grew frightened. "What is it, dearest?" she asked. "Ah! now thanks for that lovely blush, it has removed all my fears. I am charmed to see you can blush, Edina; it is quite a new feature in your character. But lo!" exclaimed the lively girl, springing from her music-stool, "I see the knight advancing like a chevalier of old, appropriately mounted on a milk-white steed; but, alas for the bathos, behind him runs little Hobnail Hoskins, with a portmanteau in his dirty hands, and a grin upon his dirty face!" coming to this house on purpose that he should, and her cheek was so deadly pale that Mary fall in love with my Mary! There, lie down in your drawer, you dear old picture, and don't make a fool of me any more. Why, dear, dear! I've forgotten all about the particular old port, and that famous chateau margot! This comes of being sentimental at sixty-nine." And, laughing at herself, the merry old lady bustied down stairs to issue her orders. As she passed her drawing-room she called out, "Are you all ready, girls? I hope you have finished your letters home; for, remember, I trust to you to do the honours!" Then on she waddled to the housekeeper and the butler: "Be very particular, Watkins, that the bread is light for breakfast; the young gentleman is an invalid; and if you could coax some nice new-laid eggs out of Mrs. Benson, they would be so strengthening for the dear young gentleman; and I do not see why Mrs. Benson should always be telling me the hens won't lay in autumn, or during the frost. Miss Bremer says they ought to get chalk to eat." Watkins tossed her head at the idea of "that travelled Miss, understanding everything in her own opinion;" but as she wisely muttered it internally, the old lady bustled away with her injunctions to the butler. By this time the gentleman had reached the porch and dismounted, and in a few minutes Miss Merton's cheerful voice was heard in welcome tones, and she ushered him herself into the presence of our fair expectants. Cholmondely bowed politely to both, but his eye rested most admiringly on the sweet face and somewhat heightened bloom of Mary Melville, who, naturally shy, had shrunk back into herself at the sight of the stranger. Edina perceived his glance, and also that it distressed the sensitive girl; and knowing that Mary would require some hours to re-assume her usual abandon of spirits, she judiciously came to the rescue. Her conversation, full of thought, sense, In the mean time Edina sat drawing at a small and wit, made the stranger feel the time very table in the library's recessed window; her seat rapid in its course, and although he did not recommanded a view of the approach, and she member even her name, the coruscations of could not restrain an impatient yet shrinking smiles which her genius sometimes flashed over glance adown the long line of elms, as her ear, her face, reminded him of one he had known of which, in spite of her endeavours, was on the old, though he could not recollect either place watch, startled her heart into sudden beats at or circumstances. After luncheon, the good the sound of the slightest leaf rustle. Mary was hostess despatched the three young people on a in such gay spirits she could not attend to any-walk to a picturesque ravine, which though less thing; she had begun her work in vain, the green and crimson dazzled her eyes, and she threw aside the gaudy flowers with half their leaves unfinished; she then opened the piano, sang part of an old ballad, and left off abruptly at the verse which described the knight as he "Rode merrily on at the head of his men, And mock'd at the Highland kerne, And we'll rear a loch of your Saxon child, bold and rugged than a similar land formation would have been in Scotland, still possessed charms peculiarly its own, in the merry brook, the willow trees drooping into the water, the green banks sloping upwards to breezy downs, and the quiet, peaceful air of the secluded spot. The air was crisp and bracing; the fallen leaves made a pleasant carpet; the young man was willing to be interested; and the young ladies were decidedly interesting in their different lines. Mary, whose shyness had not yet evaporated, spoke little, but her kindling colour showed sympathy in the conversation, and her lively eyes, now glancing eagerly into her companion's face, now dropping hastily with a bashful suddenness, when they encountered his smile, were perhaps more eloquent than common-place words. Edina, who perceived she was not recognized, kept a strong rein over herself; and though old memories and long-expired hopes would rise, and sicken her inner heart, even while she conversed so calmly, you saw no trace of agitation in her demeanour. In the evening, after Cholmondely had dis cussed and praised, as was befitting, some of the famous chateau margot, he repaired to the drawing-room, where he found the three ladies sitting in the dreamy flickering light of a large But Edina heard her not; her eyes were fixed fire; they were sedate, and even sad, when he on her drawing, though she trembled so visibly entered, for Miss Merton had been relating that the pencil jagged helplessly over the paper," auld warld stories" of his gallant father's youth, and her auditors had listened with even | conquer, but her manner had a sweet calmmelancholy interest. There is something peculiarly solemn and spiritual to me in fire-light. The faces now dark, now suddenly illuminated, looming large one instant through the shadowy gloom, now bursting into lurid splendour. At the bursting forth of some large red flame, even the voices sound deeper, and as if more blent with earnest meaning, than they do in the cold daylight or the artificial blaze of lamps. Miss Merton, who was, I have said, still leavened with the poetry of her youth, was very partial to this uncertain light, and in it the girls loved to gather round her chair, and draw from her tales of the life which her keen observance and benevolent heart made, in the recounting, like a beauteous fairy tale. To-night, however, she wished to amuse her guest, and therefore proposed candles; but Cholmondely earnestly negatived this, and begged for a ghost story with all the naive importunity of childhood. 