if not surprised, at all events more staggered than would beseem one for whom fortitude was an especial duty. Cécile, too, appeared somewhat startled, and, when their attempted conversation began, her laconic answers were by no means delivered in the firm and somewhat authoritative tone which she had assumed on the previous night. Still, our hero did not fail to release the above mentioned purse from the durance of his waistcoat pocket, but while he still held it somewhat dubiously in his hand, Lady Templedale entered, closely followed by Sir Charles, and the purse was restored to its previous confinement.

During the evening, it might have been remarked, as perhaps it was remarked by the all-observing Lady Templedale, that the young Viscount was unusually thoughtful, and Saint Cecilia more than usually silent. To be sure, this might be accounted for by the gloomy influence of the weather, which probably weighed more or less upon the spirits of all present, as, before eleven o'clock had struck, Conny, Lady Helen, and Sir Charles himself had noiselessly retired. Templedale's turn, and no

Then came Lady sooner did she

testify a similar purpose than Cécile folded up her work and prepared to follow.

The agitation of the Life-Guardsman now became convulsive. He rose, he sat down, he rose again, he twisted his moustache to an unprecedented degree, and finally, just as the two ladies reached the door, he said:

"Oh! Miss Cécile, I beg your pardon, but you promised to show me where the collection of the Quarterly Review' is to be found."

"On the second, or third shelf, I believe, of case E, or F, in the print-room,” replied she, dubiously.

"Better say that you are not quite sure at once, my dear," exclaimed Lady Templedale, "and go and help him to find it you who know the binding as well as the contents of every book here. I can move quietly on and you will soon catch me up.

Thus directed, Cécile adjourned with St. Edmunds to the print-room, and was not long in pointing out to him the familiar collection. She was then about to withdraw, when he whispered:

"Dear Miss Cécile, I must not forget my lost wager."

"What wager?" muttered she.

"Don't you remember? the shilling which I was to pay if-if the glass was wrong and the almanac right

"Oh! I had forgotten-indeed, I thought it was only a joke."

"No, no; it was a fair bet-pray accept the shilling-you will find it there, in this little purse."

"But I cannot take the purse too-it is much too beautiful-"

"It is not beautiful at all, but it comes from Smyrna: pray don't refuse it.”

"Indeed-I do not know what to sayand there appears to be something besides the shilling in the purse."

"Oh! it's nothing, Miss Cécile-or something that you are to read, when you are quite alone-"

The Saint was now as pale as death; but our hero, who had well observed her emotion, put an end to all further hesitation by forcibly closing the little trembling hand which held the purse, and then pressing it to his lips.

"Holy Virgin! Lord St. Edmunds-what can you mean?" murmured she, in a falter

ing voice, and she glided out of the apart

ment.

This is a world, to be sure, of strange contradictions and disparities! Here we have, on the one side, Saint Cecilia, who could barely distinguish between a sixpence and a sovereign, and whose little savings were all invariably distributed among the poor-and, on the other side, Lord St. Edmunds, who was accustomed to hand over or to receive five hundred pound notes at Ascot or at Doncaster, as complacently as any man on the course; here, say we, were these two distinguished young personages, faltering, and trembling, and fluttered, beyond all possible description, at the mere exchange of a single shilling! It certainly is a singular world, whatever geologists may urge to the contrary! And then, when his great exploit had been achieved, when the fragile little hand had been constrained to clasp the proffered token, how refulgent was our hero's exultation! Napoleon's brow on the battle field of Austerlitz could not for an instant have been compared with that of the triumphant Life-Guardsman.

In the meanwhile, Saint Cecilia was tripping up the antiquated staircase as swiftly as if ten

reformed bishops had been in close pursuit of her. Indeed, so rapid was her ascent, that Lady Templedale, who was waiting for her on the upper landing-place, could not but exclaim:

"There is no hurry, my dear: take care, or you will break a blood-vessel."

Cécile was too breathless to reply, saving by a faint laugh, so that her sage companion, rightly judging that a little repose was her first requirement, escorted her at once to the door of her room, and, with a smiling admonition, not to dream too much of the "Quarterly Review," wished her a good-night.

The Saint paused within the threshold of her apartment, until the retiring footsteps of Lady Templedale could no longer be discerned. She then closed the door, bolted it, locked it, and dropping down upon her couch, proceeded, oh! with what a trembling hand, to examine the Oriental purse, and its contents. The shilling was very much like any other shilling, except that it was peculiarly clean and bright; but the half sheet of letter-paper, when it was unfolded, what was it found to contain?