On my arrival in London, I found a letter from my uncle, expressing his pleasure that I had so completely exonerated myself from having taken any share in Sidney's late reprehensible conduct, and informing me that Marian had left Hartland Hall, and gone to the Dixons; who had succeeded in persuading her that it would be highly indecorous were she longer to remain indebted to the hospitality of the friends of the man who had so unjustifiably deserted her. Several months passed by. Spring returned, with her usual bounteous allotment of green leaves, primroses, and singing-birds, for the country; and exhibitions, parliamentary speeches, and prima donnas, for the town. The Castletons arrived in Grosvenor Square, Sidney was continually with them, and our meetings were few and cold; the Hartlands also arrived for their usual six weeks' sojourn in a furnished house in Welbeck-street, and I paid them an early visit. I inquired after Marian Lovell, earnestly hoping to hear that she had won the heart of some rich young City merchant, and had migrated from the prison-house occupied by the Dixons in one of the narrow streets extending from Cheapside, to breathe the more healthful, although (thanks to modern novelists) not more fashionable, atmosphere of Russell or Brunswick Square. My uncle shook his head. "I have a melancholy account to give of her," said he. "I could not have imagined grief could have done its work so successfully in so short a time. The phrase, dying of a broken heart,' is laughed at by medical men, and criticised by philosophers; but if ever I saw it exemplified, it is in the case of poor Marian Lovell."

confined, but its inhabitants are very ill adapted to give comfort and consolation to a broken spirit. The Dixons, as I have before told you, are sordid, grasping people, who are determined to make a matter of gain and speculation of poor Marian, or rather of her ten thousand pounds; they were incensed beyond measure when her engagement to Sidney was made known to them, and actually went the length of calling your dear uncle and myself officious, ill-judging, impertinent match-makers!"

"Indeed!" I exclaimed, with a melo-dramatic start of surprise, although in my secret heart I could not help thinking that if the Dixons were equally just in all their comments on "things in general," want of discernment was by no means to be reckoned among their failings.

"Their triumph," pursued Mrs. Hartland, "when Marian wrote to inform them of Sidney's withdrawal, was undisguised and insulting; they had no sooner succeeded in persuading her to take up her residence once more with them, than they annoyed her with the pretensions of their vulgar son, whom she had always shunned and disliked, but whom they chose to assert had been encouraged by her, till discarded to make way for the accomplished fine gentleman, who, in his turn, had cast her off as an unsuitable partner for him. Marian wrote word to me of this persecution, and I earnestly entreated her either to return to Hartland Hall, or, at all events, to remove to the pleasant abode of a respectable widow lady of my acquaintance, whose moderate income would be benefited by such an inmate, and whose kind and motherly disposition would enable her to confer many benefits on the orphan girl in return; but Marian (never, you know, very strong-minded) was persuaded by Mrs. Dixon that the character of a young lady, deserted by her betrothed

and that it would be absolutely necessary to her respectability in society that she should live under the protection of her relations. Accordingly I gave up the point; perhaps too soon."

A great deal too soon in my opinion, my dear aunt," I replied; "but as lawyers are not in the habit of giving up a point very easily, I should be greatly obliged if you could contrive for me some excuse for calling on Miss Lovell." "I can readily give you that,' said Mrs. Hartland. "A poem that I have promised to lend her, has just been sent to me from the booksellers; but some of the Dixons are always in the room, to my great annoyance, when I visit Marian, and no hints can prevail upon them to leave us together. How shall you manage to see her alone?"

"Leave that to me," said I, taking the book from her hand; you have given me a plea for my visit, and doubt not that I shall be able to

turn it to account."

