"Indeed I do not know what it is

you mean, Patrick, nor what your master can mean by coming here in this way;" and so saying, in a tone that indicated some sense of being offended, as well as grieved and perplexed, the young lady turned away to execute her uncle's commands.

"There now, may be I haven't put my fut in it," said Patrick, soliloquizing; "why the divil couldn't I hould my tongue, and leave my master to tell his own story, whatever it is, for it's little enough of it I know, though

It's a

it's no use lettin an to be such an omadthaun, as to be runnin away from one doesn't know what. But how cute she is, never purtending to guess why he should come here, when all the country side knows how the young master was smit, and gev up all his ould wild tricks for her sake. pity her relations isn't all the real quality, but only making their money in trade-it's out o' the mother's blood, they say, she has that illegant look, but purty and simple, too, as a child. An' where's the great harm of trade either? After all, this is a mighty dacent comfortable looking place, an' it all come by thrade. I hope, though," he continued, taking up again the reins of the horses-" I hope they don't mane to lave me an' the horses out here all night; we want bit an' sup as well as our betthers."

Here his soliloquy was interrupted by his master, who, coming out into the hall, directed him to go round to the stables, and put up the horses, and then to betake himself to the kitchen, where Mr. Ewing had ordered him to be taken care of.

"Thim is the most sinsible words you spoke to-day, sir," said Patrick ; "no offinse to whatever you said before. You'll stay here to-night, sir?" Yes, I have determined upon that."

"More power to you, sir; you never came to a wiser detarmination in your life, and the horses id say the same, only they can't spake, poor bastes."

"I almost wish that you were in the same condition upon the present occasion," said the young gentleman, “but since you can speak, Patrick, do be very cautious what you say. You are to know nothing of me, but that my name is Thompson, that I have come from Dublin, and that you rode with me to show me the way from Kilkenny to Ross."

"You wouldn't suspect me, sir, of tellin anything ?"

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No, not suspect; I rely on your fidelity-on your affection for me; but what I fear is, that without intending at present discretion is everything, and it, you may say more than you ought I am sure you would be as sorry for it yourself as I should be, if I should be prevented from accomplishby any thing that was heard from you ing my escape."

to say.

"Wouldn't I die sooner ?" rejoined Patrick with earnestness; "but sure I know it's far easier for an Irishbut even that same I'll do, wit the help man to fight than to hould his tongue, o' God, barrin it's the priest himself that bids me spake."

"And would you betray me to a priest?" said the young man hurriedly, and with an air of anxiety and indigna

tion.

"There's no betrayin' sir, in what servant, gravely. one says to one's clargy," replied the

Well, Patrick," said his master, with a sigh, we cannot discuss this now, but be discreet, and be ready very early in the morning, if I have occasion for you."

"Never fear me, sir," replied Patrick, "I wont pay their bed the compliment of stayin in it after daylight, any how."

The young gentleman now returned into the parlour to old Mr. Ewing, upon whom his conversation after Miss Ewing left the room had made a very favourable impression, though it afforded very little information as to the cause of his eagerness to take ship without delay from New Ross. "You were so good, sir," said the stranger, "as to send to order refreshment for me, will you permit me to postpone it

until your usual hour of supper? and in the mean time, if you will allow me, I shall go to my chamber, as I have something to write, which I must do without delay."

"I thought refreshment needful for thee, after thy long ride," replied his host, "but if thou dost indeed prefer to wait, and would rather dispatch thy business at once, a resolution for which thou dost deserve praise, be it as thou wilt; I will myself conduct thee to thy chamber."

With these words he led his guest to a chamber as comfortable and neat as even amuch more fastidious traveller could have desired, and pointed out to him, with courteous but Quaker-like exactness, where every convenience that he might be likely to stand in need of was to be found. Writing materials, which, in these days, formed part of the ordinary furnishing of bed-chambers in gentlemen's houses, were the only things that were to be added to the conveniences of the apartment.

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"Thou hast two hours for thy business before our supper time," said the mild and attentive host ; we shall then send for thee, and hope by that time thou wilt have finished." He received with evident pleasure the earnest and grateful thanks of the young gentleman, and withdrew.