66 Nay," said the old lady, "I must not frighten you out of my house ere you are sufficiently at home among its dark nooks and corners. You must learn the locale before you can be properly impressed with the legends; for I promise you the Meadow Land hath its own associations of murder, love, and suicide." The last word she repented as soon as it was carelessly uttered; but the flames had sunk, and she did not see how poor Edina started and grew redder than the fire round which they sate. To release herself, Miss Merton called on Mary for a song without music. The gentle girl obeyed timidly, and began in a voice of the most touching sweetness the following little Scottish song. The tones were so thrillingly clear that Cholmondely, leaning back in the darkness, could hardly imagine he was not transported into some land of spirits, instead of cosily reclining in a stuffed arm-chair, a drawingroom carpeted, cushioned, and curtained into the most luxurious and unromantic ease. "O weel I hent it was my love, Though he and I were parted lang, O weel I kent the siller tones That woo'd me first in tunefu' sang. "His brow was seamed wi' mony scaurs, His curling locks were thin and grey, His voice alone it was the same, The lo'ing voice o' happier day. "Ye are the lassie that I lo'ed,' He said wi' a' the fire o' youth-" But all at once Mary broke off, exclaiming in tones of anguish, “Edina, dear Edina, I forgot -oh, how unkind you must think me!" With all the impetuosity of her feelings, forgetful of the stranger, forgetful of her shyness, she sprang to the side of her friend, and laying her head upon her knees burst into a flood of tears and sobs. Edina's lip quivered, and her frame shook with the violence of the agitation she strove to ness as she said, soothing Mary with a caressing hand, "Dear Mary, do not distress yourself; I cannot expect the past events of my unhappy life to be always present to your mind, as they are to mine."” Mary's tears grew quieter; she rose up and kissed her cousin, and then suddenly seeing Cholmondely, and his gaze of wonder and interest, she stood irresolute and blushing, a beautiful image of modesty. Miss Merton now came to the rescue. "Let us have candles," she said; " and if you, dear Edina, will kindly fetch those portfolios of prints from the library, perhaps we may find something to amuse and interest our guest." Edina readily complied, glad of an excuse for leaving the room, and Mary hastily followed her with an offer to assist in carrying the prints. "Now that simple child won't overcome her distress at that unlucky blunder all night," said the aunt, addressing herself in a vexed tone to Cholmondely. "She is always afraid of hurting Edina's feelings." "But really, unless Miss Bremer has been disappointed in love, I do not see why that little song should affect her," remarked Cholmondely, with a rather inquisitive emphasis on the supposition which he hazarded. "Oh dear me, Edina never was in love; she is the last person I should suspect of such an amiable weakness; she is too sensible, too selfpossessed. But that song was one which her mother used to sing in her madness; indeed I believe it was the last she ever sang before she drowned herself; and it seems to recall all the horrors of the scene to poor Edina's mind." -- "Madness! drowned herself!" repeated Cholmondely in a tone of deep feeling. Poor, poor girl, what terrible trials for so young a creature." "Mary can tell you the whole story. Edina is not a girl who converses about herself, and I believe Mary is the only one who ever drew forth any confidence whatsoever from her. But hush, here they are." The next day Cholmondely found ample leisure to hear the whole of Edina's misfortunes from Mary; for the orphan was busied in a little village school, of which Miss Merton had constituted her superintendent. The tale lost nothing in interest from Mary's simple words and artless expressions of sympathy; her soft eyes filled with tears as she related the melancholy catastrophe of poor Mrs. Bremer's fate, and cost our young officer his already sliding heart, which now fell at once to the bottom of love's ravine. Cholmondely had, I said, been disappointed in his boyish courtship; he was then an ardent ensign in the road-surveying, bridge-building labours of a subaltern engineer; but the young lady, having two or three eligibles in her train, was easily convinced by her parents of the arrant folly of scouring India. She accepted a civilian with a high salary, bowed off the rest of her suite, and the enthusiastic subaltern was left to misanthropy and cheroots. By the by, I believe | slight colour on her cheek, became