more deeply, and as tenderly as everchanged.

in that one sentiment she was un

"And they all seemed to love him too," she exclaimed, in the solitude of her dreary chamber; "I thought it was real, and that they would have laid down life for Harry-yet but one remembers him besides myselfhis poor, poor dog!"

"Och, Mistress Grady! an' I'm heart glad to see ye," said Nelly Riley of Cloyne. "Sit down, Ma'am—and is it thrue that your Miss is to be married after all to that English barrow-knight, who's ould enough to be her father, and has nothin' in him but the spirit of a tame nigger? - he'd take a penny out of a blind man's hat."

"Indeed, then, Nelly Riley, I take it to be an ill patthern of your manners to say the likes o' that to one who's coming into our family, and has good blood in his veins; sure, then, ye little know what he'd do for the sake of the young Mistress."

"Maybe I do know, Mrs. Grady; don't I know how (God look down upon her!) she's been drooping all the winther; don't I know how the brain faver came upon her, a laughing girl, and left her a sober, heart-struck woman; do n't all the counthrey know how the poor Masther (more's the pity) has been distressed; do n't we know how the jaws of the law (bad luck to it!) has been stretched open for him! and do n't we see that he's stuffing his daughter betwixt to stop its mouth? Sure, every gaffer in his whole town land knows that Sir Charles wanted to buy the estate long ago, and has money enough in the Limerick bank, and the Waterford bank, and the big bank in Dublin, to say nothing of his outlandish banks, to buy fifty estates like it; but he wanted the lady too, for he could get nothing in England like her, the ould, dressed-up, buckram-stiffened, facepainted dandy. You need n't grizzle, like a pea on a griddle, Mrs. Grady, it's the truth I'm tellin', and I do n't care who hears it; but this I know, if the poor young gentleman had n't been killed, she'd ha' seen Castle Ray mond down the Shannon (and my blissing to her for that same) before she'd ha' sould herself to that English thingumby, what you call barrowknight."

"You're a blaspheming ould woman, to talk that way of Castle Raymond; and you're a poor desaved craythur, too, for I can tell ye that, though Sir Charles is an Englishman, (which counthrey, you'll agree, is preferable before the world, afther Ireland,) he has a generous spirit of his own, when there's occasion for it."

"I see how it is, nurse, and why yer two good-looking shoulders stick out so grand, under yer beautiful Injee shawl; but I'd scorn to be bribed, poor as I am; and, remimber I tell ye, that though grand she may be, rich she may be, yet ye'll niver see the smile on her lip so bright, or her steps so dancing, as when she went wandering, like a blessed bird, over these hills, with him whose grave was made without cross or prayer to mark it in the far counthrey."

"Nelly," replied Nurse Grady, "you 're not a larned woman, so I can't blame ye; but you may take the word of one who knows better than yourself what belongs to the quality, and she tells ye, that Miss Marian will be as happy as the day is long-and why not? Won't she ha' got a rich husband; won't she ha' saved Castle Raymond from being sould; and sure, you know that if iver that came to pass, it would be the ould gentleman's death; won't she

"Don't bother us, axing yer pardon, nurse; have n't I got the sight o' my eyes, and the feelings of my heart-and do n't I see how it is?"

Nelly Riley was right; the torch of Marian Raymond's heart was quenched. Sir Charles Barnett had been a leader of fashion, when fashion and vice were even more synonymous than in our own days. He had drank and gamed in royal company. He was still brilliant, and most elegant in his manners, but he was no longer supreme in matters of taste and ton; younger men were preferred by the new beauties, and Sir Charles sought retirement on his Irish estates, to recruit both health and purse. An old uncle died suddenly, and left him the reversion of immense wealth. He longed again to dazzle and to lead; but he felt and knew that, except as a dinner-giver, his reign was over:-a man may give dinners at any age; but it is not at any age that he can waltz, sing, and flirt with ladies who had succeeded their mammas in the empire of fashion. He had ever eschewed matrimony, for reasons which it is unnecessary to explain; but the radiant and dazzling beauty of Marian Raymond attracted his attention. He perceived, with the quickness of a man of the world, that she would immediately create a sensation; her naïveté, her wit, could have no rivals-her beauty few. When first he saw her, she had scarcely numbered fifteen summers, and then he introduced himself to Mr. Raymond by offering to purchase the castle and grounds. This was received as an insult by the proud, though needy proprietor, and it required all Sir Charles Barnett's tact to gain the good graces of the master of Raymond. He succeeded, as we have seen, effectually; for Mr. Raymond had only told his daughter the truth, when he affirmed, that her accepting Sir Charles's hand was the only way to save him from a jail. Poor girl! she saw that indeed- her father's hour was come, as well as her own, and she agreed, only stipulating that she was not to be called upon to fulfil her contract until the following summer. Sir Charles certainly acted with great liberality, paid off all encumbrances, and was recognised as the heir to Castle Raymond after the present possessor's death. A maddening fever was the result of this self-sacrifice, and Sir Charles might have repented, (for with her characteristic nobility of soul she told him all the truth,) had he not consoled himself with the idea, that as her lover was dead, it was of no consequence: every one, he believed, must have a first love before a second, and its memory would pass from her mind as clouds from the summer sky.

