ating on the duplicity of their own sex in the instance just before them, had, notwithstanding the interest of the discourse, a longing desire to break it off; for they were impatient to see this poor frail being whom they were loading with their censure. They longed to sce if she would have the confidence to look them in the face; them, to whom she had so often protested that she had not the smallest attachment to Lord Frederick, but from motives of vanity. These ladies heard with infinite satisfaction that dinner had been served, but met Miss Milner at the table with a less degree of pleasure than they had expected; for her mind was so totally abstracted from any consideration of them, that they could not discern a single blush. or confused glance, which their presence occasioned. No, she had before them divulged nothing of which she was ashamed: she was only ashamed that what she had said was not true. In the bosom of Miss Woodley alone was that secret intrusted which could call a blush into her face; and before her she did feel confusion: before the gentle friend, to whom she had till this time communicated all her faults without embarrassment, she now cast down her eyes in shame. Soon after the dinner was removed, Lord Elmwood entered; and that gallant young nobleman declared- "Mr. Sandford had used him ill, in not permitting him to accompany his relation; for he feared that Mr. Dorriforth would now throw himself upon the sword of Lord Frederick, without a single friend near to defend him." A rebuke from the eye of Miss Woodley, which, from this day, had a command over Miss Milner, restrained her from expressing the affright she suffered from this intimation. Miss Fenton replied, "As to that, my Lord, I see no reason why Mr. Dorriforth and Lord Frederick should not now be friends." "Certainly," said Mrs. Horton; "for as soon as my Lord Frederick is made acquainted with Miss Milner's confession, all differences must be reconciled." "What confession" asked Lord Elmwood.

Miss Milner, to avoid hearing a repetition of that which gave her pain even to recollect, rose, in order to retire into her own apartment, but was obliged to sit down again, till she received the assistance of Lord Elmwood and her friend, who led her into her dressing-room. She reclined upon a sofa there, and though left alone with that friend, a silence followed of half an hour: nor, when the conversation began, was the name of Dorriforth once uttered; they were grown cool and considerate since the discovery, and both were equally fearful of naming him.

The vanity of the world, the folly of riches, the charms of retirement, and such topics engaged their discourse, but not their thoughts, for near two hours; and the first time the word Dorriforth was spoken was by a servant, who with alacrity opened the dressing-room door, without previously rapping, and cried, “ Madam, Mr. Dorriforth." Dorriforth immediately came in, and went eagerly to Miss Milner. Miss Woodley beheld the glow of joy and of guilt upon her face, and did not rise to give him her seat, as was her custom, when she was sitting by his ward, and he came to her with intelligence. He therefore stood while he repeated all that had happened in his interview with Lord Frederick.

But with her gladness to see her guardian safe, she had forgot to inquire of the safety of his antagonist of the man whom she had pretended to love so passionately: even smiles of rapture were upon her face, though Dorriforth might be returned from putting him to death. This incongruity of behaviour Miss Woodley observed, and was confounded; but Dorriforth, in whose thoughts a suspicion either of her love for him or indifference for Lord Frederick had no place, casily reconciled this inconsistency, and said, "You see by my countenance that all his well; and therefore you smile on me before I tell you what has passed."

This brought her to the recollection of her conduct; and now, with looks ill constrained, she attempted the expression of an alarm she did not feel. "Nay, I assure you, Lord Frederick is safe," he resumed, "and the disgrace of his blow washed entirely away by a few drops of blood from this arm.' And he laid his hand upon his left arm, which rested in his waistcoat as a kind of sling.

She cast her eyes there, and secing where the ball had entered the coat sleeve, she gave an involuntary scream, and reclined upon the sofa. Instead of that affectionate sympathy which Miss Woodley used to exert upon her slightest illness or affliction, she now addressed her in an unpitying tone, and said, "Miss Milner, you have heard Lord Frederick is safe: you have therefore nothing to alarm you." Nor did she run to hold a smelling-bottle, or to raise her head. Her guardian seeing her near fainting, and without any assistance from her friend, was going himself to give it; but on this, Miss Woodley interfered, and having taken her head upon her arm, assured him, "it was a weakness to which Miss Milner was very subject; that she would ring for her maid, who knew how to relieve her instantly with a few drops Satisfied with this assurance, Dorriforth left the room; an a surgeon being come to examine his wound, he retired into his own chamber.

