trembled all over.

She would have moved

away, but she could not. A deep sigh,

that came from the inmost recess of the heart, fell upon her ear, and she knew that Herbert, as well as she, was thinking of the past. Her mother called her, and she turned to follow her down the rough path in the rocks. Herbert's eye was fixed upon her with a deep, sorrowful gaze. She met his glance, and a bright, sweet smile illuminated her face. His countenance cleared and he smiled too. A rush of old familiar recollections-of youthful pleasures -of maturer enjoyments, came upon him; and as he followed her down the path, he almost thought times gone by were come back again. Her agitation made her unmindful of where she was going, and her foot slipt. She did not quite fall, but his hand was extended in an instant to assist her, and before he resigned her hand, he had pressed it in his, until Gwenthlean's face once more told tales.

"Where can Lord Hastings and Clare be? asked Lady Llewellen.

"As far as you can see across the sands," replied the Colonel with a smile.

"They were tired of dawdling on with us."

Lady Llewellen looked across the expanse of sand, and in the extreme distance saw two figures, just large enough to mark the horizon, and to distinguish the illuminated heavens from their clear reflection in the damp sands. They were advancing towards them, and the considerate Colonel proposed turning, saying that the damp was beginning to fall, and that they should, most assuredly, catch cold. They turned accordingly, and reached the cottage long before the dilatory couple who were loitering behind them.

When they did arrive, however, they were greeted by a lecture from the Colonel, who immediately proposed hot wine and water, and spirits of nitre; but proposed it with a look at Lord Hastings, so full of

archness, that even Gwenthlean, who feared to annoy her sister, could not forbear a smile.

It was strange that Clare remained a long time in her room, whilst Lord Hastings was as absent as a man in love. It was stranger still, that he suddenly found out that he had received a business letter from Mr. Grant, requesting him, particularly, as a last act of friendship, to see to one or two things at his house, before he left England for the Continent.

These matters would detain Lord Hastings a few days longer at Craigy vellyn. He was very sorry, he said, to be thus unfortunately prevented from accompanying Colonel Llewellen and Herbert on a part of their journey; but as he hoped they should all soon meet again, it would not much matter.

Certainly not certainly not," said Colonel Llewellen. "I would advise you

to remain by all means. Besides, poor Mr.

Lloyd will be so lonely if we all leave him at once."

"To be sure I shall," said the unsuspicious old gentleman: "do, Lord Hastings, make the parsonage your abode for a little time longer, if you can put up with me and its fare."

Lord Hastings looked particularly happy, when he assured Mr. Lloyd that he had never in his life spent so pleasant a week as the one he had passed at Glanheathyn.

"Will you believe that, Miss Clare ?" said Colonel Llewellen to Clare, as she entered the room, with one very pretty, wild rose, that was known to grow on a tree near the miller's cottage, in her bosom.

"What?" she said, blushing deeply, as Lord Hastings looked at her.

"That the Earl never spent so happy a week in his life as this, or the last which was it, Lord Hastings? Or was it to-day that was so happy? My memory gets short."

"Not only to-day, but every day that I have had the pleasure of passing in the present society," said Lord Hastings, again looking at Clare.

The evening passed away merrily. Herbert stood by Gwenthlean's harp, and asked her for one old song after another, which she sang better than she had ever sung before. He watched her narrowly, as, with feeling and tenderness, she tried to make Margarita feel at home and happy, by every little attention it was in her power to offer; and when Margarita whispered to him, that Gwenthlean was all, more than all that he had painted her, he inwardly thought that she certainly was more lovely and more interesting than ever.

A lady's bed-room is a perfect confessional. There are more love affairs discussed, and more scandals brooded over, in this sanctum-sanctorum, than in all the tea-parties of all the single ladies at Bath. Mrs. Caudle's "Curtain Lectures," are nothing to the young lady-secrets poured out by