was no little struck by her appearance, and for the first time noted her beauty. "I thought I should like to shake hands with you before we go," he said, advancing with an impertinent freedom of manner, which irritated Ethel the more, and roused her proud spirit to resentment. "I cannot see what right you have to expect me to receive you with feelings of kindness, Mr. Thornhill, when I consider how you have been the means of taking my sister from her home, and drawing her into a marriage which, we have reason to believe, would not meet with my father's sanction. You have taken the advantage which a man of honour would not have done. I cannot justify such a course, which compels me to say, I do not meet you with the feelings of respect and kindness I should wish to feel for my sister's husband!" Ethel spoke with a calm dignity, and her brilliant eyes rested steadily on Thornhill's face. He was quite astonished by her manner. Hitherto he had regarded her as a quiet, inoffensive sort of girl, whose wishes were always in subservience to others, as he supposed, and as Laura had represented, from weakness of mind, which prevented her asserting her independence. Little did he dream of the secret spell which had quelled her proud spirit, and made her so unselfish and gentle. He had not sufficient discrimination to discern between weakness of mind and self-governance; and now that he saw her standing before him in an attitude of almost stern dignity, he felt though her words made him angry—a sort of respect for her character he had never done before. ner. "You have no right to speak to me in this manI have loved your sister long, and of course bound to watch my time for winning her affection when I could! If your father chooses to destroy her happiness, he can have no right to assert any authority, or expect her compliance with his wishes. I had hoped we should have met and parted as friends that seems impossible now. I can only say, I wish you joy of your step-mother, and congratulate myself that dear Laura is out of her power." "We need not discuss my father's marriage, Mr. Thornhill. Mrs. Woodville is his wife; as such, I do not wish to hear her spoken of slightingly. Let us not part unkindly. I only think it my duty to represent your conduct in its proper light, and show you that you have justly incurred my father's displeasure. Nevertheless, I shall use every means to reconcile him to your marriage, for Laura's sake. And I most sincerely hope you and my sister may secure the happiness of which you dream," replied Ethel, with a softened manner. "You can hardly speak of kindly feelings after the expressions you have used. Perhaps you will now retract your words ?" "No, neither one nor the other. I have spoken the truth." Laura just then returned to the room. "What! not friends yet?" she exclaimed, flippantly. "No, nor likely to be. Come, Laura, your sister will be glad to get us away," Thornhill said, angrily. "Mr. Thornhill," said Ethel, with quiet firmness, "this is not the conduct of a gentleman. You know I have said nothing but what was the truth; and because it comes home to you, you choose to consider yourself the aggrieved party. I do not wish to cherish one unkind feeling towards you, and I should not like us to part otherwise than friends." Ethel held her hand to him as she spoke. "Come, George, don't be sulky!" said Laura, laughing. He took Ethel's hand instantly. "Now we must go, dearest. The train won't wait." Ethel put her arms round Laura's neck. "Goodby, Laura! And every happiness and blessing be yours. And if at any time I can be of service to you, I shall be only too glad. And oh! dearest, remember, it is not the world that can give happiness: you must 'look higher!' I shall try to reconcile papa to this if I can." Laura seemed for once touched by genuine feeling, and burst into tears. She clung round Ethel's neck until Thornhill gently drew her away, and then once more Ethel stood alone. CHAPTER XXI. "Will He not pity? He whose searching eye Oh! pray to be forgiven Thy fond idolatry, thy blind excess, And seek with Him that power of blessedness. "I seem like one who treads alone Some banquet-hall deserted, Whose lights are fled, whose garlands' dead, And all but he departed."-MOORE. ONE trial after another, but the last was more than she could bear-Ethel felt her head whirl in confusion. She neither knew where she was nor what she was doing, Laura's sudden marriage had so completely bewildered her. Sally entered the room a few minutes after, on purpose as she said to tell her mind about Miss Laura's wedding; but she found Ethel incapable of attending to, or even understanding anything. She really was seriously ill. The excitement and fatigue she had undergone for the last few days had been too much for her already weakened frame. Sally was alarmed, and had her carried to bed, and the surgeon sent for without delay. He considered her seriously ill, and much dreaded a brain fever would be the result; ordered perfect quiet, and the most vigilant watching. All night the faithful Sally remained by her bed-side, and listened to the wanderings of her unhappy young mistress, who raved incessantly, utterly unconscious of what she said. At one time calling for Herbert Raymond, and imploring he would not leave her; at another imagining Laura had married Raymond, and Thornhill was upbraiding him for stealing his bride. At another, Mrs. Woodville had turned Minnie and herself from the house, and they were wandering about, homeless and penniless, in the wide world. Poor Sally hardly knew what to make of this strange confusion of events, possible and impossible; but she did suspect some part of the truth. That her young mistress had somehow rejected Mr. Raymond seemed clear, though why Sally could not determine. But Sally kept all her conjectures to herself, and allowed no one to enter the room, lest they should hear anything which Miss Woodville would not like known. Ethel's continued wanderings convinced Sally that it preyed much upon her spirits lest anything should be discovered. She would start wildly sometimes, and implore they would not tell her father, for he would never forgive her for refusing Raymond. "He knew I loved him, though I must give him up. It was right I should do so; I ought to have remembered he was an unbeliever! But oh! this is hard!" she would exclaim, wringing her hands in 66 agony. "All seems dark now. My head whirls He has left me round. I am alone, quite alone! left me-believing I did not love him! Oh, Herbert! you little know all I have felt for you. The world has grown miserable to me. Every one looks on me coldly; all is dark and dreary, and there is no rest! The light of heaven seems withdrawn, because |