CHAPTER XVI,

THE power delegated by the confidential to those intrusted with their secrets, Miss Woodley was the last person on earth to abuse—but she was also the last who, by an accommodating complacency, would participate in the guilt of her friend -and there was no guilt, except that

of murder, which she thought equal to the crime in question, if it wasever perpetrated. Adultery, reason would perhaps have informed her, was a more pernicious evil to society; but to a religious mind, what sound is so horrible as sacrilege. Of vows made to God or to man, the former must weigh the heaviest. Moreover, the sin of infidelity in the married state is not a little softened, to common understandings, by its frequency; whereas, of religious vows broken by a devotee she had never heard, unless where the offence had been followed by such examples of divine vengeance, such miraculous punishments in this world (as well as eternal punishment in the other), as served to exaggerate the wickedness. She, who could and who did pardon Miss Milner, was the person who saw her passion in the severest light, and resolved upon every method, however harsh, to root it from her heart; nor did she fear success, resting on the certain assurance, that however deep her love might be fixed, it would never be returned. Yet this confidence did not prevent her taking every precaution lcs: Dorriforth should come to the knowledge of it. She would not he is composed mind disturbed with such a thought- his steadfast principles so much as shaken by the imagination-nor overwhelm him with those self-re-proaches which his fatal attraction, unpremeditated as it was, would still have drawn upon him.

With this plan of concealment, in which the natural modesty of Miss Milner acquiesced, there was but one effort for which this unhappy ward was not prepared; and that was an entire separation from her guardian. She had, from the first, cherished her passion without the most remote prospect of a return: she was prepared to see Dorriforth, without ever seeing him more nearly connected to her than as her guardian and friend; but not to see him at all-for that she was not prepared.

But Miss Woodley reflected upon the inevitable necessity of this measure before she made the proposal, and then made it with a firmness that might have done honour to the inflexibility of Dorriforth himself.

During the few days that intervened between her open confession of a passion for Lord Frederick, and this proposed plan of separation, the most intricate incoherence appeared in the character of Miss Milner; and, in order to evade a marriage with him, and conceal, ai the same time, the shameful propensity which lurked in her breast. she was once even on the point of declaring a passion for Sir Edward Ashton.

In the duel which had taken place between Lord Frederick and Dorriforth, the latter had received the fire of his antagonist, but positively refused to return it; by which he had kept his promise not to endanger his Lordship's life, and had reconciled Sandford, in great measure, to his behaviour; and Sandford now (his resolution once broken) no longer refused entering Miss Milner's house, but came whenever it was convenient, though he yet avoided the mistress of it as much as possible; or showed by every word and look, when she was present, that she was still less in his favour than she had ever

been.

He visited Dorriforth on the evening of his engagement with Lord Frederick, and the next morning breakfasted with him in his own chamber; nor did Miss Milner see her guardian after his first return from that engagement before the following noon. She inquired, however, of his servant how he did, and was rejoiced to hear that his wound was but slight; yet this inquiry she durst not make before Miss Woodley.

When Dorriforth made his appearance the next day, it was evident that he had thrown from his heart a load of cares; and though they had left a languor upon his face, content was in his voice, in his nanners, in every word and action. Far from seeming to retain any resentment against his ward, for the danger into which her imprudence had led him, he appeared rather to pity her indiscretion, and to wish to soothe the perturbation which the recollection of her own conduct had evidentally raised in her mind. His endeavours were successful ----she was soothed every time he spoke to her; and had not the watchful eye of Miss Woodley stood guard over her inclinations, she had plainly discovered that she was enraptured with the joy of seeing him again himself, after the danger to which he had been exposed.

These emotions, which she laboured to subdue, passed, however, the bounds of her ineffectual resistance, when, at the time of her retiring after dinner, he said to her in a low voice, but such as it was meant the company should hear, "Do me the favour, Miss Milner, to call at ny study some time in the evening: I have to speak with you upon business."

She answered, "I will, sir." And her eyes swam with delight, in expectation of the interview.

Let not the reader, nevertheless, imagine, there was in that ardent expectation one idea which the most spotless mind, in love, might not have indulged without reproach. Sincere love (at least among the delicate of the female sex) is often gratified by that degree of enjoyment, or rather forbearance, which would be torture in the pursuit of any other passion. Real, delicate, and restrained love, such as Miss Milner's, was indulged in the sight of the object only; and having bounded her wishes by her hopes, the height of her happiness was limited to a conversation in which no other but themselves took a part.

Miss Woodley was one of those who heard the appointment, but the only one who conceived with what sensation it was received.

While the ladies remained in the same room with Dorriforth, Miss Milner had thought of little, except of him. As soon as they withdrew into another apartment, she remembered Miss Woodley; and turning her head suddenly, saw her friend's face imprinted with sus

Miss Milner at her toilet.

picion and displeasure. This at first was painful to ner; but recollecting, that within a couple of hours she was to meet her guardian alone to speak to him, and hear him speak to her only: every other thought was absorbed in that one, and she considered, with indifference, the uneasiness or the anger of her friend.