The stranger, as soon as he was alone, threw himself upon a seat, and covering his face with his hands, thus meditated-"What will she, what can she think of me now ?-I must seem an impostor in the sight of one who, more than any other in the whole world I desired might think well-think more than well of me! O! fatal result of folly-where shall I now look for the honor that I might have won-the love that, perhaps, I might have inspired-bad I but deserved it? All now is lost to me, a fugitive and a criminal! But she must not deem me worse than I am-I cannot hope to speak with her, nor to express myself as I ought, even if I could-I will write, and trust for an opportunity of giving into her own hand an explanation of my present situation. There is no time to be lost, let me at once set about it." He rose, went to the writing table, and exerting all the self-command he possessed, to repress the agitation of his mind, rapidly wrote the following letter --

"I am sure Miss Ewing must have been much surprised, and I scarcely dare venture to hope that she has not been much offended by that which must have appeared to her my very unaccountable appearance and conduct this evening. I fear that I may possibly add to that offended feeling by the liberty I take in writing this letter, but even with that consciousness, I cannot bear that my conduct should remain unexplained. I dare not attempt to describe the agony of the thought that you might despise me. You have seen to what the necessity of circumstances has driven me. I entreat you o listen to the brief account of these circumstances which I shall attempt to give.

That

"You, perhaps, do not rememberI can never forget the occasion on which we first met, very shortly after you arrived from England. meeting, and the subsequent meetings which made your aunt's house an earthly paradise to me, wrought in me an utter change. I became another man. New thoughts-new feelings - new views opened upon me. Nobler, better, wiser aims were set before me by the gentlest and most unconscious of monitors. The impetuosity-the waywardness-the contempt for that which I ought to have respected-all the faults which were destroying me were by your society-by pondering in delightful admiration on your disposition and your accomplishments, made obvious to me. You have beheld me this evening enduring the disgrace of previous errors-it is to you I owe it, that I am not now proceeding in a guilty and desperate career.

"It is probable that you may have heard, that at an early age, after having lost my father, I was sent to school to England, where a naturally impetuous temper was not improved, but rather made worse, by the tyranny which, in great schools, one class is permitted to exercise over another :from thence I went to Cambridge, where, for an offence against the discipline of the University, which I then thought of very trifling moment, or rather of no moment at all, I was severely censured. I left Cambridge in disgust, and returned to my home in Ireland, where an indulgent mother was easily persuaded that I had acted

with becoming spirit in refusing to submit to the harshness of College discipline. The fortune which my father had left me, made it unnecessary for me to choose a profession as a means of living, and having a taste for reading, and political disquisition, I soon found enough, and, ere long, alas! too much to engross my time and attention.

"Although a Protestant myself, I deemed it just, or at all events generous, to exhibit the utmost liberality of sentiment towards my Roman Catholic neighbours. I cultivated the acquaintance of the Roman Catholic clergyman, and through him became intimate with his brother, who had shortly before returned from abroad. He, too, had been intended for the ecclesiastical profession, but for some reason which I never heard explained, he had not taken orders. He was exceedingly well informed, particularly on subjects connected with political discussion, and no man could use his information with better effect; he was equally subtle in reasoning, and earnest in declamation. His persuasive powers were irresistible-at least I found them so, and he soon obtained a complete mastery over my opinions and actions. It was then he revealed to me certain views of great political changes to be wrought in the first instance, by secret associations, and in process of time by open force. My folly, or his eloquence, was such, that what I heard, though it astonished, it did not deter me. On the contrary, I thought it a noble enterprise, and admired the depth of deliberation with which the plan had been marked out, from the first suggestions of popular discontent, to the final overthrow of the existing powers and privileges. I need not tell how I was led on, step by step, to take a leading part in the secret conspiracy that even then was at work among the people. Without at all committing himself, (as I now perceive, but did not then,) my false friend led me into taking the oaths of confederacy, and attending the secret meetings, which made me a criminal in the sight of the law. I soon saw that I had gone too far. Even if the apparent ruffianism of those with whom I found myself associated, had not taught me this, I should have learned it from the tyranny which he who had so entangled me, now attempted to exer

cise over me.

He made me painfully sensible, that neither my house, nor my purse, nor my time, was my own-he commanded all when it so pleased him, and I saw, with deep indignation that he used me as a convenience.

