Then Gwendoline, ashamed now of her too self-conscious betrayal, begged him to sit down, and beginning hurriedly to inquire after her friends at Seacombe, asked his permission to open her letter.

Glanc

ing her eye over Mrs. Fielden's, containing a few lines expressive of her anxiety as to Gwendoline's indisposition, her sorrow as to the object of her London visit having been so unsuccessful, with an allusion to Mr. Campbell's departure, she turned anxiously to Bona's very short note, evidently from its incoherency, written in haste and agitation. It was as follows:

DEAREST GWEN,

We are going. Do not be unhappy about me. It will be better, I feel sure, when we get to Malta. I still hope and pray that you may join me there. I shall at least get rid of one thing that has made me very miserable. Oh! Gwen, my husband's cousin, of whom I told Mr. Fielden, was Tina Ramus; but we leave her in Brussels. Any thing I have had to suffer is from my own fault, I know. But still, I trust, as I said before, we may all still be happy together. Do not write till you hear from me. God bless you, Gwen. Ever your own loving

BONA.

Gwendoline forgot almost who was with her, whilst she read these lines; tears were in her eyes when she again lifted them up. Edgar Campbell thought they were like those of some pitying angel; yet a jealous pang shot through his breast that there was any one she so cared for.

"I fear," he said, "you have felt this disappointment concerning your friend. Would that I could

you."

She shook her head despondingly. "I am afraid it is not a case where assistance is available; and now they have left England." A pause succeeded.

"When do you return to Seacombe ?" Edgar at length, in a low voice, demanded.

"To-morrow, perhaps," shé answered, but uncertainly. He sighed.

"And you?" she asked, in the same low tone, and looking from him.

Again he sighed; then said, evasively—

"I have heard from my stepfather. Mr. Gibson and his daughter are at Nice, and have invited me to join them."

Gwendoline was silent. He looked at her, wistfully.

"You will go, then," she said, feeling she must say something; but would have given worlds could she have conquered that slight faltering in her voice, which would betray itself.

66

What better can I do ?" he answered very despondingly; "if Seacombe Glade may no longer retain me."

Then seeing in her gravely averted face that she understood his meaning, he went on to say with firmer sadness

"I fear but on my account you might have returned there sooner. It must feel very desolate for you to be here alone," he added compassionately.

"I must accustom myself to loneliness and independence," she answered; "and though the Fieldens are kind-Mrs. Fielden I have a great regard for-they are comparative strangers."

"Still they are protectors such as your age and circumstances forgive me, Miss Lawson, if I am

as one so bereft of near relations, as you seem to be, force you to require."

She smiled now upon him gratefully. It was a new and pleasant thing to have inspired any such brotherly anxiety,

"for

"Thank you," she said, your kind concern. I told you, I think, that I have an uncle."

"Oh, Miss Lawson," he impetuously began, without heeding her last question, "but forgive me," checking himself, "this is wrong perhaps, certainly not what I intended; but when something whispers me that but for this vaguetantalizing mystery, this impediment with which you silenced my hope at Seacombe, you might never feel again the want or loss of friend or relation, can I refrain from asking you once more if my case is so entirely hopeless-if I may at least leave England with hope in my mind, however distant?"

'I can say no more than I did at Seacombe," she answered, with agitation; "I may not, must not listen to any thing of this sort."

"And the reason-is it so necessarily a secret ? The Fieldens, I perceive, are as totally uninformed as myself on the subject; nay, are ignorant, apparently, of the existence of any such barrier between us as you represent."

"What! you questioned them ?" she asked reproachfully.

'No, no; I allude only to what might be inferred from their remarks concerning you; indeed my secret, which must have been for long but too evident, attracting good Mrs. Fielden's sympathy and compassion, induced my confidence so far, I confess, as to draw forth on her part such encouragement, as convinced me that of the existence of any serious impediment to the accomplishment of my earnest

She spoke, indeed, of peculiar views, of fanciful, girlish sentiment, which no true-hearted woman ever, but in theory, could maintain. But if this were all," stealing an eager glance at the listening countenance, crimsoning over now irrepressibly with a flush of womanly shame, "I should not despair so utterly, but trust that through such impalpable, inconsequent defences, my honorable, straight-forward love might make its way.”

