"I am ashamed to say that I have not seen her this morning," replied the smiling Conny; "for I was late myself, and rushed straight down."

"I suppose that she is engaged in cutting one of her hands off now," observed Lady Helen.

Though this conjecture was uttered rather ironically than seriously, it seemed to make no small impression upon Constance, for, with an anxious look, she put down the cup that she was holding in her hand, and glided swiftly out of the room.

When, within a very few minutes, she returned, she was as pale as death—it is a real fact, though it may surprise those to whom the radiant hue of Constance Basinstoke's complexion is familiar. Never had the phenomenon been observed before, and yet the fair Constance's cheeks were actually colourless, as slipping back into her chair, she exclaimed:

"It is done now! I have long foreseen that you would drive her to it."

A general and confused exclamation of amazement was the sole reply.

"I knew that it would come to this," resumed Constance, handing to her father a sealed letter addressed to him, and proceeding to open another for herself. "These are all that I have found."

The letter to Sir Charles Basinstoke was as follows:

"My dearest Uncle,

"I am leaving, for ever, your happy, happy home. Conny will tell you all, for I have neither time nor courage to write it now. Do not blame me and do not mourn for me. Believe me that I am consulting my own happiness and welfare no less than those of others, while giving you, I trust, the surest proof of my lifelong gratitude for all your unfailing kindness.

"Commend me respectfully to Lady Helen. It would be the mere mockery of a sacred sentiment to say that I am grateful to her. Still, if she conceives that she has anything to pardon, may she forgive as earnestly and sincerely as I do. You must deliver another message for me, dearest uncle. Pray kindly tell Lord Tewkesbury, that I trust he will now understand why I

was so deeply moved yesterday morning. The enclosed letter for Lord St. Edmunds, which either he or you can deliver, will be found, I doubt not, fully to redeem the pledge I gave him.

"And now, my dearest uncle, think no more of poor Mademoiselle, who is happily and honourably disposed of. And yet, you must not quite forget her, either. You will remember her sometimes, not as she must have seemed in these last and miserable months, but as she was in the olden times, when she used to sit upon your knee, and her joyous laugh would recall to you her father's. None will hear that laugh again; still she will be happy, and you must be so likewise.

"Farewell. My hourly prayer will be for every blessing from heaven upon you and yours.

"CÉCILE."

Though the writing was, in many places, defaced by sundry little blots of some very strongly diluted ink, the worthy Baronet read the letter through with tolerable freedom; but

when it was concluded, he raised both his hands to his face, and then a sob was heard, so long and so loud, that it could not have proceeded from the gentle Constance, though the tears were, at that very moment, fast falling from her eyes also. Sir Charles Basinstoke is not much used to the melting mood. He had not been known to weep since the day when he had promised this same Cécile's mother, on her death-bed, to be a second father to her orphan child. Was it that recollection which moved him so, if, in truth, that wild outburst of manly grief proceeded from him?

We have said that Constance was likewise in tears. She also is not much accustomed to yield to such human frailty without a good cause. Whether any such was afforded in the present instance, we shall judge, by ourselves glancing at the letter that she was reading:

"My dearest Conny,

"When you open this, I shall be far, far away. You will be the first perhaps to learn that I am gone, as you come tripping joyously in to scold me for not having joined you yet. Oh! how I

have grieved at that thought alone, even amid so much wretchedness; but yet, you will be less surprised than others.

"You have long known, dear Conny, that, through the sad infirmity of my disposition, I have suffered much at Redburn. You cannot, however, know all-you are too wise, too sensible, to allow your heart to bleed, as mine has bled, where no real misfortune was still, the secret anguish was there, long, long since, though, until to-day, it did not quite surpass my powers of endurance. But when all my own torturing misgivings were realized; when I learnt that I was considered, what I well felt myself to be, the evil genius of the family; when I was accused of injuring all, and of betraying even you, then the hasty yet long-matured decision was irrevocably taken.

"There is a home, Conny, for the homeless. There is a refuge, even here below, where they who are weary indeed shall be at rest, and hear no more the voice of the taskmaster. Do you remember when, not so long ago, we read together of the Poet in the German Legend; how he came too late, when the earth