letter I still held in my hand. "Why that is rather a temptation to a

young gentleman, I must own; cannot I read it for you, sir? I am as good a scholar as our clerk."

"I don't at all doubt your capabilities, Simpson. But you see, this is a thing I really can only do for myself. The young lady would not like her letter to be made public."

"Why, Lord, sir, you don't imagine that I would say a word about it. I have kept secrets before now; ay, and ladies' secrets too. I was the man who helped your father to carry off Miss Ellen. It was I held the horses at the corner of the lane, while he took her out of the chamber-window. I drove them to----church next morning, and waited at the doors till they were married; and your poor father gave me five golden guineas to drink the bride's health. Ah! she was a bride worth the winning. A prettier woman I never saw: she beat my young lady hollow, though some folks do think Miss Catherine a beauty."

"You did not witness the ceremony?"

"No, sir; but as I sat on the box of the carriage, I saw old Parson Roche go up to the aisle in his white gown, with a book in his hand, and if it were not to marry the young folks, what business had he there?"

"What, indeed!" thought I. "This man's evidence may be of great value to me."

I lay silent for some minutes thinking over these circumstances, and quite forgot my letter until reminded of it by Simpson.

"Well, sir, I'm thinking that I will allow you to read that letter; if you will just put on my spectacles to protect your eyes from the light."

"But I could not see with them, Simpson; spectacles, like wives, seldom suit anybody but the persons to whom they belong. Besides, you know, old eyes and young eyes never behold the same objects alike."

"Maybe," said the old man. "But do just wait patiently until I can prop you up in the bed, and put the lamp near enough for you to see that small writing. Tzet, tzet--what a pity it is that young ladies, now-a-days, are ashamed of writing a good, legible hand. You will require a double pair of specs to read yon."

The old man's curiosity was almost as great as his kindness; and I should have felt annoyed at his peeping and prying over my shoulder, had I not been certain that he could not decipher, without the aid of the said spectacles, a single word of the contents. I was getting tired of his loquacity, and was at last obliged to request him to go, which he did most reluctantly, begging me as he left the room to have mercy on my poor eyes.

There was some need of the caution; for the fever had left me so weak that it was with great difficulty I succeeded in reading Margaretta's letter.

"Dear Cousin Geoffrey,

"We parted with an assurance of mutual friendship. I shall not waste words in apologizing for writing to you. As a friend I may continue to love and value you, convinced that the heart in which I trust will never condemn me for the confidence I repose in it.

"I have suffered a severe affliction since you left us, in the death of poor Alice, which took place a fortnight ago. She died in a very unsatisfactory frame of mind, anxious to the last to behold her unprincipled husband or Dinah North. The latter, however, has disappeared, and no trace of her can be discovered.

"There was some secret, perhaps the same that you endeavoured so fruitlessly to wrest from her, which lay heavily upon the poor girl's conscience, and which she appeared eager to communicate after the power of utterance had fled. The repeated mention of her brother's name during the day which preceded her dissolution, led me to the conclusion that whatever she had to divulge was connected with him. But she is gone, and the secret has perished with her, a circumstance which we may all have cause to regret.

"And this is the first time, Geoffrey, that I have looked upon death--the death of one, whom from infancy I have loved as a sister. The sight has filled me with awe and terror; the more so, because I feel a strange presentiment that my own end is not far distant.

"This, my dear cousin, you will say is the natural result of watching the decay of one so young and beautiful as Alice Mornington--one, who, a few brief months ago, was full of life, and health, and hope; that her death has brought more forcibly before me the prospect of my own mortality. Perhaps it is so. I do not wish to die, Geoffrey; life, for me, has many charms. I love my dear father tenderly. To his fond eyes I am the light of life--the sole thing which remains to him of my mother. I would live for his sake to cherish and comfort him in his old age. I love the dear old homestead with all its domestic associations, and I could not bid adieu to you, my dear cousin, without keen regret.

"And then, the glorious face of nature--the fields, the flowers, the glad, bright sunbeams, the rejoicing song of birds, the voice of waters, the whispered melodies of wind-stirred leaves, the green solitudes of the dim mysterious forest, I love--oh, how I love them all!

