ourselves to be excited by them. I confess that I cannot always wrap myself up in the serene cloak of the philosopher, and walk calmly over the sea of vanities, which surrounds my life. I often think of those beautiful lines of Young, but I fear that I never profit by thinking of them.

'A soul immortal spending all her firesWasting her strength in strenuous idleness, Thrown into tumults, raptured, or alarmed, At aught this scene can threaten or indulge, Resembles ocean into tempest wrought, To waft a feather, or to drown a fly' And even still more beautiful than the lines themselves, were the sweetly modulated tones of Augusta's voice, and the feeling manner in which she recited the poetry.

Poor Peregrine was quite lost. It was all over with him, for he was waxing sentimental.

"Yes," he said, "how much sweeter than all this idle vanity-this heartless and false mirth, the free communion of two sympathising souls-heart answering to heart, understanding one another, true friendship, such as-may I say ours?-I think we understand one another.”

"I hope we do I hope we do," said Augusta, "for no one has ever understood me yet."

"I think I do. I think I do, indeed," urged Peregrine; "I know that you are not as others think you, vain, inconstant, whimsical, capriciousI know that you are not as many think you, most happy in such scenes as these,

'Where, prisoners to their gilded thrall,
Vain crowd meets crowd in lighted hall,
With frozen feelings, tutor'd eye,

And smile, which is itself a lie’—

I do not wrong you in this way."

"Thank you, Mr. Pultuney-thank you- I am very grateful for your good opinion; but, hark! what noise is that?”

The noise, which proceeded from the space between the pillars of the great room devoted to dancing, was none other than the loud tolling of a bell. The quadrille was just over; and in the centre of the room was congregated a thick crowd of people, all pushing forwards to the spot whence the noise of the bell proceeded; curiosity seemed to be on the tiptoe, and a new excitement was evidently created. "What can it be?" asked Augusta Sweetenham.

"Let us join the crowd, and endeavour to ascertain," returned Peregrine, with an ill-suppressed smile on his face; "There, can you see now?"

Capital! capital!” cried Augusta. "I declare it's a twopenny postman; he has just given a letter to Miss Singleton, and one to Eliza Dew; pray ask him if he has got one for me."

66

Here, Mr. Postman," said Peregrine, putting his arm over the shoulders of some gentlemen in front of him," is there any letter for Miss Sweeten

ham?"

"Eh!" returned the postman, who was excel

lently dressed, and so disguised that all the people were asking one another who he could possibly be; "any letter for Miss Sweetenham; I dare say there be,” and he rummaged in his bag; "but, what is Miss Sweetenham to you? Are you her servant that you ax for her letters?"

Several people looked at Peregrine, and laughed. "Yes," continued the postman, "sure enough, here be a letter for Miss Augusta Sweetenham,' Dum-Dum post mark, I think."

"Give it to me then," said Peregrine.

"Eh! eh! give it to you? ah, I know your physnomy, I think, you be the chap wot keeps company with Miss Sweetenham, well, take it away."

There was a loud laugh, but Peregrine got the letter, and gave it to Augusta Sweetenham.

"Why this is your writing, Mr. Pultuney," she said.

"Indeed!" exclaimed Peregrine.

Augusta opened the envelope, and found it contained two sheets of note-paper. She glanced at one and said, "Oh! thank you-for these versesthe long promised verses to set to music-thank you very much, Mr. Pultuney-but what is in the other paper?"

"Read it," said Peregrine Pultuney, and Augusta read some very pretty love verses (acrostics) which had more truth in them than at first she supposed.

"Thank you for these too," she said.

tell me, pray, who is the postman ?”

"How can I?" asked Peregrine.

"But,

"Oh! you know very well. How else could you have sent me these verses?"

"I put them in the post," said Peregrine. "Nonsense; I shall be angry, if you do not tell

me."

"If I must, then-my friend, Mr. Jenks.'

CHAPTER XIII.

Showing how Peregrine Pultuney ought to have been ashamed of himself but was not.

THOUGH the course of true love is said to be one of the roughest, we question whether the course of infidelity does not run a great deal smoother than it ought to do. At least it did with Peregrine Pultuney, who, day after day, week after week, grew happier and happier in the society and friendship of Augusta Sweetenham, and had rarely any thing to disturb his serenity of mind, except an occasional guard day and a monthly letter from Julia Poggleton, which was brought by the overland mail, with a regularity very far indeed from what it ought to have been, but nevertheless sufficient to keep our hero in mind of what he would fain have forgotten -his engagements to his unfortunate cousin, and his delinquency arising therefrom.

We shall not follow Peregrine inch by inch adown the smooth sloping glacis of his infidelity. We shall not show how day by day his once ardent love