her admira I should have used the antiquary's technical term, "misogyny," but, thanks to female flatteries, this dislike to their sex is of so rare occurrence, or of so short duration, that no wonder its precise nomenclature is often forgotten. Men, who have once found women artful and mercenary, conclude that the first year's knowledge of the world is sufficient to make all girls the same in plots and projects. We may infer that this suspicion is what induces so many elderly men, experienced in life, to attach themselves to raw school-girls who have not yet lost the bread-and-butter follies of giggling and blushing whenever seized by the inclination so to do, who are half shy, and half pert; and who have not overcome the child-like propensity to express all their opinions, whether wise or silly, and all their feelings, generous or selfish. bly. Edina, accustomed to watch narrowly the faces of those among whom her changeful fate had cast her, discerned at a glance the rising admiration Cholmondely's fine dark eyes betrayed for his sweet partner, and the knowledge struck her with a deadly chill. All the lights and faces danced giddily around her, the buzz of voices in her ears seemed like shouts and scoffs at her weakness; but the pang passed, leaving her indeed paler and more haggard than even her wont, but no one was interested to remark her looks; and, with a brave struggle, the unconscious heroine overcame her emotion. On one side of her sat Chiffney Brambleberry, Esq., son and heir of Sir Edgar Brambleberry, of Brambleberry Manor. This gentleman was a noted hunter, and an equally noted fool; but the florid pug-nosed little maiden, who listened with wide eyes to his animated narration of a famous race," had been carefully nurtured to the calculation of chances, and was now in the exciting pursuit of his heirship, trusting to the chances of hunting that a five-barred gate might some day leave her a bewitching and welljointured widow. On this principle, therefore, Cholmondely felt less distrust of Mary than he was accustomed to feel towards young ladies. He saw she was perfectly unsophisticated, perfectly unused to a world he had long learned to hate and despise; and he hoped, by winning her girlish heart, to make himself sure at last of a true and artless woman. The story of Edina interested him, On Edina's other side a red-faced, elderly but though he reproached himself for having gentleman, stout of form and short of breath, taken a prejudice against her, he still imagined was expatiating in a low prosy tone, on the that such heavy misfortunes had rendered her improvements he had been making at Alderney callous to common feelings, and that she had Park; while the tall, pompous lady, who bent worn out all the sensibility of her nature. Mary's her diamond-bound head in timely assent to his narration did indeed recall to his memory the self-congratulations, or solemn remarks, "but pretty playful girl, whose wit and liveliness had with your taste, Sir John," or "such advantages been the delight of the society at Cape Town; as you have in the natural beauty of Alderney but he excused himself from renewing his atten- Park," was secretly cogitating how she should tions by reflecting that trouble had so changed flatter the complacent Baronet into exerting his both her looks and her manners that it was im-interest with his cousin, the First Lord of the possible the same man could admire her former and her present self alike. When Edina arrived from her day's laudable tasks, she formed preparations for a grand dinner and dance in honour of Miss Merton's guests. All the owners of the neighbouring seats had been invited with their families, and the long suite of drawing-room, billiard-room, and library were brilliantly lighted and adorned with flowers, while at the extreme end of the sitting-room the open door of the conservatory threw out its fragrant invitations to any young couple desirous of a more secluded tête-a-tête. Edina, who came home very late, had barely time to dress herself in a simple white muslin, with a sprig of jessamine in her hair, when the gong sounded for dinner, and she hastened down and slipped in unseen among the gailyattired visitors. She found herself after the confusion of arranging seats, exactly opposite Cholmondely, who had preceded Mary from the drawing-room. She herself was hidden by a large epergne, but through the flowers which overhung the silver sides she could see the expression and gestures of them. Mary looked very happy and very lovely; her rich robe of white satin suited her delicatelyformed shape and clear complexion, and the wreath of natural China rosebuds, matching the Treasury, in favour of her booby son, who fancied himself and was fancied by his mother to possess talents of a very high order for diplomacy. Among these uncongenial natures our Edina was not likely to be much regarded; and she was weary and sick of her own reflections, and not sorry when the signal was given for the ladies' retirement. "Well, Mary," she said, as the blushing, bright-eyed lassie danced to her side ascending the stairs; "have you enjoyed your evening as far as it has gone?" 66 Mary answered, with a smile and a sigh, 'Oh, yes! he is quite as agreeable as Frank told me he was; but, oh dear, how I wish poor Frank were here himself. I cannot fancy a proper ball without him-I miss him exceedingly." Edina scanned her with penetrating eyes. It had