"Yes, these are dear to my heart and memory; yet I wander discontentedly amid my favourite haunts. My eyes are ever turned to the earth. A spirit seems to whisper to me in low tones, 'Open thy arms, mother, to receive thy child.'

"I struggle with these waking phantasies; my eyes are full of tears. I feel the want of companionship. I long for some friendly bosom to share my grief and wipe away my tears. The sunshine of my heart has vanished. Ah, my dear friend, how earnestly I long for your return! Do write, and let us know how you have sped. My father came back to the Hall the day after the funeral of poor Alice. He marvels like me at your long silence. He has important news to communicate which I must not forestall.

"Write soon, and let us know that you are well and happy; a line from you will cheer my drooping heart.

"Yours, in the sincerity of love,

"Margaretta Moncton.

"Moncton Park, July 22, 18--."

I read this letter over several times, until the characters became misty, and I could no longer form them into words. A thousand times I pressed it to my lips, and vowed eternal fidelity to that dear writer. Yet what a mournful tale it told! The love but half-concealed, was apparent in every line. I felt bitterly, that I was the cause of her dejection; that hopeless affection for me was undermining her health.

I would write to her instantly--would tell her all. Alas! my hand, unnerved by long illness, could no longer guide the pen--and how could I employ the hand of another? I cursed my unlucky accident, and the unworthy cause of it: and in order to divert my thoughts from this melancholy subject, I eagerly tore open Sir Alexander's letter.

The paper fell from my grasp, I was not able to read.

Mrs. Hepburn appeared like a good angel, followed by honest Dan, bearing candles, and the most refreshing of all viands to an invalid--a delicious cup of fragrant tea, the very smell of which was reviving; and whilst deliberately sipping the contents of my second cup, I requested Mrs. Hepburn, as a great favour, to read to me Sir Alexander's letter.

"Perhaps it may contain family secrets?" said she, with an inquiring look, whilst her hand rested rather tenaciously upon the closely written sheets.

"After the confidence which we have mutually reposed in each other, my dear madam, I can have no secret to conceal. You are acquainted with my private history, and I flatter myself, that neither you, nor your amiable niece, are indifferent to my future welfare."

"You only do us justice, Geoffrey," said the kind woman, affectionately pressing my hand, after re-adjusting my pillows. "I love you for your mother's sake; I prize you for your own; and I hope you will allow me to consider you in the light of that son, of whom Heaven early deprived me."

"You make a rich man of me at once," I cried, respectfully kissing her hand. "How can I be poor--while I possess so many excellent friends? Robert Moncton, with all his wealth, is a beggar, when compared to the hitherto despised Geoffrey."

"Well, let us leave off complimenting each other," said Mrs. Hepburn, laughing; "and please to lie down like a good boy and compose yourself, and listen attentively to what your uncle has to say to you."

"My dear Geoff.

"What the deuce, man, has happened to you, that we have received no tidings from you? Have you and old Dinah eloped together on the back of a broomstick. The old hag's disappearance looks rather suspicious. Madge does little else than pine and fret for your return. I begin to feel quite jealous of you in that quarter.

"I have a long tale to tell you, and scarcely know where to begin. Next to taking doctor's stuff, I detest letter-writing; and were you not a great favourite, the pens, ink, and paper might go to the bottom of the river, before I would employ them to communicate a single thought.

"I had a very pleasant journey to London, which terminated in a very unpleasant visit to your _worthy_ uncle. It was not without great repugnance that I condescended to enter his house, particularly when I reflected on the errand which took me there. He received me with one of his blandest smiles, and inquired after my health with such affectionate interest, that it would have led a stranger to imagine he really wished me well, instead of occupying a snug corner in the family vault.

"How I abhor this man's hypocrisy! Bad as he is, that is the very worst feature in his character. I cut all his compliments short, however, by informing him that the object of my visit was one of a very unpleasant nature, which required his immediate attention.

"He looked very cold and spiteful. 'I anticipate your business,' said he; 'Geoffrey Moncton, I am informed, has found an asylum with you, and I suppose you are anxious to effect a reconciliation between us. If such be the purport of your visit, Sir Alexander, your journey must prove in vain. I never will forgive that ungrateful young man, nor admit him again into my presence.'

