and the world's law, this sweet young creature. In plain terms, he would have been very glad to have persuaded her to forsake her father's house, and trust herself to his honour.

Little was he formed to consider, that the sacrifice of Louisa would, in this case, be as complete as that of any other victim to the pride and caprice of man; though not at the usual altar, the world's opinion-but that of poesy, romance, and a love too extravagant for forms. But such are the disguises of selfishness-and such it is, as was said of one endowed with pretty nearly as much egotism, and far more genius-" to possess an imagination of fire, and a heart of ice."

The scene which ensued it is needless to describe. It was one all insidious persuasion on one side-all softness, tenderness, modesty, and virtue on the other. It ended as all such must end, where woman's virtue is to prove victorious-in flight. Louisa started, and, with one faint cry, fled, like the wind, to the house and to her chamber. Not a doubt of the integrity of her lover had for one moment disturbed her confidence; but that nice instinct with which the kindness of nature has guarded her frailest, fairest workmanship, was alarmed within her. She felt that all was not quite right, and she fled.

He remained leaning against a tree, as she had left him, till the closing branches shut her from his sight. He then slowly and musingly was following the path which led out of the wood, when his progress was arrested.

A figure stood before him, so effectually barring the passage that it was impossible for him to pursue his intention. It was Charles.

His air was determined, but perfectly composed, his face was deadly pale.

"One word, my lord-for I believe it is Lord William Melville that I have the honour of addressing. I have been a most unwilling spectator of what has passed within the last three minutes."

"You have!" cried Lord William, "and by what right have you presumed!-by what right have you dared!"

"My lord, our rights are, I fear, at present pretty much upon an equality. I too might ask, by what right you have presumed or dared-to speak in the manner I have been compelled to hear."

"It is not my habit to submit to be questioned, or to answer questions," said Lord William, haughtily."Neither is it customary for me to enter into broils or contests. I will trouble you, sir, to disencumber the way of your presence, and suffer me to pass on my own affairs."

"Excuse me, my lord!-I must and I will be heard."

"If that be the case," said Lord William, eying him from

head to foot, "I see no alternative but submission-unless, indeed, I were to trouble myself to knock you down."

"You might find that difficult, my lord; at all events, unpleasant. I shall not detain you long.

That young lady"

"And by what right, I repeat it," cried Lord William, fiercely, "do you presume to interfere between me and that young lady? What has she ever been to you, that you thrust yourself thus impertinently into her affairs? She has no brother! . ."

"She has no brother. I do not mean so greatly to insult your lordship as to suppose that circumstance has any influence upon your views. Were that possible, I am here for the purpose of letting you know, that it is my present intention to act in the capacity of a brother, and as such, I beg to be informed at once, and explicitly, what are your intentions.'

"My intentions, sir, are no affair of yours. And I beg leave to pass."

The whole frame of Charles shook with one sudden gust of rage and passion.

"Whatever your intentions may be, I must, and I will know them, before you leave this spot. Understand me, my lord, I am not such a fool as to attempt to work upon a nature like yours by threats, unworthy of yourself and me. The vulgar apprehension of being made to answer, as it is called, for your conduct, by risking your life, would, I am well aware, rather urge than prevent your perseverance; but I have my objects, as you may have yours. Ard if you are resolved to obtain, so am I to protect and defend, not only at the expense of my life, but, if necessary, of hers! For I tell you fairly, that I love her love her with a passion! A passion! I will not so far insult my heart as to compare it with yours! But it is a Roman sentiment, my lord and if it be necessary, she shall die, but she shall not be shamed."

Lord William stood for a moment-struck, rather than confounded. There was that within him which answered readily to an appeal such as this-yet pride forbade him to give way. He looked up haughtily, and motioned to be allowed to proceed on his path.

"It cannot be, my lord-from this place I will not stir, until I have my answer. I ask you once more explicitly, what are your views with regard to Miss Mildmay ? and, in order to engage you to be explicit, I here inform you, that unless I have my answer, and such an answer as her merits deserve, and such as your sense of them leads me to expect, that I shall inform her father of the circumstances with which I am become acquainted-that I shall instantly inform herself of my suspicions suspicions which I will pledge my

salvation never have once tainted her innocent mind? And it is needless to add, you will never behold Miss Mildmay more."

A pause.

"I trust you believe in this consequence, my lord," cried Charles, crimsoning to the very temples; "you cannot be so infamous as to suppose-"

"I assure you, upon my honour," said Lord William, softly, but with dignity, "I entirely and completely credit your last assertion. To doubt it," he added, a moment after, "would give me as much pain as yourself."

"I thank you, my lord, for this last admission—it enables me with less difficulty to proceed. Such being your feelings, I will not again do you the injustice to suspect that you have any views dishonourable to Miss Mildmay. At the same time, you may possibly find yourself in the not uncommon situation of being without any very well defined views at all. I must therefore beg to be informed whether your intentions be so decided that they ought to be communicated to the young lady's father-and I suggest, if that be the case, that the communication be made without further delay. I should think my protection of small service to Louisa! I beg your pardon-to Miss Mildmaywere I not able to secure her from that devastation of the heart and spirits, to which uncertainty might expose one so delicate! so sensitive! I will add, so attached-as she!

