will forgive and forget. I hope so. It will be unnecessary for you to see papa. A meeting would only be painful to you both. I have been with him ever since we parted, discussing this sad matter; and now I am writing this beside him, with his approval and sanction, and he shall read it before it is despatched. He thoroughly exonerates you, and desires me to express his good wishes. Now, farewell. Be happy, and forget, yours sincerely, EILA M'KILLOP."

"Jupiter e cœlo perjuria ridet amantum." Very well for his Olympian majesty to laugh, who had the laugh usually on his own side, and very well for us who have outlived the "perjuria" in which, perhaps, some of us have had, let us hope passively, our share; but the sufferer who, in all his fresh youth and innocence, receives such a blow as this letter dealt to Bertrand Cameron, requires the strength of an Olympian to sustain the first effects of the shock. He received it in silence-not a word, not a cry escaped him. If you receive a musket - shot which wounds you not mortally, there is no end to your writhings, groans, and exclamations of pain; you tear up the grass, rend your garments,

bite the stretcher, and execrate the surgeon ; but the bullet which strikes the mortal blow lays you down calmly and quietly enough—a faint exclamation, a shiver, a gasp-and life is no longer there. The work has been done cleanly.

Thus when Bertrand received the letter fromSir Roland, his love was wounded deeply and painfully, and we all remember how vehement were his demonstrations; but now that he had read Eila's letter, he made no demonstrations, because his love was dead-pierced through and through, killed and slain on the spot-killed by a LIE. She might have loved him less than he had thought, she might have had less fortitude than he had believed, and still, albeit wounded, his love would have clung to her who dealt the wound, and still hoped for better times.

But a Lie his love died before it, as by the stab of an assassin-died by murder,

"Murder most foul, as in the best it is,

But this most foul, strange, and unnatural.”

A lie!" he muttered, as he crushed the letter in his grasp, and sat down silent, stern, motionless. His image of fine gold turned into most worthless clay, a world of bright hopes

crumbled into dust and ashes, faith shattered, even dreamland dissolved, nothing left him but the reality of a cheated heart, no prospect between him and the horizon of his life, but a blank, empty wilderness, despoiled of every feature that yesterday had made it look so fair, even beneath the clouds; and all this transformation, all this ruin, wrought by the evil magic of a lie! How would he bear it? how could he bear it? He gave no outward indications. "While he was musing, the fire burned," no doubt, fiercely within him; but he sat perfectly silent and motionless, his gaze fixed on vacancy; sat on, hour after hour, till darkness deepened into night, and his room was only lighted by the gleam of a street-lamp flaring drearily through the window. At last he became gradually conscious of a continued knocking at the door, and roused himself, looked about confusedly as if he had been asleep and dreaming, then rose and opened the door. A waiter somewhat illpleased at having been kept so long waiting, and perhaps disappointed to find that the sensation of discovering Bertrand hanging to his bed-post was denied him-proved to be the knocker.

"Gentleman down-stairs for you, sir; particularly anxious to see you, sir. Thought you was asleep, sir; thought you was-didn't know what to think, sir."

"Never mind, I'll follow you; go on.'

"This way, sir; coffee-room, sir," and Bertrand walked mechanically into it.

26

CHAPTER XXIX.

THE room was occupied by two gentlemen, one unknown to Bertrand, but the other was Mr Coppinger of the -th.

"Good morning," said that gentleman, affably. "I've ki-called to make it all square with you." Oh," said Bertrand, still in a dream. “Oh, indeed? but I don't quite understand."

"You're not s-savage, are you?"

"Not at all; why should I be?"

"Well, you know, I was a little fi-flustered last night, and je-jealous, and savage, I suppose, and wanted to call you out; only you wouldn't wait for L-arkins. Don't you remember? Ah! perhaps you were too ski-crewed?"

"No; I remember something about it now." "I've referred it to Larkins (let me introduce my friend L-arkins of the th), and he's

certain I was in the wrong. Very likely I was.