tion, and on that of the mother, was not only the instinctive law of nature which links the parent to her offspring, in identity of feeling, but the approval of every faculty of her mind, the pride, the glory of her days, had circled round her child; it was for her she had clung to life, when life without her would have been valueless. Such were the mixed ingredients which proved the nature of Lady Herbert's love for her daughter; and such were the thoughts which she entertained during her long watchful night of sorrowful reflection; but like all else of time, the night ended; the faint light of a winter daybreak, crept into the room, and gradually made each object more and more distinct. There was a mirror hung at the foot of the bed, she beheld herself reflected in it, and she started at the recognition of her own countenance, when she seemed to acknowledge, for the first time, what ravages grief and cares had made there. “But I must not," she said, “I must not suffer this crushing of care to tell De Montmorenci of my wretchedness. I must feign calmness, even happiness till we have left this house; ay, and ever afterwards, for I must deceive eren Sarah. I shall not be able to do so long, but long enough to see my child obtain his affection, and the truth will lie with me in the grave."

Lady Herbert's servant knocked at the door, to announce, that it was the hour at which her ladyship had desired to be awakened. She arose at the summons, awoke her daughter, and whispered in her ear, " Sarah, dearest, I have had such pleasant dreams to-night--you know we believe in dreams, (smiling:) be happy, I am sure you will obtain wish, he will love you."

your

She shook her head, mournfully: "Better not raise hopes that can never be fulfilled; but teach me rather to forget him."

Ah! thought Lady Herbert, I must learn that myself, ere I can instruct you; but she only sighed, and pressed her child to her heart.

Lord de Montmorenci met them as usual, with his own vivid welcome, in the breakfast-room, and expressed the pain it always gave him to part from any friend; “but to see you both forsake my roof, is so very melancholy, that I shall not long have courage to remain here, and why should I?" he added, gaily, "I may follow you to town, may I not, Lady Herbert?" He expected some answering expression of kindness, but neither mother nor daughter

spoke. The former endeavoured to evade the awkwardness which ensued, by making some commonplace observation, which breaks in so abruptly and harshly upon the affections. Breakfast was over, the carriage was announced to be ready. Miss Herbert arose, and bade Lord de Montmorenci farewell, in a calm, gentle tone, but as she went on to utter some words of grateful thanks, her voice trembled, the tears started to her eyes, and her words became inaudible. Lord de Montmorenci took her hand; with the warm pressure of his affectionate heart, and said "she had never given him pain, except in thanking him, what is there I could not do to please you, to please Lady Herbert. I wish I could show you both how very dear you are to me."-Ah! both! that word struck harshly on Sarah's ear, and turned all the sweet to gall; she rushed away and sprang into the carriage, Lord de Montmorenci lingered a moment, and then catching Lady Herbert's hand, he said, Mabel, may I not call you so now-my very own. I shall be with you briefly; but how long will that brief absence seem! and to you, will you regret it?" Lord de Montmorenci looked earnestly in her countenance; it was her turn to say some word of kindness, but her every feeling seemed congealed; she dared not trust herself with a single expression, lest her whole heart should burst forth, and melt again in unison with his own; but at length she said, as she moved towards the door,

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"I will write to you the moment we reach town; but now, now I must rejoin Sarah. Sarah, too, is miserable at leaving this dear place." And she hurried away, and the servants who were in waiting prevented any farther conversation; so Lady Herbert got into the carriage; a mist swam before her eyes, she kissed her hand to Lord de Montmorenci, and a sudden turn in the road soon prevented their seeing more of the dear house, which had sheltered her in her wretchedness, and in which happiness had sprung up anew; but it was a happiness that had no root, and its flowers fell even as they were bursting into bloom.

Lady Herbert endeavoured to converse cheerfully with her daughter during their journey; she avoided speaking of Lord de Montmorenci, but she alluded to Sarah's entering the world, and foretold that she would have great success. Miss Herbert replied, "that she did not expect much enjoyment in its gay scenes."

"Dear Sarah, if there is any triumph of the heart vet re

maining for me, it will be to see you once more in the sphere of life in which you ought to move-do not deprive me of this last ray of pleasure."

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Any thing you wish me to do, mamma, I will do; but on my own account I anticipate no joy, or even pleasure from the gay world."