"My lord, I will be candid with you-I know your merits, I am capable of appreciating them-or, believe me, this conversation had never taken place. It is not one of the least in my eyes that you have distinguished Miss Mildmay. I believe it to be impossible that, having known her, having loved her, and having won her tenderness, you ever will, you ever can, resign her. I will not so far flatter you, or belie my own heart, as not to avow how bitterly, for her sake and for my own, I lament that you have ever met. But having met, and so met, I put it to yourself whether, for your Own sake, you will impair the health, shatter the spirits, wring the heart, by a prolonged uncertainty, of the being you mean to make your wife. It is useless-it will not afford you opportunity for further intercourse-you will neither see nor hear of Miss Mildmay until this indispensable step be first taken. And I warn you, my lord, if you love her, that you may find cause to repent its being delayed." He turned upon his heel to depart.

"Sir," said Lord William, " for of your name I am still ignorant-"

"Lovel, sir."

"Mr. Lovel, you have spoken well, and convinced me, I believe, that I had better close my romance here, and proceed to the commonplaces of these affairs. I will return

to the inn below, and consider my determination before I declare it. If you have any thing further to say, I shall hear from you there. Good morning, sir!"

And, with an air of haughty carelessness, he proceeded down the path, and quitted the wood.

Charles sat down exhausted, to relieve his heart by one burst of grief uncontrollable; by one torrent of passionate, manly tears. He then re-entered the house.

Resolved that Lord William should by no possibility again encounter with Louisa, without the sanction of her father, Charles was sitting the next morning, before six o'clock, at his studies in the parlour. He never throughout that day lost sight of Louisa. If she walked, he was at her side; if she sat, he was busy at his books. She looked surprised, impatient, restless, but asked no explanation. An air of sweet serenity was in her eyes, which died as the day declined, and was succeeded by the most pathetic expression of disappointment.

What Charles felt through that long day may not easily be imagined; but the anguish and the effort cost him so much, that it was difficult for him to walk up the stairs at night.

Unhappy Charles! to whom the smiles and the tears of the being he so fondly loved were alike the food for anguish and despair.

CHAPTER X.

THE next morning brought a letter for Mr. Mildmay-a proposal in form from Lord William Melville for Miss Mildmay-and an humble request to be allowed to visit her, and to present himself to her father.

Here was a change! Such as the fleeting pictures of the drama furnish-but not alone-real life teems with these sudden alternations, these rapid, overwhelming changes; from misery to ecstasy-from rapture to despair.

Those mighty ministers of destiny, Death and Love, equal in force, almost equal in terror, change, with their powerful hands, in some few short hours, the whole scene of human circumstance, the whole character of human story, far more effectually than the mimic shifter on the boards.

Mr. Mildmay, who had so long cherished in secret an excessive pride in his lovely daughter, was raised at once from the anxiety which anticipation of her future destiny habitually occasioned, to a state of unchastened exultation-an exultation which might appear strange in one schooled by

the trials of many years, were it not true that we learn little from any experience but our own. His had lain through life almost exclusively among those evils which narrow circumstances occasion to refined and ambitious characters, and he thought little of any other. Of darker and deeper trials he had known few, and in this case anticipated none.

Mary was confounded, surprised, pleased, and grieved at once. The brilliant success of Louisa gratified this fond and affectionate sister almost as much as if it had befallen a beloved child of her own; but the pleasure was clouded by an undefined, uncomfortable feeling, that her relation with this dear friend would be changed; not merely that she must necessarily see her less, but that she must see her differently; she could but indistinctly picture how, but she felt that different it would be.

Then, a man of Lord William's high rank carried with him something most awful to her imagination. The daughters of Mr. Mildmay had been brought up with that too undistinguishing respect for what was noble, that reverence for rank in itself, which formed the only vulgar trait in his own character; and which, certainly, a life passed in a country town, such as was Mary's, was not calculated to correct.

She could not with any comfort fancy so great a man sitting in the little vicarage parlour, and resting his noble limbs upon a wicker chair. She felt that she must hide her children, and she wished to hide herself, when he should appear. Must she offer him luncheon? Must she ask him to dinner? Molly shook her head.

"A very grand doing for Miss Louy," was her remark. But she looked cross, and as if she did not half like it. Louisa tasted a joy unmingled with the slightest shade of anxiety, at the difference between her own and her lover's condition. The vehemence of Lord William's expressions had satisfied her inexperienced heart of the truth and fidelity of his feelings; and her own love was so pure, so remote from reference to station, show, or circumstance, that a suspicion of their effect upon others never entered into her thoughts.

Not so Lord William. The moment he was called upon to play the part of accepted admirer, to visit and to court, in all the forms, in order that he might espouse, in due time, a young woman to whom neither rank nor fashion gave that prestige with which it is their business to adorn such doings, than a secret disgust took possession of his mind.

We repeat, that it was no vulgar fear of the appearance which his country wife would make among his acquaintance of the credit or ridicule she might cast upon himdistresses which so grievously perplex weak minds when about to do an unusual thing, that annoyed him. His character was far too proud, we may say too magnanimous, to