I entered the dull, smoky parlour of Mr. Dixon, ushered into it by a stunted-looking housemaid, whose dingy dress gave a very convincing testimony that the air of Cheapside did not resemble that which was eulogised by Dominie Sampson as being "favourable to wearing apparel." Marian was reclining on a faded yellow sofa, looking more pale, ill, and sorrowful than even my aunt's description had led me to anticipate; she was reading a favourite poem of Sidney's, the "Pleasures of Hope." Poor thing! the title seemed ill-suited to her; Hope had nothing to offer that could soothe or lighten the mortifications and discomforts of her present situation. Opposite to her was seated a coarse, over-dressed woman, whom she introduced to me as Mrs. Dixon; this lady was industriously employed in the formation of a dahlia-screen; a weak-eyed poodle occupied the rug, and a number of cheap, glaring paintings in heavy clumsy frames adorned the walls. Having previously settled my plan of action, I accosted Marian with cheerful carelessness, scrupulously avoiding any look or expression of sympathy. I laid down the book before her, without any reference to Mr. or Mrs. Hartland, and then devoted all my attentions to the lady of the house; asked to be allowed to examine the dahlia screen on which she was engaged, lectured on dahlias in general, and discussed the annual dahlia show at Salthill, patted the head of the poodle, and remarked, in return for his prolonged snappish growl, that "he seemed uncommonly playful;" compared the paintings to those of every celebrated artist, ancient or modern, whose name first came into my thoughts, and finally declared my conviction that a portrait must be meant for the lady of the house which she informed me, with a complacent smile, was an excellent likeness of her youngest daughter. At length, having fully established myself in her favour, I said, abruptly, to her "My dear madam, I wish to have a little private conversation with Miss Lovell; I am too well assured of your good nature to doubt your par

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leave us alone." The lady looked half-simpering and half-sulky; but the compliment to her good nature determined her on proving herself worthy of it, and with an air of resolutely subdued shrewishness she left the room, closing the door after her, however, with no measured or modulated vibration. I determined that I would 'improve the privilege" given to me as speedily as possible, and drawing my chair close to Marian, said, in a low whisper (for I deemed my portly friend who had just quitted the room quite capable of being on intimate terms with the key-hole)" My dear Miss Lovell, from all I see, and from all Í have heard, I am convinced that your residence in this house must be very unpleasant to you. Mrs. Hartland has selected another abode, which I am sure you would find preferable. Only give it a fair trial; and if you disapprove of it, you will still be at liberty either to return here, or to seek another home."

"Mrs. Hartland is very kind to think so much of my comfort," replied Marian ; " so are you, Mr. Nugent; every body is kinder to me than I deserve."

I thought of Sidney, and actually felt a twinge of conscience from the mere circumstance of having once been his friend.

"The family here," pursued Marian, "have not much delicacy of feeling, but I believe them to be well meaning and well principled people; and I am at least respectably situated under their charge. In regard to health and comfort, these might be subjects of great interest to me, if I thought it was at all likely that my life would be prolonged; but I have feelings, known only to myself, which convince me that I shall not long be an inhabitant of this world. I am not formed, I know, either to ornament or benefit it, and can be well spared from among its numbers."

"Do not speak in this manner, dear Miss Lovell," I replied; "my friend, I regret to say, has acted an unworthy part towards you, but you must not judge of all mankind by him; your conduct has been exemplary, you have nothing in which you can reproach yourself."

"Much, much," interrupted Marian; "I knew, Mr. Nugent, as well as you with all your worldly experience could know, that I was quite unfitted to be the partner through life of Charles Sidney. I saw that Mr. and Mrs. Hartland, with warm though indiscreet kindness, were endeavouring to persuade him that he liked and admired me; and I felt convinced that if he really did distinguish me by his notice, he would either be softened by feelings of pity towards me, or overcome by the continual persuasions of my injudicious friends. I ought to have withdrawn myself immediately from his society. Vanity and selfishness induced me to stay; and ought not such feelings to meet with punishment? What could they in their most pernicious extent do more than prompt their votary to seek her own happiness at the expense of the misery of one whom she professed to love?

I have suffered severely for my fault, but my repentance has equalled my suffering." Marian ceased, evidently exhausted by the animation with which she had spoken.

I had been called hard-hearted and coldhearted by half the ladies of my acquaintance, because I had read through "Two Old Men's Tales," and sat out the representation of Milman's "Fazio," without shedding a tear; but there was something in the touching self-reprobation of this artless girl which caused me to pass my hand across my eyes; it seemed to me that she had improved both in sense and sensibility since I last saw her; and that, although like Wordsworth's "Lucy," she was

"A maid whom there were none to praise, And very few to love,"

she well deserved both to be praised and loved.

