She is decidedly graver, too-graver than formerly our beautiful Edith-and there is an air of listlessness about her-whilst that arch smile of hers, that used to be so captivating, is far less often seen than of yore.

'Fitful of mood, by impulse sway'd,
How oft we make the sun and shade
Which lights or dims our way!

View'd through some medium of our own,
Now seems our path with weeds o'ergrown,
And now with roses gay!'

Her health, too, is not what it was in the days when a walk across the park, to meet her husband on guard, and stroll awhile with him, was one of her greatest enjoyments;—and she would tell you that the slight contraction on her brow, is owing to her frequent and severe headaches; but the life she leads is not one conducive to health, for her hours are late, and she seldom walks at all. She sometimes regrets this, and determines to resume her former habits, and to keep earlier hours; but she soon forgets these laudable resolutions, and finds it more easy and more luxurious to recline languidly in her barouche, and be

whirled from shop to shop at a rattling pace by a pair of the most beautiful greys in London, especially as Lord Henry has little time. to walk with her now. His parliamentary duties, the claims of his constituents, his clubs, and the management of their various estates, engross him so completely, that he has seldom a moment of leisure to bestow upon her. He has quitted the Guards long since, of course; and now he represents in Parliament a division of that county for which Mr. Somerset was member during little less than half a century.

Lord Henry is the most altered in appearance of the two. A few grey threads have begun to shew themselves among the rich clusters of his chestnut hair, and the frank and joyous expression, for which his countenance was formerly so remarkable, has given place to a certain pre-occupation-an anxious and thoughtful demeanour, which seem to add years of life to his age. Like Edith's, his brow is occasionally contracted, but not like hers, with pain-his eyes have a dreamy, unsettled, yet searching gaze, and in their vicinity the insidious crows have already left visible marks of their perambulations, He is grown somewhat stouter, too-decidedly less active, and much

more silent; he seems to weigh his words now, as he might do his gold-yet he looks what he is-rich; a man of substance and consideration. He looks too as if he knew it, but not as if the knowledge added to his happiness-on the contrary, if the truth must out, he looked a happier man when he was poor.

He was a happier man. He was lighthearted then-careless, unsuspicious; he had nothing to lose, and he feared to lose nothing; now, he is troubled with a thousand doubts, and perplexities, and apprehensions. He has been pestered for money by some, and talked out of money by others, and flattered for it by not a few, and cheated out of it by a great many; and these things have vexed and disgusted him with the world in general. His generous spirit has been roused to indignation-his kind heart has been wounded by ingratitude-he is almost afraid to be liberal now-it seems to him so much the same thing as being laughed at. He used to pity his brother Rona, for his sordid love of gold; now he is rather inclined to envy him the reputation, for no one ever thinks of going to Rona for money, and all the world seems resolved to beg or borrow it of him. Yet it is hard,

that when he has always set his face against stinginess, he should be driven to it as it were, in self-defence.

He is not stingy yet, however—that cannot be said of him-though he has already acquired something of the keen appreciation of moneythe sort of relish for it, which so often grows with its possession. He will give his hundred pounds to a charitable institution, and that gladly, where perhaps another would only give thirty; and he will nobly relieve any case of undoubted distress that comes before him-but he thinks twice before he throws a penny to a beggar he is fond of frequenting cheap booksellers for the earliest publications-he has a remarkable predilection for return tickets, when he runs down to Beauvale for a day or two he is unusually strict in his dealings with cabmen, whose proper fares he knows to a fraction, and he shews himself decidedly peevish, if he finds two or three letters with 'fourpence more to pay,' scrawled on the outside, amongst the unopened heap on his library table.

But the change in him which is the most remarkable, and the most to be lamented also, is that he has grown suspicious. Who that

knew him a few years ago, would ever have

thought this possible?

Yet it is so!

The truth is, he has been unlucky in his experience. and too implicitly-he gave his confidence in some instances without sufficient caution; it was grossly betrayed, and, what was worse, he found himself ridiculed for having given it. Then he went into the opposite extreme, and the worst—and gave that confidence no more to any one. This is not unfrequently the case. It is often the most generous and unsuspicious natures that become, in the end, the most cautious and distrustful.

He began by trusting too soon,

Lord Henry had naturally been courted after his accession of wealth-it was one of its necessary consequences. Its acquirement had placed him in a new position; he had taken his place among the magnates of the land, and it was natural that he should be hailed by them as one of their fraternity. But, in certain instances, he discovered that the friendly and flattering advances he received, had not been without their object. Votes were to be obtained-political influence was to be secured -he was to be turned to account in one