"'You have injured him too deeply, Robert,' said I, calmly (for you know, Geoff, that it is of little use flying into a passion with your cold-blooded uncle: he is not generous enough to get insulted and show fight like another man) 'Geoffrey does not wish it,' I replied, 'and I should scorn to ask it in his name.'

"The man of law looked incredulous, but did not choose to venture a reply.

"'It is not of Geoffrey Moncton, the independent warm-hearted orphan, I wished to speak, who, thank God! has pluck enough to take his own part, and speak for himself--it is of one, who is a disgrace to his name and family. I mean your son, Theophilus.'

"'Really, Sir Alexander, you take a great deal of trouble about matters which do not concern you,' (he said this with a sarcastic sneer) 'my son is greatly indebted to you for such disinterested kindness.'

"His cool impudence provoked me beyond endurance: I felt a wicked pleasure in retaliation, which God forgive me! was far from a Christian spirit. But I despised the rascal too much at that moment to pity him.

"'My interference in this matter concerns me more nearly than you imagine, Mr. Moncton,' said I. 'Your son's unfortunate wife attempted suicide, but was prevented in the act of drowning herself by the nephew you have traduced and treated so basely.'

"'Damn her! why did he not let her drown! thundered forth your uncle.'

"'Because his heart was not hardened in villainy like your own. Your daughter-in-law now lies dying at my house, and I wish to transfer the responsibility from my hands into your own.'

"'It was your fault that they ever met,' cried he: 'your love of low society which threw them together. Theophilus was not a man to make such a fool of himself--such an infernal fool!'

"And then the torrent burst. The man became transformed into the demon. He stamped and raved--and tore his hair, and cursed with the most horrid and blasphemous oaths, the son who had followed so closely in his own steps. Such a scene I never before witnessed--such a spectacle of human depravity may it never be my lot to behold again. In the midst of his incoherent ravings, he actually threatened, as the consummation of his indignation against his son, to make you his heir.

"Such is the contradiction inherent in our fallen nature, that he would exalt the man he hates, to revenge himself upon the son who has given the death-blow to the selfish pride which has marked his crooked path through life.

"I left him in deep disgust. It made me think very humbly of myself. Faith, Geoff, when I look back on my own early career, I begin to think that we are a bad set; and without you and Madge raise the moral tone of the family character there is small chance of any of the other members finding their way to heaven.

"I spent a couple of quiet days with my old friend Onslow, and then commenced my journey home. At a small village about thirty miles from London, I was overtaken by such a violent storm of thunder and rain, that I had to put up at the only inn in the place for the night.

"In the passage I was accosted by an old man of pleasing demeanour, and with somewhat of a foreign aspect, who inquired if he had the honour of speaking to Sir Alexander Moncton? I said yes, but that he had the advantage of me, as I believed him to be a perfect stranger.

"He appeared embarrassed, and said, that he did not wonder at my forgetting him, as it was only in a subordinate situation I had ever seen him, and that was many years ago.

"I now looked hard at the man, and a conviction of often having seen him before flashed into my mind. It was an image connected with bygone years--years of folly and dissipation.

"'Surely you are not William Walters, who for such a long time was the friend and confidant of Robert Moncton.'

"'The same, at your service.'

"'Mr. Walters,' said I, turning on my heel, 'I have no wish to resume the acquaintance.'

"'You are right,' replied he, and was silent for a minute or so, then resumed, in a grave and humble tone; 'Sir Alexander, I trust we are both better men, or the experience and sorrows of years have been given to us in vain. I can truly say, that I have deeply repented of my former sinful life, and I trust that my repentance has been accepted by that God before whom we must both soon appear. Still, I cannot blame you, for wishing to have no further intercourse with one whom you only knew as an unprincipled man. But for the sake of a young man, who, if living, is a near connection of yours, I beg you to listen patiently to what I have to say.'

"'If your communication has reference to Geoffrey, the son of Edward Moncton, and nephew to Robert, I am entirely at your service.'

