the mistake he had made, and lamented that he had not kept a copy of his letter to his sister. "It would have explained all this at once."

"However," added he, " do not be alarmed; I only mentioned what I had been told of the observation of the world, upon your intimacy with Mortimer, and desired his mother, for his sake, as well as yours, to give him proper advice upon the occasion."

66

Only!" cried Constance, looking aghast"Only! The observation of the world!-For Heaven's sake, my dear father, what can this mean? What have I done that the world has observed, or that you should convey to my aunt, and, through her, to another? Oh! how properly has she judged, and how like herself! And to what am I reduced, when my whole pride of character has hung upon such a chance?"She here stopped in an agony of distress, which alarmed her father the more, because he could not possibly understand it.

Alas! though her parent, he was not made to deal with so delicate a being as Constance. He endeavoured to soothe her, but knew not the real topics of consolation. He felt he had been in fault, yet knew not exactly how; and

s;

at any rate thought it beneath him to own it. It was therefore with difficulty, and certainly not to her relief, that Constance collected that the world coupled her name with her cousin's but for her intimacy with whom, her father thought the fortunes of the Duke of Bellamont, or Lord Cleveland, would not have fared so ill.

This was quite enough to subdue Constance, without the addition of the displeasure Lord Mowbray expressed at such liberties being taken with the heiress of his house, or the threat of his eternal anger against Mortimer, if from his or her conduct, their names should be mentioned together, and such reports continue. The heiress of the Mowbrays felt indeed no affront to her name, by a report which coupled it with that of De Vere; but the dignity and purity of the Lady Constance felt alarmed that she had been observed by the eye of curiosity, and suspected of favourable but unsanctioned feelings towards a man who had never addressed her. This interview, therefore, with her father, was the most painful of her life.

To the feelings and fortunes of De Vere the consequence was still more disastrous. His

intercourse with his uncle had long been on the wane; but though he had from principle endeavoured to wean himself from the intimacy with his uncle's daughter, which had been till then the charm of his existence, yet the persuasion that he possessed her regard was the soothing support of his soul. What then did he feel, when, instead of the pleasure which usually lighted up her features at his approach, he found her reserved, constrained, and, as he thought, distant? "Twas the first real shock her personal demeanour had ever given him.

About the same time he also received an account from Melilot, whom he had made one of his agents for the borough, that his sister had been forbidden by her lady, from ever meddling with that subject again," which, to be sure, said Melilot, argufies a change in my lord, that some on us mayn't like."

The change in my lord neither surprised nor alarmed De Vere; the change in my lady did both.

Embarrassed, distressed, disappointed, mortified, his cousin now became the object of his study more anxiously than ever. Her distance

was as evident as his own misery upon feeling it; and, utterly unable to account for the alteration, he was tempted to exclaim

Frailty, thy name is woman!"

But something whispered him that though it might be the name of woman, it was not the name of Constance.

He had, however, no opportunity in London, of clearing up that point, and it was amidst all these uncertainties of his heart, that his other great interests were excited by the tragic end of Beaufort, the consequent illness and danger of Wentworth, and his undertaking to accompany him in his convalescence upon that tour of diversion, prescribed by Dr. Wilmot. Thus, he had little opportunity to penetrate the thick · ening cloud that obscured the fondest hope of his mind, far less to dissipate its darkness, and let in the day.

Thus disgusted with every thing that had awaited him in his own country, he began to meditate a longer sojourn abroad than his attendance upon Wentworth required, or than at first he had been disposed to contemplate. His heart always beat high in resistance to oppression, whether towards himself or others; and

he pleased himself with the thought of offering his sword to the confederates in Poland, who, though arrayed nominally against their enslaved king, were then interesting every generous mind by their exertions (unfortunately vain) against a foreign yoke. The notion was rather floating in fancy than embodied in fixed determination; and Wentworth dissuaded him from it, as useless to those whom he wanted to serve, as well as detrimental himself, if he should be wanted at home. Nevertheless, it continued to possess him, and hints of it got abroad.

There was one person, however, to whom it was necessary to tell it in form, from whom he expected comfort, or at least sympathy, and whom, even without this design, duty as well as love impelled him to see. His attachment to his mother had always been so tender, and the confidence between them so sincere, that his best feelings were soothed by the thought of beholding her again. He longed also to visit the home he loved, after what he began to think had been a toilsome and anxious pilgrimage in a new world-for such the events of the last eight or nine months had made every thing appear. He therefore begged a week of Went