"It was at this time that you came to reside at your aunt's house in our neighbourhood-the result I have already attempted to describe to you. That which I had begun to perceive to be a course of hazard and of guilt, soon became to me immeasurably disgusting. Do you think this was a mere reaction of caprice-the mere fickleness of one whom passion and not reason guided? Oh! do not think so. My understanding was convinced that there were far better-far more honest, far more honourable pursuits, than those of a political conspirator, and if I felt with all the sweet intensity of passion, that life could also give more exquisite delights than the gratification of fierce and turbulent ambition, deem me not, therefore, to have for this alone repented me of my guilt. The calm good sense, enshrined in feminine gentleness, which you possessed, taught me what was right, while it inspired feelings that now I do not dare to dwell upon.

"But I must proceed. I endeavoured to disunite myself from my political associates, and had to bear first the ridicule, and then the reproaches of the man who had led me into the conspiracy. Against all this your society, which I then had the happiness frequently to enjoy, sustained me. You left our neighbourhood to come here, and the thoughts and feelings which you left with me, sustained me still. Moylan-for that was the name of my tyrant, and you may remember him—a dark, quick-eyed man, who in company was either totally silent, or the leader of the conversation. Moylan bore more and more hardly upon me. At last I resented his intrusion, and we openly quarrelled. I knew that I did so at my peril, but I still thought that, considering the part he himself had had in leading me into the political conspiracy, he would not dare to denounce me to the government. There I

deceived myself-ten days ago I learned, with consternation and shame unutterable, that information had been given against me, and that officers were

ordered to apprehend me. Since then I have beeu a fugitive-a criminal flying from the officers of justice-I have no course but that of escaping out of the country. I have been to Dublin and beyond it, hoping to advise with my uncle, who is a clergyman, but I found he was absent in England. My steps were traced, by information which I have no doubt Moylan must have furnished, and I could not embark from Dublin. I thank him for that, for it has led me here, and I shall once more see you before I leave this country, perhaps for ever. I know not what information may have been forwarded even to this place, and therefore I have obtained a letter of introduction to your uncle as for another person. Pardon this poor degrading deceit to which I am reduced. I hope it will be the last. "And now farewell. Once more forgive me forgive me for thus telling you all that my bursting heart will not allow me to restrain, and yet I do not tell you all-no, it would be idle and presumptuous daring to do that now. I did once fondly indulge the hope, that extricated from the fatal errors into which I had plunged, I might not unworthily visit this house, to pour out with trembling solicitude those vows which now must burn untold within the heart of a miserable exile.Alas! the agonising thought of what might have been contrasted with that which is ! I can now only ask your pity-you will not refuse me that-I venture to hope that you will not.

"Where I shall go, I know not; but wherever I go, remembrance of you shall dwell with me-the one sad, sweet thought of an otherwise tasteless existence. May Heaven ever bless you with its choicest blessings. Farewell.

"HENRY TREVOR."

The stranger had scarcely finished this letter, which, hurriedly as it was written, had many pauses between, when he was summoned to the supper-table. Had Mr. Ewing been a younger man, or one more accustomed to society, he might have discovered something to excite his curiosity in the peculiar manner of his guest towards his niece, and in the unusual reserve which distinguished her demeanor; but, solely on hospitable cares intent, and altogether unconscious that

those sitting with him took any particular interest in each other, he did not observe anything out of the usual course. In spite of the unfortunate circumstances which hung over young Trevor, the presence of one whose favourable opinion he so ardently desired to win, led him to put forth all his powers of conversation; and although sobered and saddened in all his remarks, compared with what he had been when Miss Ewing had last met him, he certainly appeared to no disadvantage upon this occasion, especially in the sight of the good old Quaker. "I would thou wert not in such haste," said the old man; "we would gladly lodge thee for a few days, and show thee all that is to be seen in this neighbourhood. My niece could show thee many delightful views about this place which she has led me to. I did not know half the beauties by which I was surrounded until she taught me, old as I am, to perceive them. This is the benefit of education in matters of taste. I wish that thou couldst stay and accompany us in some of our little excursions. I should be pleased to hear thy remarks."

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He did not perceive the deep sigh with which his guest assured him it was impossible. "I must depart," he said, "early in the morning." Well," returned the old man, "if it must be so, I shall get thee an early breakfast, and go into Ross with thee: but I must get for thee one of Mary's drawings; it will show thee one of the views which I wished thee to see."

