Oh, Mary, how happy might they have made me, if only in this instance they had discarded their prejudices! Instead of flying in darkness and in secret, I might to-morrow have gone gaily to the altar, to give my hand where my heart has long been given. In the face of day, and amidst the congratulations of all, I might have proudly owned my affection for one so universally admired and loved. But they have somehow contrived that those warm affections, which seemed planted in my breast to grow into happiness, should turn into thorns, and destroy my repose. How have I deserved it—at least at their hands? In the sight of One perfect, we must all appear most imperfect; but to my father and sister, I have endeavoured to do my duty-not alone because it was my duty, but because I loved them, and wished to gain their love in return. My father's affection I believe I possess, though the reserve he conceives necessary to his dignity prevents him from often shewing

it towards me; and this, Mary, is the only tie I have to break in quitting my home; but oh, how painful it is to break even this! Mary, I cannot think of it-I dare not. I love my father dearly, but he seems to struggle to crush every expression of fondness for me. Why do people do so? How delightful it is to be loved, even by an animal without reason! If I shew kindness to my dog, he fawns upon me, he follows me he is grieved for my absence, and glad of my return-he watches me in sleep, he defends me in danger, and omits no opportunity of testifying the attachment of gratitude, and the fondness of affection. It is to the race of reasoning beings alone that love can be shewn without inspiring reciprocal feelings, and kindness without meeting a return. Oh, Mary, did I ever think that this would be the result of the enthusiasm with which I entered the world! but whither does it lead me? to the conclusion, that should we find a kind and sensitive heart-a heart whose

whose affections are unsullied by the sordid touch of a base and mercenary world, we should look upon it as a jewel beyond all price, which we should be careful not to lose, but guard as an inestimable treasure, which if once we cast from us, may never be regained. To you, Mary, I write in the fulness of my heart, my earliest, my dearest, my most affectionate of friends. If I am doing right, you will be happy in my happiness; if I do wrong, you will pity me, and do all you can to alleviate the consequences of my misconduct. Indeed, on you and Frederic rest principally my hopes of reconciliation with my father. I have had a most difficult part to act, and perhaps my inclinations have swayed me more than they ought to have done; but I have given my promise, and it must be fulfilled at all risks. It may bring me happiness-it may bring me misery-but in all situations, believe me, I shall continue, my dear, dear Mary,

"Your affectionate cousin,

"JANE EVELYN."

The

The fault of one we love is more painful for us to hear of than even their misfortune; and Mary was grieved, deeply grieved, on account of her cousin. She did not, even in her own mind, take upon her to censure her conduct, but she was grieved, because she felt sure that Jane had plunged herself into sorrow; and that if she did not obtain her father's forgiveness, she would never cease to reproach herself for the step that she had taken. From all that she had heard of him, she felt sure that her cousin had not been mistaken in captain Malcolm's character; that he was in every respect the feeling, warmhearted young man she represented him, and therefore peculiarly calculated to make a person of Jane's disposition happy. But she felt many doubts in regard to their future prospects. Both had been accustomed to move in the highest and most expensive sphere of life-and could they be contented in another station? Jane, perhaps, might, with a person that she loved

loved-for the happiness of a woman's existence may be entirely concentrated to a few objects of affection; but a man must have a larger field to range in, and Mary feared that her cousin might find this to be the case when recession was impossible.

CHAPTER VIII.

King. What should this mean? are all the rest come back?

Or is it some abuse, and no such thing?

Laertes.--Know you the hand?

The Summons.

Hamlet.

LORD Burton proceeded slowly towards England, without any particular incident worthy of record. With the baron he continued on the same terms of intimacy; and indeed the length of their acquaintance only seemed to increase their friendship. In regard to the baron's conduct to

VOL. III.

H

his