"'He is the man! I have left a comfortable home in the United States, and returned to England with the sole object in view, of settling a moral debt which has lain a long time painfully on my conscience. I was just on my way to Moncton Park to speak to you on this important subject.'

"My dear Geoff, you may imagine the feelings with which I heard this announcement. Had I been alone I should have snapped my fingers, whistled, shouted for joy--anything that would have diminished with safety the suffocating feeling at my heart. I was so glad--I never knew how dear you were to me until then. So I invited the solemn, and rather puritanical-looking white-headed man to partake of my dinner, and spend the evening in my apartment, in order to get out of him all that I could concerning you. The result was most satisfactory. There was no need of bribes or nut-crackers; he was anxious to make a clean breast of it, for which I gave him ample absolution.

"Here is his confession, as well as I can remember it:--

"'My acquaintance with Robert Moncton commenced at school. I was the only son of a rich banker in the city of Norwich. My father was generous to a fault, and allowed me more pocket-money than my young companions could boast of receiving from their friends at home. My father had risen, by a train of fortunate circumstances, from a very humble station in life, and was ostentatiously proud of his wealth. He was particularly anxious for me to pass for the son of a very rich man at school, which he fancied would secure for me powerful friends, and their interest in my journey through life.

"'I was not at all averse to his plans, which I carried out to their fullest extent, and went by the name of _Ready-Money Jack_, among my school-mates, who I have no doubt whispered behind my back, that--fools and their money are soon parted; for you know, Sir Alexander, this is the way of the world. And there is no place in which the world and its selfish maxims are more fully exemplified than in a large boarding-school.

"'I had not been long at school when the two Monctons were admitted to the same class with myself. Edward was a dashing, eloquent, brave lad; more remarkable for a fine appearance and an admirable temper, than for any particular talent. He was a very popular boy, but somehow or other we did not take to each other.

"'The boyish vanity fostered by my father, made me wish to be considered the first lad in the school; a notion which Edward took good care to keep down; and fretted and galled by his assumption of superiority, I turned to Robert, who was everything but friendly to Edward, to support my cause and back me in my quarrels.

"'Robert was a handsome, gentlemanly-looking lad, but quite the reverse of Edward. He hated rough play, learned his lessons with indefatigable industry, and took good care to keep himself out of harm's way. He was the pattern boy of the school. The favourite of all the teachers. He possessed a grave, specious manner--a cold quiet reserve, which imposed upon the ignorant and unsuspecting; and his love of money was a passion which drew all the blood from his stern proud heart. He saw that I was frank and vain, and he determined to profit by my weakness. I did not want for natural capacity, but I was a sad idler.

"'Robert was shrewd and persevering, and I paid him handsomely for doing my sums and writing my Latin exercises. We became firm friends, and I loved him for years with more sincerity than he deserved.

"'As I advanced towards manhood, my poor father met with great losses; and on the failure of a large firm with which his own was principally connected, he became a bankrupt.

"'Solely dependent upon my rich father, without any fixed aim or object in life, I had just made a most imprudent marriage, when his death, which happened almost immediately upon his reverse of fortune, awoke me to the melancholy reality which stared me in the face.

"'In my distress I wrote to Robert Moncton, who had just commenced practice at his old office in Hatton Garden. He answered my appeal to his charity promptly, and gave me a seat in his office as engrossing clerk, with a very liberal salary which, I need not assure you, was most thankfully accepted by a person in my reduced circumstances. This place I filled entirely to his satisfaction for fifteen years, until I was the father of twelve children.

"'My salary was large, but, alas! it was the wages of sin. All Robert Moncton's dirty work was confided to my hands. I was his creature--the companion of his worst hours--and he paid me liberally for my devotion to his interests. But for all this, there were moments in my worthless life when better feelings prevailed; when I loathed the degrading trammels in which I was bound; and often, on the bosom of a dear and affectionate wife, I lamented bitterly my fallen state.

"'About this period Edward Moncton died, and Robert was appointed guardian to his orphan child. Property there was none--barely sufficient to pay the expenses of the funeral. Robert supplied from his own purse £50, towards the support of the young widow, until she could look about and obtain a situation as a day governess or a teacher in a school, for which she was eminently qualified.

