It was late when Lady Glenmore returned from Lady Melcombe's; and as she drove home she pleased herself with the idea of talking over with her husband the insipid and insignificant scene of the morning, as well as losing in his society the recollection of those uneasy feelings respecting Lady Tenderden, which Lady Tilney's allusion to past times had created: and then glowed in her breast the one natural, honest hope, which was ever uppermost in Lady Glenmore's heart, of meeting her husband for the simple, single pleasure she enjoyed of being in his presence.

"Is Lord Glenmore come home?" was her first question when she alighted from her carriage: the "No" was chilling.

"Did he leave any message? has he sent any note?" Still "No, no," sounded heavily in her ears. She prepared, however, for his return, by taking more pains with her toilette than usual; and when she had finished arraying herself, not according to the code of the Belle AssemblÉe or Feuilles des Modes, but in accordance with that of her own young innocent face, her glass told her she had not done so in vain. She then sat for some time with tolerable patience, first taking up one book, then another, then throwing them down again; going to the instrument, touching a few chords; turning over the ornamented leaves of a Lilliputian music-book, invisibly written with a crow-quill; pushing it away, leaving it to tumble down off the desk as it might, and going to the window, the shutters of which she had not allowed the servant to close, in order that she might listen to every cabriolet that passed. At length she rang the bell, and was told that it was eight o'clock.

"Is there no message from Lord Glenmore?" "No, my lady. Shall dinner be served?" "No—yes—no—yes; bring up something, any thing is enough;" and away she went to her splendid board in her splendid apartment, with a train of liveried domestics, to sit down to a lonely dinner with an aching heart. She hastily dismissed the servants, and then leaning back on her chair, and suffering the tears that were choking her to flow over her face—

"I wish we were poor, and he not political," she said, sobbing; "I should not then be left alone, I should not be absent from him." A servant entered with a note. She endeavoured to conceal her tears, and, hastily opening it, read a few kind words from Lord Glenmore, which spoke his regret at being prevented from meeting her at dinner; and hoping she would go early to the French play with Lady Tenderden, where he would join them if possible. The ebb and flow of young feelings are very quick; and this note was such a cordial, that, as she ran up stairs, she carolled in the gaiety of her altered feelings: so soon had she forgot disappointment in anticipated pleasure.

In a few minutes more she was in her carriage on the way to the French play. When she came into the box, she found it empty, and the play begun. Lady Tenderden was not arrived; and by the time she had cast a glance round the house, bowed to some of her acquaintance, and settled her shawls, &c., she turned all her attention to the stage. It was a play which had collected a class of audience seldom frequenting that house; for it was one of those sterling comedies of MoliÈre's, apart from his too frequent grossness, which, with the true legitimate intention of comedy, lashed the follies of the age for which it was written, and was not without its prototype in the present. Les PrÉcieuses Ridicules is a play that all unsophisticated natures must enjoy, even those who, as in the case of Lady Glenmore, were not acquainted with the times and the persons it was written to satirize; and she herself evinced the pleasure she derived from it, by laughing naturally and frequently. Her merry laugh called the observation of several persons, not accustomed to see pain, or pleasure, or amusement, ever expressed by any outward sign, and who attributed to the uneducated only such marks of unconstrained nature; but others, again, (some few), were pleased at any thing so unlike what they generally beheld; and it conveyed to them a reflected sensation of freshness of enjoyment, such as they remembered to have felt when life was new, and before they were schooled by the false fastidious system of the world of ton, or blazÉd to the zest of pleasure.

"What a pity," observed Lord Baskerville, speaking between his teeth, in his company voice, "that that very pretty Lady Glenmore should make herself so conspicuous."—He was in the Comtesse Leinsengen's box, within one of that in which Lady Glenmore was sitting.

"Not at all," replied Mr. Spencer Newcombe; "she only draws attention; and one cannot look at a prettier woman."

"Peut-Être," said the Comtesse Leinsengen, "she does it for dat very purpose, and takes dis new way of being distinguÉ."

"Insufferable!" rejoined Lord Baskerville; "if she were as beautiful as an angel, she would disgust me with those roturiÈre manners."

"I believe," said Mr. Leslie Winyard with a yawn, "that I must really take compassion on her, and give her some good advice on the subject of education."

"L'affaire est faite," rejoined the comtesse, "if you take her en main; mais tout est pour le mieux dans ce meilleur des mondes possibles."

Having thus settled the matter in Lady Tilney's box, Mr. Leslie Winyard proceeded to that of Lady Glenmore, there to commence his destined essay on education. "I am delighted," he said, "to see you in such good health, and so intent on immortalizing MoliÈre. If he could only know what homage you are paying his talents in these expressions of your mirth, how delighted he would be!"

"Hush," said Lady Glenmore, "I will talk presently; but now I want to listen to the play—it is so amusing."

"So it is," he replied; "and I am glad to be with any one so natural, and so much of my own way of thinking. I will, if you allow me, occupy this place," taking the front seat, "and we will enjoy the thing together."