Miss Milner, to do justice to her heart, did not wish to beguile Dorriforth into the snares of love. Could any supernatural power have endowed her with the means, and at the same time have shown to her the ills that must arise from such an effect of her charms, she had assuredly virtue enough to have declined the conquest; but without inquiring what she proposed, she never saw him, without previously endeavouring to look more attractive than she would have desired before any other person. And now, without listening to the thousand exhortations that spoke in every feature of Miss Woodley, she flew to a looking-glass, to adjust her dress in a manner that she thought most enchanting.

Time stole away, and the hour of going to her guardian arrived. In his presence, unsupported by the presence of any other, every grace that she had practised, every look that she had borrowed to set off her charms, were annihilated; and she became a native beauty, with the artless arguments of reason, only, for her aid. Awed thus by his power, from every thing but what she really was, she never was perhaps half so bewitching, as in those timid, respectful, and embarrassed moments she passed alone with him. He caught at those times her respect, her diffidence, nay, even her embarrassment; and never would one word of anger pass on either side.

On the present occasion, he first expressed the high satisfaction that she had given him, by at length revealing to him the real state of her mind.

"And when I take every thing into consideration, Miss Milner," added he, "I rejoice that your sentiments happen to be such as you have owned. For, although, my Lord Frederick is not the very man I could have wished for your perfect happiness, yet, in the state of human perfection and human happiness, you might have fixed your affections with perhaps less propriety; and still, where my unwillingness to have thwarted your inclinations might not have permitted me to contend with them."

Not a word of reply did this speech demand; or, if it had, not a word could she have given.

"And now, Madam, the reason of my desire to speak with you is, to know the means you think most proper to pursue, in order to acquaint Lord Frederick, that notwithstanding this late repulse, there are hopes of your partiality in his favour.

"Defer the explanation," she replied eagerly.

"I beg your pardon-it cannot be. Besides, how can you indulge a disposition thus unpitying? Even so ardently did I desire to render the man who loves you happy, that though he came armed against my life, had I not reflected, that previous to our engagement it would appear like fear, and the means of bartering for his forgiveness, I should have revealed your sentiments the moment I had seen him. When the engagement was over, I was too impatient to acquaint you with his safety, to think then of gratifying him. And, indeed, the delicacy of the declaration, after many denials which you have no doubt given him, should be considered. I therefore consult your opinion upon the manner in which it shall be made."

"Mr. Dorriforth, can you allow nothing to the moments of surprise, and that pity, which the fate impending inspired, and which might urge me to express myself of Lord Frederick in a manner my cooler thoughts will not warrant ?"

"There was nothing in your expressions, my dear Miss Milner, the least equivocal. If you were off your guard when you pleaded for Lord Frederick, as I believe you were, you said more sincerely what you thought; and no discreet, or rather indiscreet, attempts to retract, can make me change these sentiments."

"I am very sorry," she replied, confused and trembling. "Why sorry? Come, give me commission to reveal your partiality. I'll not be too hard upon you: a hint from me will do. Hope is ever apt to interpret the slightest words to its own use, and a lover's hope is, beyond all others, sanguine."

"I never gave Lord Frederick hope."

"But you never plunged him into despair."

"His pursuit intimates that I never have; but he has no other proof."

"However light and frivolous you have been upon frivolous subjects, yet I must own, Miss Milner, that I did expect, when a case of this importance came seriously before you, you would have discovered a proper stability in your behaviour."

"I do, Sir; and it was only when I was affected with a weakness, which arose from accident, that I have betrayed inconsistency." "You then assert again, that you have no affection for my Lord Frederick?"

"Not enough to become his wife."

"You are alarmed at marriage, and I do not wonder you should be so; it shows a prudent foresight which does you honour. But, my dear, are there no dangers in a single state? If I may judge, Miss Milner, there are many more to a young lady of your accomplishments, than if you were under the protection of a husband."

"My father, Mr. Dorriforth, thought your protection sufficient." "But that protection was rather to direct your choice than to be the cause of your not choosing at all. Give me leave to point out an observation which, perhaps, I have too frequently made before; but upon this occasion I must intrude it once again. Miss Fenton is its

Here the powerful glow of joy, and of gratitude, for an opinion so negligently, and yet so sincerely expressed, flew to Miss Milner's face, neck, and even to her hands and fingers: the blood mounted to every part of her skin that was visible, for not a fibre but felt the secret transport-that Dorriforth thought her more beautiful than the beautiful Miss Fenton.