"'I never shall forget the unnatural joy displayed by Robert on this melancholy occasion: "Thank God! William," said he, clapping me on the shoulder, after he had read the letter which poor Mrs. Moncton wrote to inform him of her sudden bereavement, 'Edward is dead. There is only one stumbling-block left in my path, and I will soon kick that out of the way.'

"'Three months had scarcely elapsed before I went to ---- with Robert Moncton, to attend the funeral of his sister-in-law. The sight of the fine boy who acted as chief mourner in that mournful ceremony cut me to the heart. I was a father myself--a fond father--and I longed to adopt the poor, friendless child. But what could a man do who has a dozen of his own?

"'As we were on our road to ----, Robert had confided to me his plans for setting aside his nephew's claims to the estates and title of Moncton, in case you should die without a male heir. The secluded life which Mrs. Moncton had led since her marriage; her want of relatives to interest themselves in her behalf, and the dissipated habits of her husband, who had lost all his fine property at the gaming-table, made the scheme not only feasible, but presented few obstacles to its accomplishment.

"'Shocked at this piece of daring villainy, I dissembled my indignation, and while I appeared to acquiesce in his views, I secretly determined to befriend, if possible, the innocent child.

"'The night prior to the funeral, he called me into his private office, and after chatting over a matter of little consequence, he said to me in a careless manner:

"'"By the by, Walters, Basset told me the other day, that you had taken a craze to go to America. This is your wife's doings, I suppose. I don't suffer Mrs. Moncton to settle such matters for me. But is it true?"

"'I said that it had been on my mind for a long time. The want of funds alone preventing me from emigrating with my family.'

"'"If that is all, the want of money need not hinder you. But mind, Walters, I am not generous, I expect something for my gold. You have been faithful to me, and I am anxious to show you that I am not insensible to your merit. We are old friends, Walter--we understand each other; we are not troubled with nice scruples, and dare to call things by their right names. But to the point.

"'"This boy of my brother's, as I was telling you, is a thorn in my side, which you can remove."

"'"In what way?" said I, in a tone of alarm.

"'"Don't look blue," he replied, and he laughed. "I kill with the tongue and the pen, and leave to fools the pistol and the knife. You must go to the parish of ---- among the Derby hills, where Edward was married, and where he resided, enacting love in a cottage with his pretty, penniless bride, until after this boy, Geoffrey, was born; and subtract, if possible, the leaves from the church-register that contain these important entries. Do this with your usual address, and I will meet all the expenses of your intended emigration.'

"'The offer was tempting to a poor man, but I still hesitated, conjuring up a thousand difficulties which either awoke his mirth or scorn.

"'"The only difficulty that I can find in the business," said he, "is your unwillingness to undertake it. The miserable old wretch employed as clerk in the church is quite superannuated. A small bribe will win him to your purpose, especially as Mr. Roche, the incumbent, is just now at the sea-side, whither he is gone in the delusive hope of curing old age. Possessed of these documents, I will defy the boy to substantiate his claims, provided that he lives to be a man; for I have carefully destroyed all the other documents which could lead to prove the legality of his title. The old gardener and his nurse must be persuaded to accompany you to America. Old Roche is on his last legs--from him I shall soon have nothing to fear. What do you say to my proposal--yes or no?"

"'"Yes," I stammered out, "I will undertake it, as it is to be the last affair of the kind in which I mean to engage."

"'"You will forget it," said he, "before you have half crossed the Atlantic, and can begin the world with a new character. I will give you five hundred pounds to commence with."

"'This iniquitous bargain concluded, I went down after the funeral to ----, on my mission. As my employer anticipated, a few shillings to the old clerk placed the church-register at my disposal, from which I carefully cut the leaves (which, in that quiet, out-of-the way hamlet, were not likely to be missed) which contained the entries. In a small hut among the hills I found the old gardener and his widowed daughter, who had been nurse to Geoffrey and his mother, whom I talked into a fever of enthusiasm about America, and the happy life which people led there, which ended in my engaging them, to accompany me. Good and valuable servants they both proved. They are since dead.'

"'And what became of the entries? Did you destroy them?'