"Certainly," said Lady Glenmore, with a pleased expression of countenance, which, though he knew better than to ascribe its influence to himself, he was yet gratified to think that others might do so; and while she continued intent on what was passing on the stage, Mr. Winyard was busily looking round, À-la-derobÉe, to see what remarks were passing on his being alone with the new minister's wife. This, however, was a privilege which he did not long enjoy; for Lord Raynham and Mr. Spencer Newcombe came in to make their bows and give their meed of homage. After having courteously received them, Lady Glenmore turned again to the stage, and they went on talking in an under tone together at the back of the box.

"I wish," said Lord Raynham, addressing Mr. Spencer Newcombe, "I wish that we had any dramatist as clever now-a-days to lash our follies."

"Do you think you would like it if you had?" asked his friend. "Somehow or another, for my own part, I feel I get on just as well without, and I suspect I am too old to be whipped. Depend upon it, the reason why we are so well amused with this and some of the other comedies of MoliÈre is, because we think we are only laughing at another generation, and another nation, whose ridicules have nothing in common with our own. No, no; believe me, we English do not like to be satirized; we can bear it less well than any other nation I know. Broad farce is our sauce piquant; but the exact delineation of our peculiar vices and follies would not be well received, and indeed I doubt if legitimate comedy, however well acted or written, would go down at all."

"My good friend," said Lord Raynham, "this very piece is not so widely different from the follies of the present day as you may at first sight imagine."

"Perhaps so," replied his friend; "but one need not put on the cap, you know; and then nobody can tell whether it fits or not."

Lord Raynham continued (following the thread of his own fancy, rather than replying to the speaker, as was his wont), "Change the names and the modes of Les PrÉcieuses Ridicules to those of a certain set existing now-a-days, and the principle of vanity and folly is much the same in both; only that, perhaps, on the whole, those of the HÔtel de Rambouillet were more to women's advantage after all; and had they not pushed their system too far, it might have lasted longer than the present dynasty of ton is likely to do. Both are entirely false, both equally far from the real, nay, genuine charm of true good society.

"However, in all the freaks that vanity and fashion play, there have been, and ever will be, some redeeming characters, who mix with all the fanfaronnade of the day, and yet remain uninfected with the epidemic follies. She, for instance," indicating Lady Glenmore with a look; "can any thing be more young and fresh, in mind and heart as well as years, more gay, more natural?"

"Certainly not; and it is quite invigorating to witness her unsophisticated manners, and the genuine entertainment she derives from that which she is come professedly to be diverted by; but then the more's the pity, for it will not last long thus."

"Do not forebode evil," replied Lord Raynham, who was in one of his best couleur de rose humours; "remember there were, and are, among the prÉcieuses ridicules, depuis tout les temps, des Mesdames de SevignÉ et de Connel, and I forget all their names, who retained their own innocent individuality, and their natural grace of mind, amid the most decided affectation and the most ridiculous pretensions."

"Yes, but they were exceptions to general rules; and I do not augur so well of that one," still meaning Lady Glenmore, "under the care of that Alcoviste," alluding to Mr. Leslie Winyard.

"Is not that Lady Tilney sitting alone in her box?" asked Lord Raynham: "I must go make my obeisance, as in duty bound, or I may chance to be discarded; and as we have no MoliÈre to overturn our HÔtel de Rambouillet[1], we had better keep its door open to us."

"Agreed," said Mr. Spencer Newcombe; and, bowing to Lady Glenmore, they departed, leaving Mr. Leslie Winyard tenaciously keeping his conspicuous place, with cane at lip, and glove in hand, and eyes that were gathering the observations passed upon him with lynx-like sharpness, while they seemed half closed in listless or consequential apathy. In a few minutes after, the curtain dropped.

"Oh!" said Lady Glenmore, "I am so sorry it is over! I do not know when I have been so amused."

"I, too, am sorry it is over; but amused is not exactly the explanation I should give of the cause of my regret;" and he endeavoured that his eyes should explain what he did mean.

"No!" said Lady Glenmore with perfect naivetÉ; "then perhaps you have seen the play often before, and have been looking at the company, not at the stage?"

"Did you ever play at the game called Magical Music?" asked Mr. Leslie Winyard; "and if so, and that I were the performer on the instrument, I should now touch it forte fortissime, for you are very near guessing the truth."

"I do not understand you," said Lady Glenmore, still unconscious of his drift, and her attention caught by some one who was entering, and causing a considerable stir. She hoped it was Lord Glenmore, which made her ask suddenly what o'clock it was. "I am sure," she added, "it must be very late, and I fear Lady Tenderden is not coming; and Glenmore, too, said he would come; but I begin to be afraid they neither of them will;" and her countenance changed, and another spirit than that of girlish amusement took possession of her, and she became silent, overcast, and disquieted.

"Were they to come together?" asked Mr. Leslie Winyard, insidiously laying a peculiar emphasis on the last word.