If he observed her blushes, he was unsuspicious of the cause, and went on:-"There is, besides, in the temper of Miss Fenton, a sedateness that might with less hazard ensure her safety in an unmarried life; and yet she very properly thinks it her duty, as she does not mean to seclude herself by any vows to the contrary, to become a wife; and, in obedience to the counsel of her friends, will be married within a few weeks."

"Miss Fenton may marry from obedience; I never will." "You mean to say that love alone shall induce you."

"I do."

"If you would point out a subject upon which I am the least able to reason, and on which my sentiments, such as they are, are formed only from theory, and even there more cautioned than instructed, it is the subject of love. And yet, even that little which I know tells me, without a doubt, that what you said yesterday, pleading for Lord Frederick's life, was the result of the most violent and tender love." "The little you know, then, Mr. Dorriforth, has deceived you; had you known more, you would have judged otherwise."

"I submit to the merit of your reply; but without allowing me a judge at all, I will appeal to those who were present with me.'

"Are Mrs. Horton and Mr. Sandford to be the connoisseurs ?" "No: I'll appeal to Miss Fenton and Miss Woodley."

"And yet I believe," replied she with a smile, "I believe theory must only be the judge even there."

"Then, from all you have said, Madam, on this occasion, I am to conclude that you still refuse to marry Lord Frederick :"

"You are.

"And you submit never to see him again?"

"I do."

"All you then said to me yesterday was false:" "I was not mistress of myself at the time."

"Therefore it was truth! For shame, for shame!"

At that moment the door opened, and Mr. Sandford walked in. He started back on seeing Miss Milner, and was going away; but Dorriforth called to him to say, and said with warmth--"Tell me, Mr. Sandford, by what power, by what persuasion, I can prevail upon Miss Milner to confide in me as her friend; to lay her heart open, and credit mine when I declare to her that I have no view in all the advice I give to her, but her immediate welfare."

"Mr. Dorriforth, you know my opinion of that lady," replied Sandford; "it has been formed ever since my first acquaintance with her, and it continues the same."

"But instruct me how I am to inspire her with confidence," returned Dorriforth; "how I am to impress her with a sense of that which is for her advantage."

"You can work no miracles," replied andford: " you are not holy enough."

"And yet my ward," answered Dorriforth, "appears to be acquainted with that mystery; for what but the force of a miracle can induce her to contradict to-day what before you, and several other witnesses, she positively acknowledged yesterday?"

"Do you call that miraculous?" cried Sandford: "the miracle had been if she had not done so; for did she not yesterday contradict what she acknowledged the day before? and will she not to-morrow disavow what she says to-day?"

"I wish that she may," replied Dorriforth, mildly, for he saw the tears flowing down her face at the rough and severe manner in which Sandford had spoken, and he began to feel for her uneasiness.

"I beg pardon," cried Sandford, "for speaking so rudely to the mistress of the house. I have no business here, I know; but where you are, Mr. Dorriforth, unless I am turned out, I shall always think it my duty to come."

Miss Milner courtesied, as much as to say he was welcome to come. He continued-"I was to blame, that upon a nice punctilio, I left you so long without my visits, and without my counsel; in that time you have run the hazard of being murdered, and, what is worse, of being excommunicated; for had you been so rash as to have returned your opponent's fire, not all my interest at Rome would have obtained remission of the punishment."

Miss Milner, through all her tears, could not now restrain her laughter. On which he resumed:-"And here do I venture, like a missionary among savages; but if I can only save you from their scalping-knives-from the miseries which that lady is preparing for you-I am rewarded."

Sandford spoke this with great fervour; and the offence of her love never appeared to her in so tremendous a point of view, as when thus, unknowingly, alluded to by him.

"The miseries that lady is preparing for you" hung upon her ears like the notes of a raven, and sounded equally ominous. The words "murder" and "excommunication" he had likewise uttered; all the fatal effects of sacrilegious love. Frightful superstitions struck her to the heart, and she could scarcely prevent falling down under their oppression.

Dorriforth beheld the difficulty she had in sustaining herself, and

Sandford was beginning to speak, when Dorriforth resumed "Hold, Mr. Sandford, the lady is under my protection; and I kno not whether it is not requisite that you should apologise to her an 1 to me for what you have already said.'

"You asked my opinion, or I had not given it you. Would you have me, like her, speak what I do not think?"

Say no more, Sir," cried Dorriforth; and, leading her kindly to the door, as if to defend her from his malice, told her, "he would take another opportunity of renewing the subject."

CHAPTER XVII.

WHEN Dorriforth was alone with Sandford, he explained to him what before he had only hinted; and this learned Jesuit frankly confessed, "That the mind of woman was far above, or rather beneath, his comprehension." It was so, indeed; for with all his penetrationand few even of that school had more-he had not yet penetrated into the recesses of Miss Milner's mind.