"'I tried to do it, Sir Alexander, but it seemed as if an angel stayed my hand, and yielding to my impressions at the moment, I placed them carefully among my private papers. Here they are;' and taking from his breast-pocket an old-fashioned black leathern wallet, he placed them in my hand.

"'Here, too,' said he, 'is an affidavit, made by Michael Alzure on his dying bed, before competent witnesses, declaring that he was present with his daughter Mary, when the ceremony took place.'

"'This is enough,' said I, joyfully, shaking the old sinner heartily by the hand. 'The king shall have his own again. But how did you hoodwink that sagacious hawk, Robert Moncton?'

"'He was from home when I returned to London, attending the assizes at Bury. I found a letter from him containing a draft upon his banker for five hundred pounds, and requesting me to deposit the papers in the iron chest in the garret of which I had the key. I wrote in reply, that I had done so, and he was perfectly satisfied with my sincerity, which during fifteen years I had never given him the least cause to doubt.

"The next week, I sailed for the United States with my family, determined, from henceforth, to drop all connection with Robert Moncton, and to endeavour to obtain an honest living.

"'I am now a rich and prosperous man--my children are married and settled on good farms, in the same neighbourhood, and are in the enjoyment of the common comforts and many of the luxuries of life. Still, that little orphan boy haunted me: I could not be happy while I knew that I had been the means of doing him a foul injury, and I determined, as soon as I knew that the lad must be of age, to make a voyage to England, and place in your hands the proofs I held of his legitimacy.

"'Your powerful assistance, Sir Alexander, and these papers, will I trust restore to him his lawful place in society, and I am here to witness against Robert Moncton's villainy.'

"Well, Sir Geoffrey Moncton, that will be, what do you say to your old uncle's budget? Is not this news worth the postage? Worth throwing up one's cap and crying hurrah! and better still, dropping drown upon your knees in the solitude of your own chamber, and whispering in your clasped hands, 'Thank God! for all his mercies to me, a sinner?' If you omit the prayer, I have not omitted it for you; for most fervently I blessed the Almighty father for this signal instance of his love.

"I returned to the Park, so elated with the result of my journey, that I could scarcely sympathize in the grief of my poor girl, for the death of her foster-sister, which took place during my absence.

"Old Dinah is off. Perhaps gone somewhat before her time to her appointed place.

"It is useless for you to remain longer in Derbyshire, as we already possess all you want to know, and you must lose no time in commencing a suit against your uncle for conspiracy in order to defraud you out of your rights. Robert's character will never stand the test of this infamous exposure.

"My sweet Madge looks ill and delicate, and, like the old father, pines to see you again. You young scamp! you have taken a strange hold on the heart of your attached kinsman and faithful friend,

"Alexander Moncton."

I made my kind friend, Mrs. Hepburn, read over this important letter twice. It was the longest, I verily believe, that the worthy scribe ever penned in his life, and which nothing but his affection for me, could have induced him to write.

"God bless him!" I cried fervently, "how I long to see him again, and thank him from my very heart for all he has done for me!"

I was so elated, that I wanted to leave my bed instantly, and commence my journey to the Park. This was, however, but a momentary delusion: I was too weak, when I made the trial, to sit upright, or even to hold a pen, which was the most provoking of the two.

Mrs. Hepburn, at my earnest solicitation, wrote to Sir Alexander a long and circumstantial account of all that had befallen me since I left Moncton. That night was full of restless tossings to and fro. I sought rest, but found it not; nay, I could not even think with calmness, and the result was, as might have been expected, a great increase of fever, and for several days I was not only worse, but in considerable danger.

Nothing could be more tantalizing than this provoking relapse. A miserable presentiment of evil clouded my mind: my anxiety to write to Margaretta was painfully intense, and this was a species of communication which I could not very well convey through another.

To this unfortunate delay, I have attributed much of the sorrows of after years. Our will is free to plan. Our opportunities of action are in the hands of God. What I most ardently desired to do I was prevented from doing by physical weakness. How, then, can any man affirm that his destiny is in his own hands, when circumstances form a chain around him, as strong as fate, and the mind battles in vain against a host of trifles, despicable enough when viewed singly, but when taken in combination, possessing gigantic strength?