"I am come, father-Marian Raymond is come, to demand, for the last time, her father's blessing."

Her father was alone in his chamber, but a joyous bridal. party crowded the saloon.

"For the last time, my girl!-What do you mean?"

"After this morning there will be no Marian Raymond." "Ah! my dear, I wish you had been a boy

and yet I do not — but, though not Marian Raymond, you are my daughter still. Ah! well may he be proud of you

"I am dressed, you see, father, for the sacrifice." "Sacrifice, do you call it ?" he replied 66 say rather, for the festival." "Be it so, there is some country, I think though I cannot tell where, which he used to speak of, where they made the sacrifice a festival. But you will be happy, father you will enjoy, long, long enjoy.dear Castle Raymond."

"So I will that rascally wine-merchant, Marian, has been writing to me, to get back my custom; but not a drop of his claret shall ever enter my cellars no, no; when you come again, you will hardly know the old

place."

"Father, grant me one request - the fishing-tackle, and Harry's old

fowling-piece-he hung them on the walls himself, where they now are —— do not let them be removed."

Mr. Raymond pressed his daughter's hand in silence. "When I return here, father, I hope I shall find you happy:· do is for you only."

what I

Happy! how can I be otherwise, my Marian? I never felt better in my life never in better health or spirits."

He led her into the saloon; and soon after a gay cavalcade passed through the motley crowd to the village church they entered its ivy-garnished portal - the ceremony commenced-proceeded- concluded. It was observed afterwards by many, that when the clergyman demanded - "Who gives this woman to be the wife of this man?" Mr. Raymond's voice faltered, and his countenance, latterly much bloated, assumed a purple and inflamed appearance. When all was over, he moved as if to salute his daughter; but, instead of the warm kiss of parental affection on her cheek, she received the dying body of her father in her arms A strong apoplectic fit had rendered the master of Raymond a corpse within twenty minutes after he entered the church of Cloyne. How truly were the words of Scripture fulfilled! "In the midst of life we are in death."

And poor Marian-what would she not have given that the blow, if it was to be, had fallen a few minutes sooner. "Then, then, I might have been preserved from this hateful union what cared I for those estates I might have lived and toiled at liberty, not driven, alas, to live with hin whom I loathe!"

It is but justice to Sir Charles Barnett to confess, that, after this unfortunate occurrence, he did every thing he could to gratify the feelings of his bride. Though strongly disliking the Irish wakes and funerals, yet he permitted them to proceed according to ancient custom, and took the lead in the procession as chief mourner. His conduct, towards Marian, on this occasion, commanded her esteem, if not her love; and deeply grateful was she for it. Youth is apt to attribute all vices where it discovers one, and to believe that those they dislike must inherit all the faults and imperfections they can possibly imagine. So it was with Marian; yet she endeavoured, with a resolution, not one of her least TRIALS, to make herself believe she had done her husband injustice.

"I will now," she said, "labour to discharge my duty."

When all was over, and they prepared to leave the country for the London season, Lady Barnett, on descending one morning from her dressingroom, found Sir Charles occupied in giving directions to various workmen as to the necessary repairs of the castle during their absence- the old armour and fishing-tackle had been torn rudely from the walls, and lay in heaps upon the marble pavement.

"Let these rubbishing things be given away, and the pictures and statues I shall send from London occupy their places." One old gun, surmounted by a cap and fishing-rod, still remained untouched near the back entrance to the hall. "Shall I take these down too, your honour?" inquired one of the men.

" No, no," replied Marian, who was leaning against the oaken ballustrades of the staircase-"No, no, Sir Charles does not wish those removed."

"Not removed, my dear! you cannot, surely, mean these things to remain stuck over the door! they would destroy the harmony of my entire arrangement. The hall is really fine; those columns and carvings in admirable keeping; and, when my plans are completed, it will be as im

posing as anything in England-you are not serious, Marian? - Peters, Lady Barnett has changed her opinion remove those things."

At this instant the remembrance of her noble cousin, as he had placed his implements of sport in their rest, while she, with tearful eyes, stood at one side, and poor Busca, little dreaming that his dear master was about to depart, at the other, came full upon her — she could not bear them to be removed she could not support the idea of their being profaned by any touch; before Peters could execute his master's orders, she called-"Forbear!" in a tone, it might be of emotion, it might be of authority-it was, most likely, a mingling of both. "Sir Charles," she added, going into the breakfast-room, "Sir Charles, I would speak with you." He followed her into the apartment, and closed the door.

"It is a weakness, and one for which, perhaps, I should beg you to for. give me; but I have never, since the commencement of our acquaintance, used the slightest concealment towards you." Sir Charles bowed. "That cap, gun, and fishing-rod, were hung there by my cousin the night before he left us -- for ever; - will you oblige me by not having them removed?" There was a pause. How much of our destiny hangs upon a few words! Words - how brief, how mysterious, yet how powerful their influence! The instruments of our will, the directors of worlds, the arbiters of fate and its controllers! brief words! that stamp an impress on the memory which time cannot efface. Oh, if words were but more accurately weighed, how much misery might be spared, how much evil prevented!