often occurred to her that there was more than cousinship between the young people-that Mary was exceedingly anxious to please the taste of Frank Manly in her dress, and that Frank in his turn wrote an immense number of confidential loving letters to his old playmate during his absence at Addiscombe. However, the attentions of a man like Cholmondely were very likely to drive away these unfledged fancies, and Edina therefore took little notice of Mary's aspirations towards the absent student. The dance commenced in due time, and Mary by acknowleged consent, was the beauty of the evening. Cholmondely hated dancing; he had been too long out of the gay world to relish its frivolities, and he was rather piqued that Mary entered so heartily into the spirit of the scene. He sighed as he watched her floating round in the waltz with the ass-headed heir of Brambleberry; he was growing jealous that any hand but his own should touch that slender form; and the customary familiarity of the dance made him very cross with both Mary and her partner. Therefore he sighed sullenly, and his sigh was echoed near him. He looked round and saw Edina Bremer, whom he had unconsciously approached offering his hand, with the gentle suavity which distinguished his manners, he said, "Miss Melville has made me conscious how neglectful I have been in not at first recognising an old friend in Miss Bremer." Edina, deeply touched and not a little surprised, bowed low to conceal her filling eyes: "I am well aware, Captain Cholmondely, that I am too much altered since those days for any friend to recognise me." 66 I Not altered I hope in friendly feelings? trust you will receive me as the same, though I showed such culpable forgetfulness. We must always be friends, Miss Bremer, and I trust not mere acquaintances." In his tone there was nothing lover-like, and there was so much fraternal kindness and interest, that Edina comprehended all his feelings; and, giving her hand as frankly as he had extended his, exerted all her self-command to speak to him with the ease and cordiality his sympathy merited. She succeeded; and from that moment she devoted every energy of her powerful mind to conquer her ill-fated attachment to aid him in his suit to Mary, and to further his happiness by every means that came within her power. No weak repinings, no enervating sorrows in secret; boldly she looked out upon her lot in life, and boldly she strove to do her duty and be content. We need not, I fancy, follow the progress of Cholmondely's courtship. He had every advantageous opportunity-approbation in Miss Merton-a generous ally in Edina-a weak, vacillating heart to besiege in Mary. Some days after the ball, one of Frank's long letters seemed to affect Mary in an uncommon degree. She came to luncheon with reddened lids, and answered with apparent abstraction the many inquiries after her health, showered on her by her lover and her aunt. Edina was silent, but she had a painful idea that all was not right with regard to poor Frank; however, matters progressed as might be expected till the week of Cholmondely's visit had been doubled, aye and trebled, and still he could not tear himself away. Christmas was approaching and Frank's vacation, and still Mary's blushes came and went, and Edina could not guess, with any satisfactory accuracy, the state of her heart. One morning after the arrival of the post, Cholmondely withdrew to answer a letter which required his presence in London; as he left the room he whispered to Mary to beg a few minutes interview in the conservatory before luncheon. Edina, who saw this action and guessed its import, felt, in spite of her endeavours, so painful a spasm at this consummation of Mary's influence, that she resolved to take a quick walk in the cold frosty air, to brace her nerves. She was passing the library window on her way forth, when she perceived Mary within, stooping over a letter and weeping passionately. Lifting her head she descried Edina's form retreating through the avenue. She called upon her, and her cousin quickly returned. "Dearest Edina," cried the weeping girl, "you who have so much strength of character-so much experience in life-help me, pray, in this terrible uncertainty. Did you hear Captain Cholmondely's request-can you guess what he means? Oh, Edina! my fears tell me too truly. What shall I do? I cannot-dare not-tell him that-that--poor Frank-” And again she burst into convulsive tears and sobs. "Do you love Frank, Mary?" cried Edina. "Love him? Oh! I do not know-I cannot understand my feelings; but I know--I am sure---he loves me. He would break his heart if I married Cholmondely. Read his letter: see how fondly-how cheerfully-he writes. I cannot make him miserable!" Her cousin took the letter, and read it carefully and silently. It was full of a high spirited lad's fervent aspirations after distinction and esteem. It said that the writer was cheered in his studies and hard work "by the approbation dear Mary would bestow on his exertions; that it was a comfort to reflect they were both so young that very few years would bring him back from the land of exile to his dear home and his kind aunt, whom he had loved as his mother [he did not say he loved Mary as his sister], and ended with telling her that he had drawn her likeness from memory, and what a happiness it would be--when far, far away-to look on the sweet face of his own Mary, and fancy he heard her