that he hopes to make his acquaintance on his return to England. I am glad of this; we will ask him to stay with us in the country, and, bye and bye, he shall marry Margaret. How admirably will her exuberant spirits contrast with his quiet elegance! It will be like light and shadow in a fine picture.

The paper is here very much scorched, and there are several pages destroyed. I find a fragment as follows:

February 2nd. I have been remiss in keeping my journal. I cannot find out when last I wrote to Glenalbert, but he complains of my long silence. His sister, however, is better, and they contemplate returning; so I shall shortly be able to make my peace. I do not think I shall find him very implacable.

Again I find a fragment, but the date is burnt off:

Now know I what Milton means when he says, "Song charms the sense, but eloquence the soul." That burst of patriotic feeling was worthy of Burke in his palmy days.

*

Yes, there is a meeting of souls; there is something in being understood,-in finding a kindred

mind, an echo of one's being, thoughts, words.

Yes.

*

February 29th. Alas! I am not what I was. I dare not think. Solitude is irksome to me. I am not satisfied with myself. Dorothy, too, haunts me; she clings to me like my shadow. The "old man of the sea" was not more pertinaciously adhesive; and yet perhaps she is right. I will not pause to analyse my feelings; I will not write; I will not think.

March 1st. "In less than a week I shall be with you, dearest Viola."

The letter is yet

Why does

before me. I have not read further.... My dazzled sight refuses to aid me my heart beat thus? Why do a thousand pulses throb in agony? Why fill my eyes with tears? . . Is this joy? Is this the feeling with which I should greet him after so long an absence... him to whom, but a short time since, I plighted my faith?

Friend! lover! husband! Ah, that word! How shall I learn to veil each thought, to school each glance, to feign the love I cannot feel; and, whilst dry sorrow drinks my blood," must I plunge into the vortex of dissipation, be whirled along by the giddy throng, and baffle the "lidless dragon eyes

of keen suspicion, by the ready smile and heedless jest; or, worse, shall I live to dread that my sleeping thoughts should play the traitor to my waking dreams?.... O dread conjunction! indissoluble union, that shall endure for days, weeks, months, for life, for ever!

Day and night never, never separated! This is the tyrant's real device; the other was but an allegory, a fable; this is the pulseless, livid corpse, bound to the breathing, animated being.

Alas! how heavily will the coronet press on my aching brow!.... Where am I? What have I been saying?.... I will rouse myself. Worlds should not tempt me to pierce with sorrow that noble, confiding heart.... I will go forth, and greet him with the love he so well deserves. I will forget all that has passed since last we met... It was but a ghastly, hideous dream.

I am awake now.

*

March 3rd. Alas! alas! why is my harp unstrung? discord in every tone! A fitting emblem of my jarring soul, where once sweet harmony did reign. Why do these books, whose varied lays were wont to chase the hours away, beguile me now no more? and why, oh why, am I so changed, that duty stands, like a gaunt spectre, in my way, and with her monitory finger points to my onward

path, and still I heed her not? whilst, loud as the sound of booming waters, I hear her hoarse voice, far above the din of angry passions, waging strange conflict in my breast; and yet I madly close my eyes, my ears, and hug my fetters tighter to me.

O that I could shake off this deadly incubus, that weighs me to the ground-this leaden load, which checks my respiration!

Here the journal finishes; the remaining pages are wanting.

CHAPTER XI.

There was a laughing devil in his sneer,
That raised emotions both of rage and fear;
And where his frown of hatred darkly fell,

Hope withering fled, and mercy sighed farewell.

BYRON.

Had we never loved so kindly,

Had we never loved so blindly,

Never met, or never parted,

We had ne'er been broken-hearted.

BURNS.

MRS. Sidney wrote to us, urging our instant return; she wished Viola to be in London to greet the Countess and her family on their arrival. From the moment of receiving this letter, I never left Viola; I indeed clung to her like her shadow. I had not then seen her journal, yet was my anxiety intensely great; above all, I dreaded a parting scene. On Mr. Lyndham I placed not the smallest reliance; I saw that he was irretrievably in love with Viola: indeed, he scarcely now strove to con