The day seemed unusually long to the travellers; for the first time they were under mutual restraint, and it was a release when they reached the door of Herbert House.

Lady Herbert had never crossed the threshold of that house since the hour when she received the final blow to all the happiness of what may be termed her first existence; under other circumstances she would have dreaded this trial, but a change had come over her; she looked at her past life as it were out of herself, and felt that she had borne the full complement of sorrow; she had nothing to reproach herself with: that circumstance gives brightness to the darkest gloom. She walked across the hall and up the great staircase with perfect composure, to Miss Herbert's utter astonishment; for she had dreaded her mother's return to the home of her youth, and scarcely understood how she could so quietly retread those boards which had echoed to the footsteps of those who were gone; and Lady Herbert herself was scarcely less astonished that such should be the change wrought in her feelings; had any person told her that this alteration would have taken place, she would have laughed them to scorn. How little we know ourselveshow utterly do we cease to care at one time of our lives for that which made our whole felicity at another! There are cases where this metamorphosis of feeling is the consequence of a light and worthless character; but there are others where it is the work of a merciful Providence to save as from utter despair. In all cases it should humble us to a sense of our own mutability.

3

CHAPTER XIII.

In the corrupted current of this world
Offence's gilded hand may shore by justice;
And oft 'tis seen the wicked prize itself
Buys out the law. But 'tis not so above:
There is no shuffling; there the action lies
In his true nature,

HAMLET.

Two years had passed since the duel, when Frederick Clermont's friend, Captain Danesford, endeavoured to persuade him to leave the small town in which he resided, on the coast of France, and take a cruise with him in the Zephir. Poor Frederick Clermont! he was a broken-hearted man; no one, who had seen him before the fatal event of the duel, would have known him. A settled gloom usurped the place of his open-hearted smile, and his sunny brown hair was sprinkled with untimely gray. He had borne his exile but ill; the miserable cause which had forced him to lift his hand against his benefactor had, even more than the deed itself, left an indelible stain upon him, which bowed him to the very earth; cut off from his profession, from every honourable career, he felt himself a marked and branded man; and though he endeavoured to submit to the humbling as became a Christian; and though he lamented with bitter regret having taken the life of another, and that other the father of her he loved, he thought he had acted honourably; but still this thought and this belief in his own integrity could not prevent his being thoroughly wretched. At first, when Captain Danesford proposed his leaving D, and going on board with him, he was averse to comply; for he dreaded being recognised by any former associate, and he clung to the place where he had spent that desolate period of his miserable existence; for places, like people, are endeared to us by sorrow. Besides, he had experienced kindness there. Foreigners are, generally, less shy of being kind than we English are to an unknown. Does a stranger, one who is really such, settle in our country, he is looked

upon with suspicion, at least with cautious reserve; not so at D, the young stranger was soon received by the inhabitants with civility, and soon after that with cordiality. There was a mystery about him, a secret attached to his history, the simple inhabitants of D- were aware, for he often broke from them abruptly, and was totally absent in moments of social intercourse, and would pass, at times, whole days in solitude; but all these circumstances only served to obtain for him a greater degree of interest and a still kinder welcome when he entered their circle again, and was persuaded to join their usual festivals. Is it that there is more happiness amongst foreigners, generally speaking, than there is among us Britons, or is it that there is more frivolity? Dress, music, dancing, and talking suffice to constitute their felicity; and if it be so, ought we to despise them for this aptitude to enjoyment? These are questions which it would require long and deep investigation to reply to, and, after all, perhaps we might not come to any satisfactory conclusion. As well might we ask why the complexion of one is dark, another fair; why one is tall, another short? Certain it is, that during the two years which Frederick Clermont had spent at D

and its neighbourhood, he never saw that depression of spirits affect its inhabitants which it is impossible to live and not see, in half that time, in England; and now that he was about to leave this sunny spot, with the usual perversity of the human heart, he overrated what he had undervalued before, and with difficulty tore himself away, even to join his best and only remaining friend. He had never previously anticipated how much it would cost him to leave that place which had been to him as a city of refuge; but the land where we have sojourned, whose corn and oil has been largely dealt to us, and whose natives have been profuse of hospitality, cannot, under any circumstances, be quitted without regret, and in Frederick Clermont's peculiar position more gratitude might be expected from him, and much more was felt than could have been by any common sojourner in those bounds,