jock, that sarves 'em for a mat; indeed, lady dear, I wish you would lave me Busca."

"I am grieved I cannot oblige you in this, Frank: is there any thing else I can do? can I send you any thing from England?"

"God bless you, my Lady, I should like a quarter of English tobaccy; I've a great curosity to see what sort o' stuff it really is; and I hear their kail, particularly their brocoli, bates Bannaher. But, Ma'am, my Lady darlint, for the love o' the poor ould masther, and for the love-no, not that, because, in coorse, it's past, but, for the regard of Masther Harry, lave Busca to me- see how the craythur rams his could nose into my hand, as if he said, I'll stay wid you."

"It's very strange you should have set your mind on this!"

May be so, my Lady, strange things happen every day. Sure, it's mighty strange what makes sich a beautiful, great, big sunflower, as that yon, come out of a little blay, humpy seed, not as big, no, nor half, nor quarter as big as a praytee's eye! Well, plaze yer Ladyship, all I can say is, that if you don't lave Busca behind, he'll never see the ould gray cat again, that's all?"

"Frank! I insist upon knowing what you mean.'

"Ah, Busca, a cushla!" continued the gardener, with true Irish tact"ah, thin, Busca, would yer misthress not let on, I'd incense her into it, you poor brute, how yer no favourite with Misther Bijaw, my Lord's vally de sham, and how he said to me-Ould Blossom,' says he, 'if my lady intends bringing that ould stinking baste (axing yer pardon, Busca; but 't was he said it, not me) with us, (by us, mancing Sir Charles and himself, the rude ill-raired pup,)-with us,' says he, 'we 'll give him a dose,' says he, 'crossing the channel,' says he, and then make our (the impudent blackguard!) our lady believe he died of the say sickness.' So with that, says I, what would his honour say to that? says I-'O, nothing at all,' says he, 'for Sir Charles hates the sight o' him, and wheniver my lady's back is turned gives him a poke or a puck with his foot-I have good raison to know that he'd never say a word, except "O be joyful," if he was fairly gone. So I says nothing; for the might's the right evermore with_thim English agin us. Now, Ma'am, my Lady, a' vourneen, you'll let Busca stay with his ould friend Frank."

Marian made no reply; her heart was too full to speak. She turned from the gardener to conceal her emotion, and at a break in the plantations encountered her husband.

"I have been giving some final directions as to the trees we wished put down this autumn," he observed, as they met - "Have you been directing your old gardener as to your flowers?-by the way, he gets old, that Master Frank I must send off some of my Scotch people from Barnett Park to get every thing in right order."

"Not to turn away Frank, Sir Charles ?"

"Certainly not, my dear, if you wish to the contrary-always most happy to meet your views, where they are consistent with propriety."

Poor Marian made no observation on this sarcastic reply, but fancied that Sir Charles cast an unkind look on the hound, who, certainly, often provoked the baronet; for, in former times Busca always received his advances with a certain exposure of the teeth and gums, not very flattering to one desirous of cultivating his acquaintance. Few words passed between them, until, on reaching the vestibule, Sir Charles closed the door, so as to prevent the hound from entering.

“In England, Marian, dogs are not advanced to the rank of companions, particularly when they grow offensive by age."

It was on Marian's lip to inquire if all things grew disagreeable as they

grew old; but she remembered that "grievous words stir up anger," and held her peace. Sir Charles continued,

"I do not think that Busca will ever bear a sea voyage

"I think not," was her forced reply to him, whom, under the influence of her strongly excited feelings, she regarded as little better than a premeditated murderer. That he should meditate the destruction of an animal he knew she so fondly loved, was cruel; but to take his valet, a low-bred, insulting foreigner into his confidence, and plan with him the death of that poor blind favourite, was mean, low, pitiful. How, in defiance of all her resolutions to the contrary, did she despise this man of worldly wealth and narrow sonl! With this feeling came another—he was her husband!

Despite all that has been said to the contrary, there is something singularly brilliant and invigorating in "The Season in London." The weather, from April to June, is, generally speaking, on its best behaviour; the animation spreading itself, either as a bane or a blessing, over all classes of society during the sitting of Parliament, is in full force: it gives gentlemen something to talk about in the park, in the streets, at the clubs; and excites (if anything can excite an Englishman) something bordering on interesting conversation, during the ten or twenty minutes' pause before dinner, at which time the said gentlemen "bunch" together in whatever portion of the room fronts the largest looking-glass, or lounge on the softest sofas, to the exclusion of the ladies, and are thus enabled to criticise, quite at their ease, the merits of the last new speaker. - Despite, then, the mauvais ton of almost every man of "ton" you meet, still there is much to charm and bewilder the senses in the London SEASON. The parks teem with beauty and elegance. The opera, the finest and most glorious of sensual enjoyments, is in full force. The exhibitions, such as they are, are open, and there is always more than two or three subjects at each to repay you for the loss of time consequent on looking at all. There is bustle in the streets, not the ill-bred city bustle that forces you off the pavement, and covers you with mud! but the bustle consequent on the crowding of the better classes of society in search of amusement. The most noble horses parade the squares; carriages, unrivalled in beauty of design and execution, meet each other at every corner. There is a rich and gorgeous blaze of all that is bright and curious in the magazines and shops; the best books are reserved by the wary publishers for "the season;" the most exquisite exotics flourish in the conservatories of the great and gay; and the air of the favoured "West End" is redolent of the purest perfumes. Any foreigner, passing casually through London during "the season," would pronounce us the wealthiest and happiest of nations, and imagine that distress had never set its seal of want, and sin, and death, upon any of the children of Britain. Those who seek truth must dive amid the turbulent and disordered waters of sorrow, as well as ramble through the smiling groves and laughing pastures of joy!

