This love is no new affection; disguised, controlled, as it has been for years, for years it has smouldered in the secret recesses of my breast, hopeless-not guilty, because entirely repressed, so long as it would have been crime to indulge it. Nay, for these last three years, its unallowed existence has been only a dream, lest, even in thought, I might wound your delicacy-but now, now that time sanctions its declaration, and that every barrier is removed, excepting only, the greatest perhaps of all-your indifference; I owe it to myself to endeavour to obtain your regard, your love-yes, your love-for such a heart as yours can never exist without love-and dearly as you worship your daughter, with a maternal fondness, exceeding even the wonted degree of that holy affection, I need not say to you, that nothing can replace love, save love. Oh, Mabel! do not answer me now by words, there is a softness in your eyes, there is a flush in your cheeks which is so precious to me, that if your words should not come up to their expression, I could not endure it-I should go mad."

To see Lord de Montmorenci, as it were, out of himself, the measured and grave Lord de Montmorenci, cast off his outward show of calm friendship, and be the fond adoring lover, was enough to turn the head of a thousand younger, fresher beauties, and it would be vain to deny that Lady Herbert's vanity, as well as her heart, responded to the ardour of his declarations. Nevertheless, she thought inwardly-dare I, can I love again—at my age, after such a torrent of long and passionate attachment to a husbandthe husband of my youth-am I not despicable for loving again, will he not think so?-when this ebullition of feeling has passed off, and he looks back reflectively, dispassionately upon his conduct. Yes, even at that moment, all these thoughts so long to detail, in words, so rapidly to be felt and thought, rushed past and crowded upon her, as she left her hand in Lord de Montmorenci's, and he sat in sweet delirium, but silent by her side. At length she spoke.

"Not so, Lord de Montmorenci, I cannot be wholly silent. I must tell you what clouds darken this momentary brilliancy. Is it possible, I say to myself, is it possible that my faded person, my worn out heart, should be a fitting prize for you? It is very hard to have to place before your eyes the melancholy truth-but it is my duty-now perhaps you may still see some lingering charm remaining,

even of person. You may remember all my sufferings, and even invest me with qualities I do not possess for having borne them well; all these combinations tend to delude you, and a certain vacuum, which early disappointment has left in your feelings, may induce you to believe that I could still make you happy, still restore to you the visions of your youth. De Montmorenci, this is impossible. The spring of my affections is broken-the same thing never occurs twice-I will not again be the self-immolated victim. I dare not run so great a risk as to love again and be again disappointed. I should be always doubting whether you were not repenting of your choice; whether I had not done wrong in listening to you; whether I sacrificed not your happiness to my vanity. I should grow diffident of my ability to make you happy, and by that very diffidence, confirm my fears; whereas, in my Sarah, you would find whatever you approve of and love in me, combined with the freshness of youth, the unsullied purity of the heart's first affections. Think of this, Lord de Montmorenci."

'No, not for a moment, not for a moment, Mabel; the being I love is you, and you alone; it is no younger, no fairer, no other, in short, that I seek but your own dear self. Our ages are not dissimilar, and if they were, it would make no difference in my feelings. When two people truly love, they become one, and habit and constant presence prevents those startling effects of time from becoming visible to each other. You will always be young to me, Mabel. Silence for ever, such vain, such useless fears; trust to me, love me; love me at least as much as you can. You are to me what you are, now. What you might have been, I neither ought to look to or care to look to; Lady Herbert was the wife of another, but, Mabel, you are only Mabel to me; and you may become Mabel de Montmorenci, if you but will it so. Talk not of your beautiful girl, your cherished daughter; she must have a peculiar person to love and be loved by; one, whose whole feelings are as fresh as her own. You know it is impossible the youthful Sarah could think of me but as of some antiquated friend."

The latter part of this speech was pronounced with an accompaniment of expression, and in a tone of voice which seemed not quite natural. Lady Herbert fixed her eyes steadily on his, made an effort to reply, but the accents faltered into silence, and they both ceased to converse.

After some time, during which Lady Herbert had pulled

a rose to pieces, and Lord de Montmorenci sat like a statue, she said,

"And now, De Montmorenci, what have we more to say? Do we not know all?" and again she lifted her eyes to his

countenance.

"No," he replied, with unusual impetuosity, "I know nothing, I know not if you bid me hope or despair. Will you allow me to renew this subject? will you let me endeavour, at least, to overcome your idle scruples? will you learn to think of me as a lover? Alas! I have been so long a friend, that it is, I fear, an impracticable task I impose upon you. But Mabel, dearest Mabel, try-promise me that you will try? I need not try as he relapsed into something very like transport, she said, I beseech you grant me time to think."

66

......

He looked reproachfully, but tenderly at her.

