and he is silent because he dare not trust himself to write ! What if he loves me ! Alas! what will be the consequence ?"

"He will go mad, as he already almost is," said a voice, which sounded hollow as though it came from

the grave.

I looked up, and Geoffrey stood before me; but, oh how changed. His dress was negligent, and soiled with travel-his eyes restless and sunken, and his face pale and wan, with one deep red spot on his cheek that told but too truly the intensity of his suffering.

"Geoffrey!" I exclaimed at length; but my voice denied further utterance, and I sat motionless with surprise and grief at his appearance.

"Eleanor," he said, and his voice was scarcely heard on account of the storm which was gathering in his bosom. "Eleanor, what have you done?"

He sobbed aloud, and, in a paroxysm of grief, threw himself on his knees before me, and, hiding his face in his hands, rested his head on my lap. For some minutes he wept in silence, and we mingled our tears.

"Ah! Eleanor," said he, raising his head, while I parted his long black hair from his forehead, and gave him a sister's kiss.-"Ah! Eleanor, " you love me still, then?"

"I have ever loved you, dear Geoffrey," I said.

"Then, why," said he, starting to his feet, and drawing himself up to his full height, while his eyes flashed fire, and his brows were knit with anger,

why did you promise your hand, and pretend affection to another?"

He spoke in a tone of bitterest irony, and, advancing, seized me rudely by the arm, "Answer me," he continued.

"Sir," said I rising, and much offended, "your language is such, that were I not a woman you would not dare to use it to me. Unhand me, I say, or perhaps he who can protect me will."

He laughed aloud, and then continued in the same bitter tone;"Do you think, then, Eleanor, that I am so changed, that my broken heart has made a coward of me? Would that he were here, that the life of one or both might end."

Geoffrey," I said, "I have done you wrong; I never meant to threaten you. You have too often protected cousin Eleanor-too often risked danger to please her to make me think so meanly of you. But you hurt me, Geoffrey, and your manner was not kind after so long an absence; indeed it was not," and I burst into tears.

"Dearest Eleanor," replied he, and his own dear voice came forth again in all its former sweetness, and the music of his words fell as of old on my ear, "Dearest Eleanor," and he took my hand, and, lead

ing me back to the bower, seated himself beside me, "I have, indeed, been unkind;" and he kissed the tears from my cheek; "I have, indeed, been unkind, and churlish too; but I am ill, ill, very ill; ill in body and in mind, and have travelled night and day to see you, once again, before you were lost to me for ever. It was wrong," he continued, " very wrong, for me to think of beholding you again, but I could not bear the thought of never seeing you more, and as soon as my illness would permit, I hastened hither, once again, to look on my beloved Eleanor."

"Have you been ill, then, dear Geoffrey ?" said I. "Have I been ill ?" he replied, scornfully, "you have never loved, or you would not ask the question. But no," he said, resuming his own gentle manner, "I do you injustice, Eleanor; you knew not my feelings towards you, or you would never have loved another. But I must be gone," said he, rising hastily, “already I have spoken as a man of honour should not have spoken. Farewell, farewell; may God make you happy."

Saying this, he clasped me to his bosom, and, turning away, rushed wildly from my presence, and, in an instant, was lost among the trees. I returned to the house with a heavy heart, and, pleading illness, retired to my chamber to mourn over the misery I had created. My dear mother strove all in her power to remove the depression of spirits under

To and his own dear
NAN rmer sweetness, and
As of old on my ear,

start a be took my hand, and, lead

ing me back to the bower, seated himself beside me, "I have, indeed, been unkind;" and he kissed the tears from my cheek; "I have, indeed, been unkind, and churlish too; but I am ill, ill, very ill; ill in body and in mind, and have travelled night and day to see you, once again, before you were lost to me for ever. It was wrong," he continued, "very wrong, for me to think of beholding you again, but I could not bear the thought of never seeing you more, and as soon as my illness would permit, I hastened hither, once again, to look on my beloved Eleanor."

"Have you been ill, then, dear Geoffrey ?" said I. "Have I been ill?" he replied, scornfully, "you bave never loved, or you would not ask the question. But no," he said, resuming his own gentle manner, "I do you injustice, Eleanor; you knew not my feelings towards you, or you would never have loved another. But I must be gone," said he, rising hastily, "already I have spoken as a man of honour should not have spoken. Farewell, farewell; may God make you happy."

Saying this, he clasped me to his bosom, and, turning away, rushed wildly from my presence, and, in an instant, was lost among the trees. I returned to the house with a heavy heart, and, pleading illness, retired to my chamber to mourn over the misery I had created. My dear mother strove all in her power to remove the depression of spirits under