voice," &c., &c. Edina laid down the paper with a deep sigh; sadly she mourned for the blight that must fall on the enthusiastic writer. She knew Mrs. Melville would never consent to an indefinite and indeed hopeless engagement. What prospect had poor Frank-a cadet, with an infantry appointment to Bengal-what prospect had he of supporting as a wife, in the station in which she had been brought up, the delicate and somewhat fragile Mary Melville? She could not undertake the toils, the dangers, the roughnesses of a soldier's life, in a strange land and an unhealthy climate. It was a wild dream on Frank's part, and Mary must not encourage it. She spoke very seriously: "My dear girl, this is not a matter in which you can give way to fancied sorrows. You seem to feel for Frank's disappointment now, but you little regard the darkness you would cast over his lot by indulging his chimerical hopes of marrying you." She then calmly, and in a few clear words, trembling with tears-her whole frame shaken; "How selfish I am to forget you have been out so long this bitter afternoon: no wonder your hand is icy cold-come into the hall, and while you warm yourself at the stove I will run and get some hot wine and water, or else you will infallibly catch cold." And off he went on his errand of friendship. She did not return till near dinner-time: reluctantly and slowly she returned. The evening's sadness, the chilly air, the wind sighing among the stripped boughs, all these encouraged her melancholy reflections. She had no one to love her-no one watching for her return. Mary, sisterly as she had been, was latterly more indifferent and pre-occupied. Why did she go back to hear the confirmation of her own fears? It was impossible Mary, if she gave Cholmondely the desired interview, could resist his tenderness. She was too sensitive-too easily swayed; and it is so difficult to give pain by our words where the sufferer is before us! If all men trusted to tongues instead of pens in their proposals, there would be fewer rejections, for it is easy to write a calm, gently-worded refusal; but when a woman is undecided, how trying for her to preserve equable firmness when the passionate words are pleaded in her ears! Edina judged correctly in this instance, for she had scarcely reached the porch when Cholmondely came up to her, and begged her congratulations. He looked so happy, so handsome, flushed with triumphant success-his eyes brilliant with love and joy, and his tone more than usually affectionate and fraternal to her. Ah! had he seen her heart then, how would he have withdrawn the brotherly desire of sympathy which seemed to mock her suffering breast! She could not answer him--all her self-possession failed her; she shuddered violently, an icy chill seized her heart, and with difficulty she supported herself against the column of the portico. Luckily the light of the lamp which fell on him was intercepted by the shadow of the pillar on whose side she leaned, and so Cholmondely did not see her pale face-her eyes Edina had thus time to reach the bright open stove and compose herself before her cup-bearer's return; and feeling nervous and shivery to a painful degree, and having taken no sustenance since the morning, she did not refuse the proffered draught. Revived by its invigorating warmth, she was able to extend her hand with her own generous smile, and to wish himwith an earnest cordiality that spoke from the heart-the happiness she prayed might bless him and his Mary. And Edina did pray for it: there was no hypocrisy in her. Loving him with woman's most unselfish love, she prayed truly that his choice might be blessed to him. Mary seemed very shy about the matter, for she did not come near Edina in her own room, and when the orphan entered the drawing-room the lovers were together, and all Edina could do was to press her cousin to her heart, and to murmur-in a voice choked by emotion-"God bless you in your love, dear, dear Mary!" And Mary's soft, pensive eyes filled with tears, and she returned the embrace without a word in reply. 'Miss Merton was beaming over with delight, and the only shadow to their enjoyment was the necessity of Cholmondely's departure for London next morning. "Why," exclaimed the good aunt, as she listened to his plans, "why should you young people be separated? I detest partings; and as your mother, Mary dear, will be delighted with to-day's performances, I think we can none of us do better than go up to London for a month's holiday." Cholmondely was enchanted; he wrung the kind old lady's hand till she screamed at the vehemence of his thanks. There was no dissentient voice, and the proposal was fully matured. Lodgings in George-street, Hanover-square, where Miss Merton had frequently lodged in her visits to the metropolis, were to be engaged from the Friday (this was Tuesday), and the party were to follow Cholmondely on that day. There was now plenty of lively chat and alluring projects, in which Edina-anxious to conquer her depression-joined with forced interest. The parting thus robbed of its bitterness passed off without a scene, which all men dislike; Mary's face, as her lover left the house, betokened more of timidity than regret. and The lodgings were vacant, the journey was easily accomplished, and the party found themselves on Friday evening comfortably settled in warm, well-furnished rooms. Their letters, which they had ordered to be addressed thither, |