spoken,-able, bold, sanguine, and scornful as he was, his spirit quailed before that of Maltravers; he feared the lion of that nature when fairly aroused: his own character had in it something of a woman's—an unprincipled, gifted, aspiring, and subtle woman's, and in Maltravers—stern, simple, and masculine-he recognised the superior dignity of the "lords of the creation;" he was overawed by the anticipation of a wrath and revenge which he felt he merited, and which he feared might be deadly.

While gradually, however, his spirit recovered its usual elasticity, he came in the vicinity of Lord Saxingham's house, and suddenly, by a corner of the street, his arm was seized to his inexpressible astonishment he recognised, in the muffled figure that accosted him, the form of Florence Lascelles.

"Good heavens !" he cried, "is it possible?— You, alone in the streets, at this hour, in such a night too! How very wrong-how very imprudent!"

"Do not talk to me-I am almost mad as it is: I could not rest-I could not brave quiet, solitude,-still less, the face of my father-I could not!—but quick, what says he? -what excuse has he? Tell me everything—I will cling to a straw."

"And is this the proud Florence Lascelles ?"

“No,—it is the humbled Florence Lascelles. I have done with pride-speak to me !"

66

Ah, what a treasure is such a heart! How can he throw it away!"

"Does he deny ?"

"He denies nothing,-he expresses himself rejoiced to have escaped-such was his expression—a marriage in which his heart never was engaged. He is unworthy of you-forget him.”

Florence shivered, and as Ferrers drew her arm in his own, her ungloved hand touched his, and the touch was like that of ice.

"What will the servants think?-what excuse can we make?" said Ferrers, when they stood beneath the porch. Florence did not reply, but as the door opened, she said softly,

сс

"I am ill-ill,” and clung to Ferrers with that unnerved and heavy weight which betokens faintness.

The light glared on her-the faces of the lacqueys betokened their undisguised astonishment. With a violent effort Florence recovered herself, for she had not yet done with pride, swept through the hall with her usual stately step, slowly ascended the broad staircase, and gained the solitude of her own room, to fall senseless on the floor.

END OF BOOK VII.

BOOK IX.

'Axéρovтi vνudevσw.SOPH. Antig. 815.

I go, the bride of Acheron.

Μέλλοντα ταῦτα. Ib. 1333.

These things are in the Future.

BOOK IX.

excuse.

CHAPTER I.

"There the action lies

In its true nature

What then? What rests?

Try what repentance can !"--Hamlet.

"I doubt he will be dead or ere I come.”—King John.

Ir was a fine afternoon in December, when Lumley Ferrers turned from Lord Saxingham's door. The knockers were muffled-the windows on the third story were partially closed. There was sickness in that house. Lumley's face was unusually grave; it was even sad. "So young -so beautiful,” he muttered. "If ever I loved woman, I do believe I loved her :-that love must be my I repent me of what I have done-but I could not foresee that a mere lover's stratagem was to end in such effects-the metaphysician was very right when he said, 'We only sympathize with feelings we know ourselves.' A little disappointment in love could not have hurt me much-it is d-d odd it should hurt her so. I am altogether out of luck: old Templeton-I beg his pardon, Lord Vargrave-(by the bye he gets heartier every day-what a constitution he has!) seems cross with me. He did not like the idea that I should marry Lady Florence -and when I thought that vision might have been realized, hinted that I was disappointing some expectations he had formed; I can't make out what he means. Then, too, the government have offered that place to Maltravers instead of to me. In fact, my star is not in the ascendant. Poor Florence though,-I would really give a great deal to