"You are confident," she said, a little haughtily, for his new tone piqued, whilst it agitated her with a strange emotion; "but the views and sentiments Mrs. Fielden thus ascribed to me, are far from being the only obstacles against which you would have to contend. What will satisfy you when you will not take my word for granted that such obstacles exist? Would you take another's testimony ?" she continued petulantly; "if another assured you it was the case, would you then be satisfied and let it rest?"

"I might resign myself," he answered dejectedly, "if I had more plainly revealed to me the hopelessness of the cause. As for being satisfied-but why not receive the death-blow from your own lips?"

"Because-because it is impossible," she said, impatiently; "because then I must tell all, and I know not how far I am justified, how far I may venture safely to do that."

And even as she spoke, she took a paper and pencil, and hurriedly wrote down her uncle's direction in Lincoln's Inn, and handing it to her companion, said

"There! if you choose to go to him and tell him all, I think you will obtain the information you require."

'It seems a cold measure that of handing me over to your solicitor,"

he said with a forced smile, looking at the direction, "but I submit, and I beg your pardon; he is also your uncle."

"Yes, my father's brother; he may not be in London now, but at least they will give you his address. Perhaps," she said, "if he is in town you will not mention that I am here."

He assented, and then rising, held out his hand in adieu, saying "But I may see you afterwards; that is to say if I find your uncle, and you do not return to Seacombe to-morrow."

She gave him some doubtful answer, which he took, however, for assent, and so they parted.

What Gwendoline hoped, feared,

EDGAR CAMPBELL, as might be supposed, with eager solicitude, repaired to the lawyer's residence the next morning. Concluding that his chamber or business office would be shut at this season-for it was now Christmas Eve-he applied at once to the lugubrious mansion adjoining, and was told that Mr. Lawson was not only still in London, but at that moment engaged in business at his office, whither at his request he was immediately directed by the servant.

He was received by Mr. Warner, the head clerk, formerly introduced to my readers as witness of the marriage ceremony, who told that his employer was deeply engaged in some extra special matter of business before leaving town that afternoon, but that if the gentleman's affair was very urgent and

| particular, he would of course endeavor to give him his attention personally.

Edgar Campbell said that for a few minutes he should certainly be obliged by his doing so; he would not keep him long, but the matter was one of a strictly private and personal nature; whereupon Mr. Lawson, on being so informed, straightway requested the stranger to enter his room. Very carepressed indeed, and business-worn looked the lawyer, but prepossessed at once in favor of his supposed new client's appearance and demeanor, he prepared to give him the polite and affable attention he had always at command.

"I am sorry, sir, to disturb you so unseasonably," Campbell began. at once, "and I do not come to you professionally, but on a matter

which, whilst it is life and death almost to myself, as touching one with whom you are closely connected, must also, in a measure, concern and interest you."

The lawyer looked sharply and suspiciously at the speaker. There were only two individuals with whom he was closely connected, if he meant by ties of kindred, and on them, indeed, hung his every in

terest.

"My name is Campbell," the young man went on briefly to say. "After some years' absence from England, circumstances of a melancholy nature threw me, immediately on my return, about two months ago, into the intimate society of your niece, Miss Lawson; it will not surprise you to hear that an attachment sprung up on my side"

"Which my niece, of course, declared herself in no position to reciprocate," the lawyer eagerly interrupted, an impatient irritation of manner alone betraying the inward discomfiture which this announcement had created in his mind.

Edgar Campbell's heart sank within him; for so quick and decided a confirmation of his hope's hopelessness he had certainly not been prepared.

"She declared the existence of an obstacle, an impediment," he responded, faltering; "but for an explanation of its nature, she referred me to you."