Miss Woodley, to whom she repeated all that had passed between herself, her guardian, and Sandford, took this moment, in the agitation of her spirits, to alarm her still more by prophetic insinuations; and, at length, represented to her here, for the first time, the necessity, "that Mr. Dorriforth and she no longer should remain under the same roof." This was like the stroke of sudden death to Miss Milner; and, clinging to life, she endeavoured to avert the blow by prayers, and by promises. Her friend loved her too sincerely to be prevailed upon.

66

But in what manner can I accomplish the separation:" cried she. "For, till I marry, we are obliged, by my father's request, to live in the same house."

"Miss Milner," answered Miss Woodley, "much as I respect the will of a dying man, I regard your and Mr. Dorriforth's present and eternal happiness much more, and it is my resolution that you shall part. If you will not contrive the means, that duty falls on me; and without any invention, I see the measure at once.' "What is it?" cried Miss Milner, eagerly.

"I will reveal to Mr. Dorriforth, without hesitation, the real state of your heart, which your present inconsistency of conduct will but too readily confirm."

"You would not plunge me into so much shame, into so much anguish!" cried she, distractedly.

"No," replied Miss Woodley, "not for the world, if you will separate from him by any mode of your own; but that you shall separate is my determination, and, in spite of all your sufferings, this shall be the expedient, unless you instantly agree to some other." "Good Heaven! Miss Woodley; is this your friendship?"

"Yes; and the truest friendship I have to bestow. Think what a task I undertake for your sake and his, when I condemn myself to explain to him your weakness. What astonishment! what confusion! what remorse do I foresee painted upon his face! I hear him call you by the harshest names, and behold him fly from your ight for ever, as from an object of his detestation."

"Ob, spare the dreadful picture! Fly from my sight for ever! Detest my name! Oh, my dear Miss Woodley! let but his friendship for me still remain, and I will consent to anything. You may command me. I will go away from him directly; but let us part in friendship. Oh! without the friendship of Mr. Dorriforth, life would be a heavy burden indeed."

Miss Woodley immediately began to contrive schemes for their separation; and, with all her invention alive on the subject, the following was the only natural one that she could form.

Miss Milner, in a letter to her distant relation at Bath, was to complain of the melancholy of a country life, which she was to say her guardian imposed upon her; and she was to entreat the lady to send a pressing invitation that she would pass a month or two at her house. This invitation was to be laid before Dorriforth for his approbation; and the two ladies were to enforce it, by expressing their earnest wishes for his consent. This plan having been properly regulated, the necessary letter was sent to Bath; and Miss Woodley waited with patience, but with a watchful guard upon the conduct of her friend, till the answer should arrive.

During this interim a tender and complaining epistle from Lord Frederick was delivered to Miss Milner; to which, as he received no answer, he prevailed upon his uncle, with whom he resided, to wait upon her, and obtain a verbal reply; for he still flattered himself, that fear of her guardian's anger, or perhaps his interception of the letter which he had sent, was the sole cause of her apparent indifference.

The old gentleman was introduced both to Miss Milner and to Mr. Dorriforth, but received from cach an answer so explicit, that it left his nephew no longer in doubt but that all farther pursuit was vain.

Sir Edward Ashton, about this time, also submitted to a formal dismission; and had then the mortification to reflect, that he was bestowing upon the object of his affections the tenderest proof of his regard, by having absented himself entirely from her society.

Upon this serious and certain conclusion to the hopes of Lord Frederick, Dorriforth was more astonished than ever at the conduct of his ward. He had once thought her behaviour in this respect was ambiguous; but since her confession of a passion for that nobleman, he had no doubt but, in the end, she would become his wife. He lamented to find himself mistaken, and thought it proper now to condemn her caprice, not merely in words, but in the general tenor of his behaviour. He consequently became more reserved, and more austere than he had been since his first acquaintance with her; for his manners, not from design, but imperceptibly to himself, had been softened since he became her guardian, by that tender respect which he had uniformly paid to the object of his protection.

Notwithstanding the severity he now assumed, his ward, in the prospect of parting from. him, grew melancholy; Miss Woodley's love to her friend rendered her little otherwise; and Dorriforth's peculiar gravity, frequently rigour, could not but make their whole party less cheerful than it had been. Lord Elmwood, too, at this time, was lying dangerously ill of a fever; Miss Fenton, of course, was as much in sorrow as her nature would permit her to be; and both Sandford and Dorriforth were in extreme concern upon his Lordship's account.

In this posture of affairs the letter of invitation arrives from Lady Luncham at Bath. It was shown to Dorriforth; and, to prove to his ward that he is so much offended as no longer to feel that excessive interest in her concerns which he once felt, he gives an opinion on the subject with indifference. He desires "Miss Milner will do what she herself thinks proper." Miss Woodley instantly accepts his permission, writes back, and appoints the day upon which her friend means to set off for the visit.