It was Marian's third season in brilliant London, and many thought it was never truly brilliant until she appeared. Both in Ireland, and on her husband's estates in England, she had been, as far as she was permitted, an angel of charity; she had founded schools, clothed the naked, fed the hungry; and the deep-felt and grateful blessing followed the "pale lady" wherever she went. The first season passed off as her husband expected; to use the cant phrase, she was splendidly successful. Though Barnett is

an ugly and common sounding name, there were "Barnett hats ;" and the hair was 66 Crepé à la Barnette;" and Lady Barnett's wit was often quoted, as the wit par excellence. Those who called her witty, knew not what wit was. Wit may be likened to a silver arrow, pure, glittering, and pointed; hers was of a more severe quality;-it was satire; not the flippant and illtempered smartness, descending to the person, not dealing with the vice,but that finer and more ennobling quality, which feared not to tell Philip feasting that it would only commune with Philip fasting. Witty minds are seldom great, but a just quantity of satire sharpens the intellect unto perfection; it is the whetstone of many virtues, and is respected when its playful counterfeit is run down by temper and good sense. Sir Charles Barnett had taken a wife to help him to support his waning state; but he had not calculated on eclipse; he never considered it possible that a country girl should gain any admiration save for her beauty, and he by no means relished the universal homage rendered to her marvellous wisdom and sound judgment.

The president of the Royal Academy painted her portrait during her second season, and with his usual skill completed a picture that would have made Titian jealous. Lady Barnett looked at it for some time in silence; and then turning to the polished artist, she observed, "It is beautiful, but you know what it needs to make it like me."

"Lady," he replied with admirable tact, "it wants A SIGH UPON THE

LIP."

And he was right.

"My dear Lady Barnett, I have a little request to make of you, this evening," said Sir Charles," it is that you will not enter into any conversation with the Russian envoy about the plans we" (the mean creature had had nothing to do with them) "adopted for the education of the poor in Leicestershire; if he speaks again upon the subject, refer him to me. And I really wish you would not agree with Lord Somerton's notions about literature; he invariably contradicts me, and therefore, oblige me by not conversing with him."

"I do not agree with you, but will do as you desire."

"I think we shall confine our parties this season, to dinners, concerts, and card-assemblies. Balls" (Sir Charles had lately been afflicted with gout) are really incorrect, since the introduction of waltzes."

"I am glad to find that your ideas of correctness are improving," replied his lady. Sir Charles winced at this.

Will it be believed that the very man who was lecturing and directing this high-souled woman on such trifling points, was continuing (almost openly) in the practice of what the uninitiated would call "gross immorality," but what the well-bred delicately classify as a liaison? Oh, this twisting and mooting of terms! this cloaking of all that is abominable under the banner of "human frailty!" this glossing and polishing of vice! this burning of incense in high places, and bending of the knee to the Baal! How does the free-born soul sicken at, and loathe, such homage! God forbid that I should for a moment wish to see the levelling of rank, or the decent barriers of society overthrown. I honour the one, and respect the other; but vice is vice, though a coronet bind the brow; and virtue is as holy in a peasant's cottage as in a ducal palace. How many are worshipped, literally, during the season in London, because of their fetes, and splendour, who would not be tolerated in what is termed decent society, were it not for "station." Lady Barnett felt this deeply; and while she was idolized, loathed the idolatry. Not that she was insensible to praise or applause; - what woman is, what woman ought to be? but she longed for a devotion, which she knew, as a wife, there was but one who could render. She wished to be the object of a warm and fervid affection, as she

had once been. She was constantly the victim of her penetration, and sometimes wished that God had, in his mercy, bestowed upon her less feeling and more folly. There was one thing, and one only, that yielded her pleasure: she had an extended sphere of doing good; and the manner in which she threw her entire soul into relieving the necessities of others, often excited in her worldly-minded husband an astonishment he did not deem it necessary to conceal.

"I cannot think, Marian, why you are so anxious about the dead curate of Lyme's daughters: one is deaf, and the other blind; moreover, nobody knows them."

Simply, Sir Charles, because their father is dead, one deaf, the other blind, and nobody knows them."