"Indeed!" and Mr. Lawson, whose countenance had assumed a very greenish hue, now gave a short and very sardonic laugh. "I think, then, my niece might have saved both yourself and me the trouble, by confiding the obstacle to you, herself. I am sorry for you, my dear sir, but women at the best are very triflers with one's happiness and peace of mind when it suits their vanity-or worse, I am afraid.

I should have thought better of Gwen. The long and the short of the matter is, that my niece is not at liberty to bestow her hand on any one, however it may be with her heart. She has been married ever since she was sixteen."

And Mr. Lawson, having delivered himself of this very startling revelation, showed every inclination to put an end to the indeed very unprofessional and profitless interview, and bow his visitor out.

Young Campbell also rose, his fair and fervent visions scattered in the dust-a pained, astonished sense of injury the uppermost feeling at his heart.

For what purpose had been this dangerous concealment, this deceit ? What right had this fair, young, fascinating woman to go about the world in this false position, free, and wantonly imperilling men's peace of mind like this?

"Your niece might have saved me certainly much unnecessary pain," he said, with quiet pride masking the bitterness of his soul; "but I presume some very weighty reason, some very peculiar circumstances, have necessitated her keeping her real position secret from the world."

Mr. Lawson shrugged his shoulders slightingly, as if at some excusable but inexplicable caprice of womankind.

"It was her own fancy," he said, "she, at any rate, was ever a peculiar person, but it has at least been no secret with a great portion of the world."

He called, and the old confidential clerk made his appearance from the

old man, nervously rubbing his hands together.

"I required no such asseveration to the truth of your assertion, sir," Mr. Campbell now haughtily replied, "and will no longer trespass on your time, but wish you goodmorning."

"I am sincerely sorry, sir, that you should have been so misled," Mr. Lawson declared, almost cringingly, as he followed him to the door. "You met my niece, I conclude, in Devonshire; are you returning there ?"

"No, certainly not. I leave England for the Continent, to join my father-in-law, the Rev. Mr. Gibson -perhaps to-day, if not, certainly to-morrow."

He was thus explicit, thinking that probably his determination might reach the ears of Gwendoline, and having no intention to communicate with her further, either by letter or in person. What would it avail? She had evidently sent him to her uncle, to avoid having herself to impart to him the information he had now received. Why she should so have shrunk from the revelation was a mystery to him. The uncle had not, by his manner or words, seemed to imply that the union she had so early contracted was a disgraceful one; yet where and who was the husband? Why had she been evidently living separate from him, and going by her maiden name, it would appear, for an indefinite time? for he had heard of her residence as parlor boarder at a school in London, for many years before her going into Devonshire last

summer.

All these perplexities occurred of course to the young man's mind after leaving Mr. Lawson, of whom, he had been at the time too stunned, too proud, perhaps, to inquire. The paramount feeling which pressed on him now so painfully was that it

was incumbent on him to banish this white-browed Beatrice from his affections as summarily as he could; so he sternly set his thoughts upon the wrong that she had done. The more so was this necessary when the now dangerously delicious memory came, that, conceal it, as she in that last evening's interview might have striven to do, she loved him too as one like her alone can love. No, he must not trust himself, with this consciousness in his breast, even to a written adieu. What could her love what could she be to him now? She, who in her supposed maiden pride and purity, in her virgin queendom, had been almost as superior as an angel in his sight, was after all but a married woman separated from her husband. It seemed to his sensitive conscience almost as a judgment on him, for having allowed the holy filial sorrow which had at first threatened to overwhelm his every affection of life, to be so quickly interfered with, by any other woman's influence on earth.

Well, now he had done with it, he thought, and in the society of that mother's husband and her adopted daughter, his mind might best recover its former tone-his angel-parent's memory and love regain their proper ascendancy in his heart.

And thus it came to pass that Gwendoline, in her lonely London lodging, might have waited on and sang forever, Mariana's dreary

song.

The same day, and the next, she did wait indeed-waited she hardly knew for what, except it were some words of farewell; then as she saw it was in vain, gathering up her scattered pride, and supposing her uncle's communication had only too effectually given the death-blow to Edgar Campbell's hopes and aspirations, she returned to Seacombe.