Marian waited for his reply -on it depended more than the narrowminded baronet imagined- she waited long, so long, that it became necessary for one to speak.

"On the morning of my marriage, the last request I made my poor father was, that they should remain untouched."

"You must," replied Sir Charles, but too evidently mortified, "attach much value to the person who placed them there, to object so strongly to their removal."

"I did attach much value, and I regard his memory -- he was my

cousin."

Sir Charles forgot (what I have observed many very elegant public characters forget, at home) his good breeding; and, with a perfectly well-bred sneer, interrupted her at the word

cousin.

"You need not attempt to conceal the fact from me, Lady Barnett; he was more dear to you than any cousin."

"Sir Charles," she replied, "I never did, nor ever will, conceal anything from you. You are my husband; and, whether he deserves it or not, a husband has a right to his wife's unqualified confidence: concealment I believe to be the root of all domestic misery. What my sentiments towards Henry O'Donnell were, you have heard, and from me, before; you cannot entertain any unpleasant feeling towards the clay - the mouldering clayof my childhood's friend. I promised him that those implements of the chase should never be removed except by his own hand; do then, I entreat of you, let them remain as long as I live- they are in the shadow - do not, pray do not, remove them, for --"

"For my sake," she wished to have added, but she could not; she was unable to frame an appeal, bordering on affection, to one for whom she felt it not.

"I am very sorry, Marian," he replied coldly, "but I regret to say, that, trifling as it may seem, having given the order, I cannot see how I can retract; the things will be better out of sight. I had no idea that you entertained such a strong penchant for the gentleman; indeed, cherishing such a feeling, you ought to have paused before you honoured me with your

hand."

Marian's only reply was a bitter groan; and, without another word, she left the apartment, crossed the hall, and proceeded with unmingled bitterness of spirit to the dressing-room she had recently quitted. She threw herself on her knees, and, burying her face in her hands, gave way to a burst of regret, such as she seldom indulged in - for tears are an indulgence, and a blessed one, to the stricken at heart. Mingled with her tears were prayers-prayers to the Almighty, who is known to us in the hour of trouble, whether of mind or of body, as the One holy and true Spirit, who can either remove from us our afflictions, or teach us how to bear them as Christians only can.

Marian had known little, during her early years, of religion, except its name; but sorrow and solitude had taught her where she might find consolation; and enthusiasm, so strong a feature in her character, having latterly no worldly object to chain it to the earth, worked its way towards heaven.

"Teach me, O Lord!" she ejaculated, "to bear the reproach which I have in a measure merited; teach me to perform the hard and heavy duty of wife to him whom I love not, though thou knowest full well there is no other on earth whom I do love."

She was interrupted by a whining noise, which she well recognised - it was poor Busca! Her four-footed friend was readily admitted; and she pondered in her mind whether she ought to caress even his dog, when he whom at the altar she had engaged to love, honour, and obey, would, she doubted not, disapprove of her so doing. The poor animal stretched upon the rug as usual, and contented himself by elevating an ear occasionally, as his beautiful mistress paced up and down the chamber. It was evident that Sir Charles Barnett's mind, however dressed and fashioned by circumstances, was intrinsically poor and mean. Had he thought kindly, or even wisely, he would have seen at once, that though Marian was perhaps wrong, as a married woman, in cherishing the remembrance of one, all too dear in former times, yet the noble frankness she had shown, the freedom from all art upon the subject, the confidence she reposed in him so bravely, deserved a similar return; and had he been capable of valuing her as she merited, he would have been proud to preserve what she had frankly confessed she valued. Were even the wisdom of generosity sufficiently estimated, the world would go on in better tune: people, for the most part, endeavour to bring events within their own narrow conceptions, instead of striving to expand in proportion to the greatness of events.

"I ax yer pardon, Miss my Lady, I mane- dear, dear, it's so hard to turn one's tongue to a word one's not used to; but you have the heart's respect, any way," said the old gardener at Castle Raymond, the morning before Marian was to leave her childhood's home "and may I make bould to ax, if you intend taking Busca with you over seas?" Yes, Frank."

"Lave him with me, Miss, my Lady, and I'll take care of the baste; he has no taste for travelling now; and sure Nelly Riley's son, Bat, writes a fine hand, and I'll indite a letter with the priest, (no disrespect to his riverence ;) and, if you did n't think I'd be makin' too free, sure I'd direct a line to tell you how Busca was, and how the rosies got on, and all about the melon-bed, and the new graft on the apple-trees."

"I shall be happy to hear from you, thank you, Frank; but I cannot part with Busca, he was my father's favourite, and, in short, I must take Busca." "Busca," persisted the gardener, "is fond o' me, and he and the gray cat are the best friends in the world now; they lie together on my ould