Another painful week wore slowly away, at the end of which I was able to sit up in a loose dressing-gown for several hours during the day.

I lost not a moment in writing to Margaretta directly I was able to hold a pen. I informed her of all that had passed between me and Catherine, and laid open my heart to her, without the least reserve. Deeming myself unworthy of her love, I left all to her generosity. I dispatched my letter with a thousand uncomfortable misgivings as to what effect it might produce upon the sensitive mind of my little cousin.

To write a long letter to George Harrison was the next duty I had to perform. But when I reflected on the delight which my communication could not fail to convey, this was not only an easy, but a delightful task. I had already arrived at the second closely written sheet, when a light tap at the door of the room announced the presence of Kate Lee.

"What, busy writing still, Geoffrey? What will honest Dan say to this rebellious conduct on the part of his patient? You must lay aside pens and paper for this day. Your face is flushed and feverish. Don't shake your head; my word is despotic in this house--I must be obeyed."

"Wait a few minutes, dear Miss Lee, and your will shall be absolute. It was because I am writing of you, that my letter has run to such an unconscionable length."

"Of me, Geoffrey?"

"Yes, of you, my charming friend."

"Nay, you are joking, Mr. Moncton. You would never distress me, by writing of me to strangers?"

"Strangers! oh no; but this is to one who is most dear to us both."

Catherine turned very pale.

"Geoffrey, I hope that you have not said anything that I could wish unsaid?"

"Do not look like a scared dove, sweet Kate. Have a little patience, and you shall read the letter."

"That is asking too much. I will trust to your honour--that innate sense of delicacy which I know you possess."

"You shall read the letter--I insist upon it. If you do not like it, I will write another. But you must sit down by me and listen to what I have to tell you, of my poor friend's history."

She turned her glistening eyes upon me, full of grateful thanks, and seated herself beside me on the couch. I then recounted to her the history which George had confided to me, though the narration was often interrupted by the sighs and tears of my attentive auditor.

After the melancholy tale was told, a long silence ensued. Poor Kate was too busy with her own thoughts to speak. I put the letter I had been writing into her hands, and retired to my own chamber, which opened into the one in which we were sitting, whilst she perused it. It was a simple statement of the facts related above. I had left him to draw from them what inference he pleased. When I returned an hour afterward to the sitting-room, which had been fitted up as such entirely for my accommodation, the windows opening into a balcony which ran along the whole front of the house, I found Kate leaning upon the railing, with the open letter still in her hand.

Her fine eyes were raised and full of tears, but she looked serene and happy, her beautiful face reminding me of an April sun just emerging from a soft fleecy cloud, which dimmed, only to increase by softening, the glory which it could not conceal.

"Well, dear Kate, may I finish my letter to George--for I must call him so still?"

"No."

"Why not," said I, surprised, and half angry.

"Because I mean to finish it myself. Will you give me permission?"

"By all means: it will make him so happy."

"And you are not jealous?" And as she said this, she bent upon me a curious and searching glance.

"Not now: a few weeks ago I should have been. To tell you the truth, dear Kate, I am too egotistical a fellow to love one who does not love me. I truly rejoice in the anticipated happiness of my friend."

Methought she looked a little disappointed, but recovering herself she added quickly--

"This is as it should be, yet I must own that my woman's vanity is a little hurt at the coolness of your philosophy. We all love power, Geoffrey, and do not like to lose it. Yet I am sincerely glad that you have conquered an attachment which would have rendered us both miserable. No fear of a broken heart in your case."

"Such things have been, and may be again, Kate, but I believe them to belong more to the poetry than the reality of life. Hearts are made of tough materials. They don't choose to break in the right place, and just when and where we want them."

She laughed, and asked when I thought I should be able to commence my journey to Moncton Park!

"In a few days I hope. I feel growing better every hour; my mind recovers elasticity with returning strength. But how I shall ever repay you, dear Miss Lee, and your excellent aunt, for your care and kindness puzzles me."

"Geoffrey, your accident has been productive of great good to us all; so say no more about it. I, for one, consider myself in your debt. You have made two friends, whom cruel destiny had separated, most happy."