Sir Charles muttered something about "bad habits, contracted through a defective education, and wild Irish views of manners and society;" and the once free-hearted Marian listened, as she had often listened, patiently; "for patience is the badge of all her tribe."

Would those who crowded her splendid saloons, and were astonished at her taste and calm majestic beauty, would they have believed that the canker was busy at a heart, where sorrow had made its sepulchre ?

"Lady Barnett," inquired one of her visiters, casually taking up a morning paper from amid the heap of periodical literature with which it is customary to heap a library table, " do you ever read our political journals ?"

"Hardly ever."

"We continue gaining victory on victory; indeed, Napoleon must soon evacuate Spain and Portugal."

Marian could never hear any allusion to the Peninsular campaign without emotion; her heart beat violently as the gentleman continued

I

"So, I see an exchange of prisoners has lately been effected; some Irish names, too, among the number. You must surely be interested in them, Lady Barnett? Calvert O'Connell, lieutenant in the 3d dragoons; Barry St. Legeray, all the St. Legers were brave fellows; Henry O'Donnell, captain in the royal Irish

Marian seized the journal from the grasp of the astonished lounger, and in another moment the paper clasped within her hands, her eyes starting from their sockets- she had fallen back on the sofa, not in a fainting fit, but in strong and terrific convulsions.

"And so, Marian-you are a wedded wife! and though now, three seasons, the star of the ascendant, I hear you are still triumphant. Long may you continue so if it makes you happy! I have been more than three years a miserable prisoner, without one friend, who remembered Harry O'Donnell sufficiently to be interested in his exchange, which only chance has effected. I do not, lady, blame you; you doubtless fancied I was dead; for you could not have been so altered, as not to have felt some anxiety for your cousin's liberty.

I intend paying my respects, in the course of the morning, to you and Sir Charles; to whom I beg my respects. You will not be surprised at my strange hand-writing, when you hear that I lost an arm at Albuera! "HENRY O'Donnell."

It was more than a month since Lady Barnett had learned that IIarry - her first -- her only love - was in existence. When questioned by her husband as to the cause of her sudden illness, she told him all the truth. "If," she said, within her own bosom --"If Sir Charles suspects me--at all events I shall have the satisfaction of not deserving his suspicion." "Was it joy or sorrow," inquired her tormentor -"that occasioned your ladyship's agitation?"

"Sir Charles," she replied, "do not trifle with feelings that have ever been laid bare before you. I do not deny your right to ask that question; and I reply frankly that it was a mingling of both."

Her husband gazed steadily upon her; and her dark deep eye, her broad high forehead, and her fine pale features,-- neither quailed nor shrank from the scrutiny; -- even Sir Charles was moved.

-

"Marian," he said, "you are a noble woman, but not suited either for me or for the present times; - you should have remained among the stars until a holier sun shone upon England. I never met woman with truth like yours."

-

The involuntary tribute of such applause, paid by Vice to Virtue, is great indeed! Marian wept long and bitterly; in the silence of her chamber, she prayed; and they who know how hard it is to wish that those we love may not love in return, will appreciate her petition. She prayed that Harry would only remember her as his cousin. When she thought of the many changes she had seen men make, without an effort, she indulged in what may be termed the painful hope, that he might find it, perhaps had already found it, easy to look upon and love another. There was something in the tone of Captain O'Donnell's letter that repressed this conviction. have heard many women assert, after receiving a declaration of love, that "Indeed they had no idea of such a thing; they never thought the gentleman entertained the slightest affection for them:" it might be true; but I never believed a word they said. Men are, doubtless, clever enough; but clever as they are, women, on this subject, are seldomnever at fault - they have an intuitive knowledge of man's affection - they generally know it before he is aware of it himself; - and though man can easily assume an affection he does not feel, he must be a better adept in concealment than I can imagine possible, to hide a preference. The one phrase, -"if it makes you happy," showed at once his anxiety, and his belief that she was miserable. The precious letter was more than half-way to her lips, yet she stayed its course, with a firmness those who have loved like her will estimate, and laid it on her desk. In a few moments she arose; and, with the letter in her hand, proceeded to Sir Charles's study.

;

"Lost an arm! Sad thing, sad thing," repeated Sir Charles, after he had finished its perusal. "Well, I shall be glad to see him. He is your relative; and we owe it to ourselves to treat our relatives with propriety." "I think I must spend the day at Richmond, with Mrs. Brownlowe." "No, no, Lady Barnett, it would be exceedingly wrong; you can receive your cousin here. I dare say we shall find him sadly changed." Sir Charles, well skilled in human nature, was at fault: - the truth was, that, with the exception of his wife, his intimate female acquaintances had been of a very indifferent stamp; and he fancied that a worn-out mutilated soldier could possess no attractions for one so fêted and admired as his charming wife! Lady Barnett, well as she knew his littleness of mind, almost hoped that something like generosity had illumined his dark soul. She, too, was mistaken.

"He loves me still," she said, while tears of bitter agony coursed each other down her pallid checks, his love has been unchanging as my own