Miss Milner is wounded at the heart by the cold and unkind manners of her guardian, but dares not take one step to retrieve his opinion. Alone, or to her friend, she sighs and weeps. He discovers her sorrow, and is doubtful whether the departure of Lord Frederick from that part of the country is not the cause.

When the time she was to set out for Bath was only two days off, the behaviour of Dorriforth took, by degrees, its usual form, if not a greater share of polite and tender attention than ever. It was the first ume he had parted from Miss Milner since he became her guardian. and he felt upon the occasion a reluctance. He had been angry with her, he had shown her that he was so, and he now began to wish that he had not. She is not happy (he considered within himself,-every word and action declares she is not. I may have been too severe, and added, perhaps, to her uneasiness. "At least we will part on good terms," said he. "Indeed, my regard for her is such, I cannot part otherwise."

She soon discerned his returning kindness; and it was a gentle tie that would have fastened her to that spot for ever, but for the firm resistance of Miss Woodley.

"What will the absence of a few months effect?" said she, pleading her own cause. "At the end of a few months at farthest he will

expect me back; and where, then, will be the merit of this separation ?"

"In that time," replied Miss Woodley, "we may find some method to make it longer." To this she listened with a kind of despair, but uttered, she was "resigned,”—and she prepared for her departure. Dorriforth was all anxiety that every circumstance of her journey should be commodious. He was eager she should be happy; and he was eager she should see that he entirely forgave her. He would have gone part of the way with her, but for the extreme illness of Lord Elmwood, in whose chamber he passed most of the day, and slept in Elmwood House every night.

On the morning of her journey, when Dorriforth gave his hand, and conducted Miss Milner to the carriage, all the way he led her she could not restrain her tears, which increased, as he parted from her, to convulsive sobs. He was affected by her grief; and though he had previously bid her farewell, he drew her gently on one side, and said, with the tenderest concern, My dear Miss Milner, we part friends? I hope we do. On my side, depend upon it, that I regret nothing so much, at our separation, as having ever given you a moment's pain.'

"I believe so," was all she could utter, for she hastened from him lest his discerning eye should discover the cause of the weakness which thus overcame her. But her apprehensions were groundless; the rectitude of his own heart was a bar to the suspicion of hers. He once more kindly bid her adieu, and the carriage drove away.

Miss Fenton and Miss Woodley accompanied her part of the journey, about thirty miles, where they were met by Sir Henry and Lady Luneham. Here was a parting nearly as affecting as that between her and her guardian.

Miss Woodley, who, for several weeks, had treated her friend with a rigidness she herself hardly supposed was in her nature, now bewailed that she had done so; implored her forgiveness; promised to correspond with her punctually, and to omit no opportunity of giving her every consolation short of cherishing her fatal passion; but in that, and that only, was the heart of Miss Milner to be consoled.

CHAPTER XVIII.

WHEN Miss Milner arrived at Bath, she thought it the most altered place she had ever seen. She was mistaken,-it was herself that was changed.

The walks were melancholy, the company insipid, the ball-room fatiguing; for-she had left behind all that could charm or please her.

Though she found herself much less happy than when she was at Bath before, yet she felt that she would not, even to enjoy all that happiness, be again reduced to the being she was at that period. Thus does the lover consider the extinction of his passion with the same horror as the libertine looks upon annihilation: the one would rather live hereafter, though in all the tortures described as constituting his future state, than cease to exist; so there are no tortures which a lover would not suffer rather than cease to love.

In the wide prospect of sadness before her, Miss Milner's fancy caught hold of the only comfort which presented itself; and this, faint as it was, in the total absence of every other, her imagination pointed to her as excessive. The comfort was a letter from Miss Woodley-a letter in which the subject of her love would most assuredly be mentioned; and, in whatever terms, it would still be the means of delight.

A letter arrived-she devoured it with her eyes. The post mark denoting from whence it came, the name of "Milner Lodge" written on the top, were all sources of pleasure; and she read slowly every line it contained, to procrastinate the pleasing expectation she enjoyed, till she should arrive at the name of Doriiforth. At last, her impatient eye caught the word, three lines beyond the place she was reading: irresistibly she skipped over those lines, and fixed on the point to which she was attracted.