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If you will excuse me, uncle, I will say good night," said the young lady, rising to go away.

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Ah, Mary," replied the old man, "thou art afraid of thy praises; and so it is best; I love thee all the better;" and he kissed her forehead: "thou art a good child; good night: but I must show our guest thy pretty sketch"

and so saying, he walked into a recess, where his portfolio lay upon an oldfashioned desk, to seek the drawing.

Mr. Trevor," said the young lady, in a low tone, "good night. Your appearance here in this way is, to say the least of it, surprising: you must judge whether it is right."

For Heaven's sake, Miss Ewing," he replied, "do not condemn me until you have heard—I mean read my ex

planation of this strange appearance here it is in this letter; will you receive it? Oh, do not refuse," he earnestly added, banding her the letter which he had written. "I have been most unfortunate."

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I shall read it, certainly," said the young lady, taking the letter. "Good night."

"Good night," he replied, and stood gazing where she had been, until recalled to recollection by the old man calling for his admiration of the drawing, which, after some search among statistical tables, botanical plates, and plans of cottage architecture, which loaded his portfolio, he had succeeded in finding. A more willing and attentive auditor no man could have desired than old Mr. Ewing found in his guest while he dilated upon the skill and taste of his niece. "I perceive," he said, "that thou dost well understand and enjoy works of taste and art. I meet with few who so readily apprehend what I feel regarding such things. But it is high time that thou shouldst think of repose, as thou dost intend an early departure tomorrow morning." To this the stranger agreed, and the new friends parted for the night.

The fatigue and agitation of the day had their usual effect upon young Trevor. He was soon asleep, but his rest was disturbed by the fantastic workings of the mental impressions which had occupied him while awake. He dreamed that he was travelling in a carriage, with Miss Ewing by his side. They were going to be married, and he was intoxicated with happiness. He turned to address to her some rapturous speech, when she interrupted him by remarking on the curious circumstance that a policeman was driving the carriage, and another sitting by his side. He then perceived that they were driving him to prison. He dashed open the carriage door to jump out and escape, when his companion uttered a loud shriek. At this he awoke the shriek still seemed to be sounding in his ears he started up in bed he listened; but all was still, save the beating of his own heart, and the heavy sweep of the night wind through the trees of the garden, upon which his chamber opened.

:

After an interval of bitter and perplexing thought, he again slept, and

his imagination again became busy with the extravagance of a dream. He thought that while Miss Ewing played and sung at the piano, he sat upon a stool at her feet, gazing in her face. Suddenly that face became illuminated by a smile of more than human beauty and kindliness, and, bending down towards him, she asked him, in a voice of more exquisite sweetness than his waking ears had ever enabled him to enjoy, whether there was any song he loved particularly, that she might sing it for him. He tried to reply, but found he could not speak: she frowned at his apparent apathy: he tried to rise to put the song before her; but he could not move. A cloud now filled the room, hiding, by its dismal obscurity, the object of his admiration from his sight: at last it seemed to explode with a loud noise; the light returned in an instant, but the lady was gone! He again awoke, and perceived the early dawn brightening the long lines of thin grey cloud in the east. Resolved not to tempt the return of more dreams, he arose and went to the window. The half-dispelled darkness, and the fresh breeze of the morning, blowing aside, as it were, the heavy curtains of the night, seemed to harmonize with the seriousness of his spirit. He became refreshed and invigorated as he inhaled the air, and the strange unearthly impression which a vivid and agitating dream leaves upon the mind soon passed away.

By the time the sun had risen he was dressed, and had walked out into the garden. He looked at the neat and peaceful dwelling, and thought how happy a life might be led in such an abode, with a companion so good and so gentle as she was who occupied his thoughts. The flowers he looked upon were probably of her training-the ground he walked on had been trod by her a thousand times, and would be again-but where would he be? would there be any remembrance of him, to connect him with that quiet abodethat garden, and those flowers, when the minutes which he should spend in gazing upon them had passed away?

With such thoughts as these dwelling on his heart, he entered, almost unconsciously, a little summerhouse at the end of one of the walks; an exclamation of surprise roused him from