She arose, wished him good night.

He passionately kissed the hand extended to him, and they parted.

CHAPTER XI.

What man so wise, what earthly wit so ware,
As to descry the crafty cunning traine
By which deceipt doth maske in visour faire,
And cast her colours died deepe in graine

To seem like truth; whose shape she well can faine,
And fitting gestures to her purpose frame,
The guiltless man with guile to entertaine?
Great mistress of her art was that false dame,
The false Duessa, cloked with Fidessard's name.

SPENCER'S FAIERY QUEEN, canto vii.

AN English vessel lay in the harbour of Boulogne, her captain was about leaving the shore, where he had been taking in stores, not for his ship, but for those dearer to him even than she was. His step was light, his tread elastic, his whole heart and person buoyant with hope and happiness. He was bound for England, he was going home, not only home, but to the home of all his wishes. When the word home, comprises not merely the circle of the af

fections and comforts of domestic life, but is ennobled and embellished by the passion of true love, then that little word indeed contains all that the most aspiring mind can desire. Captain Danesford had just seated himself in his boat, when a pedlar, an Italian Jew, uniting all the gesticulation of the one race to the singular and original beauty of the other, called upon him vehemently to stop one moment and look at his wares, at the same time displaying some strings of beads to catch his attention. Captain Danesford remembered that his love had expressed a wish to have some pale pink coral (what does a lover not remember which is connected with his mistress?) so he asked the price, the pedlar named it.

"Quick, do not detain me, there is your money. Show me the rest of your wares."

His little merchandise was rapidly shown, and as rapidly commended in the most florid and hyperbolic language; the chief part consisted of Turkish amulets and charms.

"Here," said the boy, "is a famous preventive against the gout, and here one to procure sleep; but," he added, reading the countenance of the purchaser, "here is one that secures the love of the beloved."

"Give it me," cried Captain Danesford, eagerly, and reddening at his own folly. "Yes," pointing to a particular amulet, "I will have that one," and he paid exorbitantly for his credulity; for seeing how largely he dealt out his money, all the idlers and beggars crowded round him, and he could scarcely make his way through them, even by scattering largesses right and left as he passed along. The pedlar laughing at his dupe, waved his hand to him as he rowed from shore, and grinning from ear to ear, showed the whole range of his white teeth.

Captain Danesford looked at his talisman, and though he said, "What nonsense!" yet he thought, "Yes, I will hang this round Anna's beautiful neck, and I will believe that the sight of it will, at least, keep me ever in her thoughts."

The strongest minds grow weak when subdued by passion; something, too, it may be of the imaginative cast of thought which the dwellers among the elements proverbially acquire, gave to his recent purchase a consequence and value of which, nevertheless, he felt ashamed-so he hid his treasure, and tried to think only of the moment when it would be his blessed fate to place it on the person of his Anna.

It was one of those colourless calm days which precede the approach of winter and its storms, not a breath of air rippled the wave; the far-off shores were distinctly traced on the horizon, resembling a fine engraving of the olden school, where the skill of the artist expresses distance, without enveloping the object in mist. It was exactly the sort of day to affect a gloomy temperament with greater gloom; but Captain Danesford's breast was filled with sunshine, which irradiated every scene through which he passed. Laden with presents for his bride, the captain of the Zephir paced his deck that night without one foreboding of evil. His vessel, his gallant vessel, was bearing him to the arms of his bride.

Does the reader remember the Zephir, and the day she was launched, and the honest pride of him who was to become her captain? Other scenes in this drama of life have been more interesting perhaps, and the history of his love has been lost in that of others; but yet one word of the noble-minded man who served his king and country, and who felt, that to deserve well of them was to deserve well of the woman he adored; whatever befell him afterwards, those hours of homeward sailing were hours of bliss, which may be envied by thousands who never knew the reward of selfapproval and confiding trust. It was very long indeed since he had heard from England, but no news was good news; every thing must be right, every one must be well, for he was returning to Anna Clermont.

Arrived in London, Captain Danesford hastened to Lord Herbert's house; it was shut up, he rang and knocked repeatedly, no one answered. He stepped back into the street, looked upwards at the garret stories, they too were closed; and there was a hatchment on the walls, at length a stranger opened the door,--a stranger, when an old familiar face is eagerly expected, what a chill to the heart! but Captain Danesford asked with a cheerful voice, as if that assumption of joy secured its possession, "Where is thefamily? how are they all? well, quite well; but at Moreton, I suppose-and, of course, Miss Clermont with them?" The stranger hesitated, looked in Captain Danesford's face, saw an expression written there in which the man sympathized, without knowing exactly why.

Surely, sir, you are newly arrived in town; you had better come in and sit down;" and he opened the door, and