that Squire Hartfield had been found shot through the head, and that a pair of pistols were lying on the grass near the body, with Mr. Reuben Apsley's name engraved upon them.

At this intelligence Helen turned deadly pale, for she recollected that her lover had threatened to compel the Squire to desist from his importunities, and though it was true that she had recently been relieved from them, nothing seemed more probable than that some angry encounter might have taken place between the parties, and have produced the catastrophe in question. A sudden sickness of the heart overcame her, she leant upon her mother, and was supported out of the room, Goldingham following and intreating them not be alarmed, for though the pistols might be Reuben's, he would never believe he had fought a duel, since he had often heard him condemn the practice as a

very doubtful proofs of personal courage, while it was a certain evidence of moral cowardice."Odsheart! my dear young lady," he exclaimed, "the boy is as bold as a lion, and at the battle of Sedgemoor, as every body knows, fought

I

like a hero, long after the Duke had run away; but he is no duellist→→no bullying duel

list. So cheer up, cheer up, there's a good girl, and I warrant I'll ferret him out in a day or two."

In spite of these assurances a general anxiety and 'alarm were excited by his disappearance; but in the very midst of her own sufferings, acute as they were, and rendered perhaps more poignant by their being accompanied with uncertainty and suspense, Helen's thoughts reverted to the still more distressing situation of her friend Emily Hartfield, and as soon as she had a little recovered from the first shock of the intelligence, she requested her mother to accompany her to the Rookery. Upon their arrival they found the house in the occupation of Sheriffs' officers-the servants had fled, all was confusion; and the unfortunate Emily having abandoned herself in the first instance, with the usual vehemence of her character, to an uncontrollable passion of grief, was discovered sitting in her own chamber in such a state of exhaustion and stupor, as to be scarcely sensible

of what was passing around her. She said nothing, and betrayed neither pleasure nor reluctance as they assisted her to the carriage, which was ordered to Harpsden Hall, as there was now no longer any motive for continuing their residence by the sea-side. Helen's affectionate and soothing attentions soon restored her to consciousness, and even to a comparative degree of composure, but she was hardly able to continue these charitable offices to her friend, for her own feelings deepened into consternation and dismay when, on the following evening, a fisherman brought in Reuben's hat, which had been left by the tide on a desolate part of the beach, not far from the village where they had been residing. From its appearance it had obviously been some time in the water, and the most sinister forebodings as to his fate now filled her mind with gloom and despondency.

Various were the conjectures entertained by others. Most people thought that he was the author of the Squire's death, and suspected that in the agitation and hurry of his escape

from the scene of action he had fallen over the cliffs and perished. It was known that he was in the habit of walking back to the village along the sands, and it was surmised by some that he might have been surprized by the tide, where it rose against the chalky walls of the coast, and thus have been drowned before he could es cape. In spite of the most diligent researches and inquiries, and of a considerable reward of fered for his discovery, no tidings could be gained, not the smallest light was thrown, either upon the Squire's death or the mysterious disappearance of Reuben.

Goldingham and Lady Trevanian remained plunged in the deepest affliction, and poor Helen, who had seen the cup of peace and happiness lifted to her lips only to be cruelly dashed to the ground, suffered a relapse of her former malady, and sunk under a dejection of alarming, spirits which became every day more as every day confirmed her dismal forebodings that Reuben was indeed no more. Never per haps was witnessed so sudden and distressing a change from present lightness of heart, and

anticipation of future joy, to that sickness of the whole soul which arises from immediate hope deferred, and gradually darkens into the blackness of despair. It was a touching spectacle to see Emily, herself inconsolable, endeavouring to comfort and sustain her friend; and Helen striving to conceal her own griefs that she might not aggravate those of the sensitive and warm-hearted Emily. Neither, however, could succeed in her generous aim; and the general despondency increased with the lapse of every anxious day that passed over in the same dark uncertainty.

There was one person, indeed, whose mind underwent a change of an opposite nature. Upon returning home after the fatal rencounter with the Squire, Basil felt as if the brand and the curse of the first murderer were upon his brow and upon his heart. He looked at his trembling hands, and imagined that he saw them stained with blood; every sound appalled him ; he doubted not that he should be delivered up into the hands of justice, and with a sullen desperation resolved to remain in his room, and