-law's room. Pons disappeared like lightning; but his mistress remained behind to collect herself, until the old lady, apprised of her approach, sent Lovelace to the door to receive her. She even came herself to meet her, but her friendly mien and words died away when she saw the duchess more nearly. She was of a deathlike paleness; her eyes were dim, her lips trembling too violently for words, and her hand could only make a slight sign towards the doors. These being closed at her signal, with her last strength she seized a chair, and sank into it deprived of conciousness.

"Do not call any one, my lady," cried Morton, " and do not shriek: it will soon be over, and I have all that is required for her restoration."

And the faithful servant loosened her girdle and headband, and rubbed her forehead and temples with reviving drops, whilst the old

lady, calm and collected, tried with motherly tenderness to warm her daughter's hands in her own.

"Has she seen the stranger?"

"Yes, just now.”

These were the only words exchanged between them. Their quiet endeavours were soon rewarded with success. The duchess opened her eyes: composing herself, she looked round, and perceiving what had happened, she endeavoured to rise. She would have spoken, but the old lady would not permit her. Leading her to the

fire, and seating herself quietly by her side, she said,

"Must I again reprove you? How can you thus risk your health? You have been in those halls and galleries without your cloak, and the air is to-day so foggy that no windows can defend us from it. You forget how much more delicate your health now is than it used to be. We will punish you because you bring suffering upon yourself; or, if you will obey your old mother in future, we will not betray you, for your children would really have a right to scold you,"

The duchess cast down her eyes, which had remained fixed upon the speaker during this address, as if she would seek its true meaning. But although she could not decide whether her mother-in-law really did attribute her swoon to the fog in the galleries, she could not mistake the artless expression of kindness in her features and in the tone of her voice. The fearful gravity upon her pale face gave way to resignation, as it had often done before when in the presence of so warm a heart as that of her mother-in-law, and gently lifting her hand to her lips, she said mildly

"You have not given me up, my truly good mother: people only scold those whom they hope will improve. I will willingly obey you. Had I always done so, I should perhaps have been more like you. Ah! I am weaker than I have ever been; I am strange, even to myself, and cannot collect my thoughts. What a frail thing is that which we term strength, simply because we can bear what overcomes others; and what a vain illusion is courage, which exists only because we are spared that which will subdue us, and which, LIB. OF FOR. ROM.-VOL. V.

F

when it does arrive, gives us a view of our minds from which we cannot turn without self-reproach. It reminds us that we have much within us that we have hitherto neglected to summon to our aid, because we so proudly believed that we posesssed what we called strength."

"Where is the human breast, my dear daughter," replied the old lady, "which can boast of having gone through life without shrinking? We do not cease to be strong, when we are agitated by what God gives us for the fortifying of that strength, which, in time, becomes part of us. It has often struck me, that we interpret strength as something different to what God intended; and you, my child, seem nearer to true courage when in grief. Strength is not hardness of feeling. You are not weak, because you feel deeply what God's hand lays upon you: in that grief lies the strength which you fancied had disappeared, because it no longer arms you against Him. That does not appear to me to be strength, which deadens the feelings of grief and joy; but that man appears to me mentally powerful, who feels and answers the full purpose of his being. The power of joy and grief over him must be restrained by his reason, and quarrel and opposition must not move him. He will always reckon himself among the strong; for if you step into life richly gifted, you strive to conquer, and being allured by it, at length feel yourself overcome. The struggle for the prize of freedom is that which lies before all strong souls, and the conqueror must have been the struggler.. Whatever quickens you-call it peace, call it patience-is so difficult to attain, that even the strong one cannot reckon it his own till late."

"Patience, mother? It is thus that you designate that lamblike feeling which nature bestows at their birth upon the most careless of beings? Do you deem that synonymous with strength, for these appear to me as the poles of human nature? Is not patience the want of strength? Will he who feels courage to fight, in life, for that which appears to him right-will he, instead of doing what his powers require from him, stand by, an idle witness, and simply receive that which has been determined on by others?"

"Who that lives has not learned, dear daughter, that there are

limits to the success of courage? In youth, we think life a lovely mystery, of which we wish only a happy solution; later, we meet with opposition, in which we delight, because it arouses our strength to bestow the warm and delightful feelings which we receive. Whoever was created strong-minded, he dreams that life lies in his bold hand; and beyond himself he sees ardent hopes, from which he seeks great things. Hardly is the point attained where he would begin, when what he would acquire lies in ruins within his reach: then the moment arrives when the best asks himself, whether he has deceived the world, or the world him? The strong mind lives through this moment, and that which then gains the ascendancy confirms his earlier promise. The mysterious between-to will, and to succeed is revealed to him; and his firm mind now acknowledges the limits which were placed from without to his rash steps. Driven back into himself, he collects the treasures which so temptingly decoy him; and whatever presses upon him afresh from without, will tend to assist him towards what is good. In this manner comes to the strong one, and to him alone, that great word which I named to you-call it peace, or call it patience."

Oh, how little I deserve your holy word, dear mother! How scornfully have I overlooked this feeling, which your words present as the holy rays which stream from the foreheads of

to me

martyrs!"

"And who, my daughter, gives us a higher interpretation of these words, than such patterns of the most exalted strength and virtue? Did earthly success reward them on their way? Were they not likened by the Highest to the sower, who, ere the harvest was yet come, was snatched away from the field which, in troubled times, he had bedewed with his own blood, thus nourishing the young germ? Was the patience with which martyrs suffered, and the high soaring of their souls-was this not strength?"

"Yes, dear mother; but never before has the application of this to our short life been so clear to me. I now feel as if I must declare to every one the impression which has to-day been made upon me; that none may any longer fancy himself strong, when he is merely angry with life for having chided his vain aspirings, and for

having prepared for him a path not consonant with the proud dreams which he has himself created."

"It is the weak man, dear child, who unceasingly strives after the phantom of his vanity, consuming itself in discontented feeling, and striving to impute to the individual what its own weakness produced. But let me here pause. Have not your sorrows

too long chained you to this uncomfortable seat?"

"Think not so, dear mother: an angel led my weak steps to you. Your presence is at all times a balm to my heart; and to-day your words have comforted me, you know not how much, and just at the right time."

"Praised be God!" said the old lady, kissing the forehead of the duchess. "We must ever listen with sympathy and gratitude, when God calls us to do good to those whom he loves."

CHAPTER VII.

When the ladies met at dinner, the duchess informed her motherin-law that she had received letters from Lord Archibald and her son, who were in London, and that they might expect her brotherin-law and the young duke in a few days. She then begged that her daughters, attended by Mistresses Deddington and Carby, would pay a visit that afternoon to the strange lady. On hearing this, Lucy clapped her hands with delight, and it was the first merry meal they had enjoyed for some time; for the prospect of a visit from these two gentlemen appeared to act cheeringly on the different inmates, according to their various circumstances.

Lucy's pleasure knew no bounds. The strange lady, ner brother, her uncle, all excited her naturally lively temper; and Ramsey, Pons, Otway, Jephson, and others among her favourites, all afforded her a source of amusement. But suddenly she exclaimed

"Mamma, you have not told us the strange lady's name. How shall we call her?"