"One who can express herself not only so amiably, but so eloquently," said I, with energy, "cannot be unfit to be the wife of even Charles Sidney."

"Nay, do not deceive yourself," said Marian; warm feelings on a peculiar subject may give temporary eloquence, just as the excitement of fever gives temporary strength, but I could never have been a companion to Sidney; my simple conversation, my poor acquirements, would soon have wearied and displeased him, others would have engrossed his time and thoughts, and how far more bitter would desertion then have been, than it is under the present circumstances. I have not, I believe, a rival."

"None, none," I exclaimed eagerly.

"I ought to regret, however," she continued, with a faint smile, "that I still cling to the world and the world's things so fondly as to ask such a question; it will matter little to me in the heaven to which I trust I am hastening, whether or not Sidney finds in another that happiness which he failed to meet with in me."

"You forgive him, I am sure," said I, much touched.

"Forgive him!" she repeated, "I have nothing to forgive; all blame rests with myself. Tell him so, Mr. Nugent, should he ever seem inclined to lament his conduct. Tell him that Marian Lovell, with her last breath, exonerated him from every endeavour to gain her affections; pity alone occasioned his short-lived preference of me, and if he yielded to the temptation of breaking vows so lightly taken, ought I to resent his change of determination as warmly as if I had been the long-sought, voluntarily chosen one of his heart?"

Just then Mrs. Dixon opened the door, and with great apparent satisfaction informed Marian that Dr. Bromley wished to see her in the adjoining room, and that as the time of physicians was valuable, she must not keep him waiting. Mrs. Dixon then repossessed herself of her former seat, thus plainly showing that she considered my interview with Marian at an end; and during the short absence of that

young lady, she enlarged much on the comforts of her own house, the amiability of her own family, and the satisfaction it must be to me to think that my dear young friend was so ably nursed, consoled, and amused during her illness. She was just beginning to discuss the excellent principles and lover-like devotion of her son Jacob, when, finding my temper quite unequal to the continuance of the " Very true," and "Exactly so," which I had been periodically uttering during the intervals of her long speech, I rose and took my leave. Dr. Bromley was descending the stairs at the same time with me, and as I was well acquainted with him, I did not scruple to ask for a seat in his carriage, that I might have the opportunity of obtaining some private conversation with him. I told him the plain, unvarnished facts of Marian's disappointment, and asked his frank opinion of her state of health.

"Frankly, then," said he, "I will tell you that if she continues in her present situation, breathing confined air, wearied with society worse than none at all, and constantly dwelling on romantic recollections of flowery fields, waving trees, and an intellectual, accomplished lover, I think her complaint will speedily gain ground, and death will at no great distance of time ensue. If, on the contrary, she could immediately enjoy pure air, and kind and social intercourse, and could have her mind relieved from all painful ideas, I am of opinion that there is every probability she would gradually become restored to health. At the same time I cannot allow you to derive much encouragement from what I have said; for I do not consider that her mind could ever be lightened of its grief, excepting by the return of her faithless lover, and this, I suppose, is an event quite out of possibility?"

"I fear it is," I replied; "but the trial shall at least be made. 'I am near Sidney's residence; this is the first visit I have paid him since I left Hartland Hall; and if I do not succeed in my mission, it shall be the last I ever pay him at all."

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I found Sidney at home, and without any preface, gave him a minute account of my visit to my uncle and aunt in Welbeck-street, of that paid by me to Marian in the city, and of my subsequent conversation with Dr. Bromley. Now, Sidney," said I, "do not fear that I am going to subject you to a lecture, an oration, or what cold, selfish people call a scene!' I have told you a simple narrative; I know how you ought to act, and so do you too, for you have an excellent understanding, and a feeling heart. The point, however, is not how you ought to act, but whether you have resolution and self-denial to act as you ought. I will not take advantage of a sudden appeal to your feelings by accepting your decision now; let me know it early tomorrow, and promise me that you will not 'consult Aveling.""

"I will not," said Sidney warmly, pressing my hand: "I will only consult God and my own conscience."

I was sitting at breakfast the next morning,