Miss Woodley was cautious in her indulgence; she made the slightest mention possible of Dorriforth; saying only, "He was extremely concerned, and even dejected, at the little hope there was of his cousin, Lord Elmwood's recovery.' Short and trivial as this passage was, it was still more important to Miss Milner than any other in the letter: she read it again and again, considered, and reflected upon it. Dejected! thought she; what does that word exactly mean? Did I ever see Mr. Dorriforth dejected? How, I wonder, does he look in that state? Thus did she muse, while the cause of his dejection, though a most serious one, and pathetically described by Miss Woodley, scarcely arrested her attention. She ran over with haste the account of Lord Elmwood's state of health: she certainly pitied him while she thought of him, but she did not think of him long. To die was a hard fate for a young nobleman just in possession of his immense fortune, and on the eve of marriage with a beautiful young woman; but Miss Milner thought that an abode in heaven might be still better than all this, and she had no doubt but that his Lordship would be an inhabitant there. The forlorn state of Miss Fenton ought to have been a subject for her compassion; but she knew that lady had resignation to bear any lot with patience, and that a trial of her fortitude might be more flattering to her vanity than to be Countess of Elmwood: in a word, she saw no one's mis

fortunes equal to her own, because she knew no one so little able to bear misfortune.

She replied to Miss Woodley's letter, and dwelt very long on that subject which her friend had passed over lightly. This was another indulgence; and this epistolary intercourse was now the only enjoyment she possessed. From Bath she paid several visits with Lady Luneham all were alike tedious and melancholy.

But her guardian wrote to her; and though it was on a topic of sorrow, the letter gave her joy. The sentiments it expressed were merely common-place, yet she valued them as the dearest effusions of friendship and affection; and her hands trembled, and her heart beat with rapture, while she wrote the answer, though she knew it would not be received by him with one emotion like those which she experienced. In her second letter to Miss Woodley, she prayed like a person insane to be taken home from confinement; and like a lunatic, protested in sensible language she "had no disorder." But her friend replied, "That very declaration proves its violence." And she assured her, nothing less than placing her affections elsewhere should induce her to believe but that she was incurable.

The third letter from Milner Lodge brought the news of Lord Elmwood's death. Miss Woodley was exceedingly affected by this event, and said little clse on any other subject. Miss Milner was shocked when she read the words, He is dead," and instantly thought, "How transient are all sublunary things! Within a few years I shall be dead; and how happy will it then be, if I have resisted every temptation to the alluring plea ures of this life!" The happiness of a peaceful death occupied her contemplation for near ar hour; but at length, every virtuous and pious sentiment this meditation inspired, scrved but to remind her of the many sentences she had heard from her guardian's lips upon the same subject: her thoughts were again fixed on him, and she could think of nothing besides.

In a short time after this her health became impaired from the indisposition of her mind: she languished, and was once in imminent dinger. During a slight delirium of her fever, Miss Woodley's name and her guardian's were incessantly repeated. Lady Luncham sent them immediate word of this; and they both hastened to Bath, and arrived there just as the violence and danger of her disorder had ceased. As soon as she became perfectly re-collected, her first care, knowing the frailty of her heart, was to inquire what she had uttered while delirious. Miss Woodley, who was by her bedside, begged her not to be alarmed on that account, and assured her she knew, from all her attendants, that she had only spoken with a friendly remembrance (as was really the case) of those persons who were dear to her.

She wished to know whether her guardian was come to see her, but she had not the courage to ask before her friend; and she, in her turn, was afraid, by the too sudden mention of his name, to discompose her. Her maid, however, after some little time, entered the chamber, and whispered Miss Woodley. Miss Milner asked inquisiatively, "what she said?"

The maid replied softly, "Lord Elmwood, Madam, wishes to come and see you for a few moments, if you will allow him." At this reply Miss Milner staredildly.

"I thought," said she, "I thought Lord Elmwood had been dead. Are my senses disordered still ?"

"No, my dear," answered Miss Woodley; "it is the present Lord Elmwood who wishes to see you: he whom you left ill when you came hither is dead.”

And who is the present Lord Elmwood?" she asked.

Miss Woodley, after a short hesitation replied,-"Your guardian." "And so he is," cried Miss Milner; "he is the next heir-I had forgot. But is it possible that he is here?"

Yes," returned Miss Woodley, with a grave voice and man er, to moderate that glow of satisfaction which for a moment sparkled even in her languid eye, and blushed over her allid countenance, "yes; as he heard you were ill, he thought it right to come and see you." "He is very good," she answered, and the tear started in her

proper.

Miss Woodley could hardly support this humble reference to her judgment, from the wan face of the poor invalid, and taking her by the hand, whispered, "You shall do what you please" In a few

minutes Lord Elmwood was introduced.

To those who sincerely love, every change of situation or circumstances in the object beloved appears an advantage. So the acquisition of a title and estate was, in Miss Milner's eye, an inestimable advantage to her guardian: not on account of their real value, but that any change, instead of diminishing her passion, would have served only to increase it-even a change to the utmost poverty.

When he entered, the sight of him seemed to be too much for her; and after the first glance she turned her head away. The sound of his voice encouraged her to look once more; and then she riveted her eyes upon him.

"

"It is impossible, my dear Miss Milner," he gently whispered, "to say what joy I feel that your disorder has subsided.' But though it was impossible to say, it was possible to look what

he felt, and his looks expressed his feelings. In the zeal of those sensations, he laid hold of her hand, and held it between his. This he did not himself know; but she did.

"You have prayed for me, my Lord, I make no doubt," said she, and smiled, as if thanking him for those prayers.

66

Fervently, ardently!" returned he; and the fervency with which he had prayed spoke in every feature.

"But I am a Protestant, you know; and if I had died such, do you believe I should have gone to heaven?" "Most assuredly, that would not have prevented you." "But Mr. Sandford does not think so.'

"He must; for he hopes to go there himself."

To keep her guardian with her, Miss Milner seemed inclined to converse; but her solicitous friend gave Lord Elmwood a look which implied that it might be injurious to her, and he retired.

They had only one more interview before he left the place, at which Miss Milner was capable of sitting up. He was with her, however, but a very short time, some necessary concerns relative to his late kinsman's affairs calling him in haste to London. Miss Woodley continued with her friend till she saw her entirely reinstated in her health; during which time her guardian was frequently the subject of their private conversation; and upon those occasions Miss Milner has sometimes brought Miss Woodley to acknowledge, "that could Mr. Dorriforth have possibly foreseen the early death of the last Lord Elmwood, it had been more for the honour of his religion (as that ancient title would now after him become extinct), if he had preferred marriage vows to those of celibacy."

CHAPTER XIX.

WHEN the time for Miss Woodley's departure arrived, Miss Milner entreated earnestly to accompany her home, and made the most solemn promises that she would guard not only her behaviour, but her very thoughts, within the limitation her friend should prescribe. Miss Woodley at length yielded thus far, "That as soon as Lord Elmwood was set out on his journey to Italy, where she had heard him say that he should soon be obliged to go, she would no longer deny her the pleasure of returning; and if (after the long absence which must consequently take place between him and her) she could positively affirm the suppression of her passion was the happy result, she would then take her word, and risk the danger of seeing them once more reside together."

This concession having been obtained, they parted; and, as winter was now far advanced, Miss Woodley returned to her aunt's house in town, from whence Mrs. Horton was, however, preparing to remove, in order to superintend Lord Elmwood's house (which had been occupied by the late earl), in Grosvenor Square; and her nicce was to accompany her.

If Lord Elmwood was not desirous that Miss Milner should con clude her visit, and return to his protection, it was partly from the multiplicity of affairs in which he was at this time engaged, and partly from having Mr. Sandford now entirely placed with him as his chaplain; for he dreaded, that living in the same house, their natural antipathy might be increased even to aversion. Upon this account, he once thought of advising Mr. Sandford to take up his abode elsewhere; but the great pleasure he took in his society, joined to the bitter mortification he knew such a proposal would be to his friend, would not suffer him to make it.

Miss Milner all this time was not thinking upon those she hated, but on those she loved. Sandford never came into her thoughts, while the image of Lord Elmwood never left them. One morning, as she sat talking to Lady Luncham on various subjects, but thinking alone on him, Sir Harry Luneham with another gentleman, a Mr. Fleetmond, came in, and the conversation turned upon the improbability there had been, at the present Lord Elmwood's birth, that he should ever inherit the title and estate which had now fallen to him; and, said Mr. Fleetmond, "independent of rank and fortune, this unexpected occurrence must be matter of infinite joy to Mr. Dorriforth."

"No," answered Sir Harry, "independent of rank and fortune, it must be a motive of concern to him; for he must now regret, beyond measure, his folly in taking priest's orders; thus depriving himself of the hopes of an heir, so that his title, at his death, will be lost."

"By no means," replied Mr. Fleetmond: "he may yet have an heir, for he will certainly marry."

"Marry!" cried the baronet.

"Yes," answered the other; "it was that I meant by the joy it might probably give him, beyond the possession of his estate and title.'

"How be married?" said Lady Luncham. "Has he not taken a vow never to marry?"

"Yes," answered Mr. Fleetmond; "but there are no religious vows from which the sovereign pontiff at Rome cannot grant a dispensation: as those commandments which are made by the Church, the Church has always the power to revoke; and when it is for the general good of religion, his Holiness thinks it incumbent on him to publish his bull, and remit all penalties for their non-observenDR, Certainly it is for the honour of the Catholics that this earl