"Oh no!—that is to say, not that I know of. Lady Tenderden did not tell me so." Mr. Leslie Winyard half smiled, and then, as if checking himself, he rejoined carelessly, "Oh! you know these diplomatists are the most slippery fellows imaginable; that is their trade: they are so taken up with the affairs of the nation, they forget all other affairs. But it is odd that Lady Tenderden also should have forgotten her engagement to you."

Lady Glenmore made no reply, but she became more and more uneasy: her colour went and came "like colours o'er the morning skies." She looked anxiously around, and started at every step that seemed to pass the door of her box, but yet, remembering certain lessons she had received, she contrived to keep under her uneasiness.

"Is there any thing I can do?" said Mr. Leslie Winyard, with an air of interest and concern. "I am afraid you are not well. Would you like to go home? I dare say my carriage is at the door, if yours is not arrived, and that you would do me the honour to accept it."

"Oh no!" she replied; "I am equally obliged to you, but I shall await the end of the performance."

Mr. Leslie Winyard now thought it was necessary to use all his art, to draw off her attention from the subject that engrossed it, and, if possible, fix it on himself.

"I am not apt," he said, "to be often in good-humour with myself; in truth, I have not much reason; but I am half inclined to suppose there must be some redeeming clause in my composition, for I have frequently observed that, after an hour or two of this sort of thing, you grow restless and weary, and I declare I always feel the same. I plume myself mightily in having discovered this similarity between us."

"Pardon me, you are quite mistaken. I am often exceedingly well diverted in public; and when Lord Glenmore is with me," and she blushed, as if she had said something she ought not, "I am generally well pleased to stay late, for I am never sleepy."

Mr. Leslie Winyard thought that it was more troublesome to counteract nature by art, than overcome art itself by art, as he replied,

"Oh! certainly, I understand that; but what I meant to say was, that it is not these scenes which afford one any real happiness; it is the society of a few friends, a selection of persons who suit each other, and who like the same things, and who are occupied in the same interests. For instance, how very much more enchanting it is to be singing a duet with you, than sitting at an opera, hearing the artificial execution of those who sing by profession! for surely the true intention of music is, that it should express our own feelings, and transport us into a sort of half-beatific state, such as that expressed by your 'Sempre piÙ t'amo.'"

All this sentimental jargon, so different from the real nature of the speaker, was accompanied by those glances of admiration which spoke a much plainer language than even his words; but though the innocent Lady Glenmore was as yet unaware of their tendency, and did not see through the artificial refinement which Mr. Leslie Winyard thought it worth his while to assume, in order to induce her to listen to him at all, there was, nevertheless, a secret sense of genuine purity in her heart, which made her dislike the license of his gaze; and she answered, fixing her eyes on him with all the composure of perfect innocence, "It is very delightful to me to go to the Opera; and the perfect finish of the singing of professional people teaches me to improve my own. I am much obliged to you for the compliment; but I assure you, if you only heard me sing with my master, you would acknowledge that it is quite a different thing from what it is when I sing with you, for I was always afraid of putting you out, and that spoiled the little power I have."

This speech certainly did put him out, and in his heart Mr. Leslie Winyard cursed what he called her niaiserie; but he determined that, sooner or later, he would be revenged. Concealing, however, his mortification, he replied, "You were too good to consider me in any way; but I am sure nothing that you could do would ever give me a feeling of displeasure, whatever it might do of regret." He modified the expression of his eyes as well as that of his words, and entered with her into a long comparison of the charms of Paris and London in their respective societies and manners, which engaged her attention; and she listened with great complacency for some time, during which he had continued to move his chair nearer and nearer her own, and to appear to the public to be deeply engaged in the most interesting conversation, while, at the same time, he succeeded in allaying any discomfort she might have felt at his own too-marked admiration, previously shown, by turning her attention into a totally different channel, and determining to reserve a more open avowal of his sentiments for a more favourable and distant period, when suddenly the box door opened. Lady Glenmore started forward with an exclamation of surprise and pleasure, supposing it to be her husband; but in this she was mistaken, for Lady Tenderden entered alone.

"I beg your pardon, my dear ladi, for being so late," said the latter; "but you know how impossible it is to get away in any time from a dinner party"—[the impossibilities of a fine lady are to be understood with certain modifications and meanings which do not belong to the literal signification of the word]—"and I regret being detained on all accounts;" Lady Tenderden went on to say, "first, because I have lost your society; then, for the sake of de play, which of all things I wanted to have seen: but you have been amused, I hope?"

"Oh, exceedingly!" replied Lady Glenmore; and then her countenance was overcast again at her husband's absence, and she sighed heavily, so that Lady Tenderden hardly knew what to think, and for a moment began to suppose that she had arrived inopportunely, and disturbed a tÊte-À-tÊte; but then, again, remembering the character of Lady Glenmore, she only turned to Mr. Leslie Winyard, and whispered, in allusion to a circumstance connected with the PrÉcieuses Ridicules, "I am sure you have been well entertained, although you have only been studying la carte du tendre." Lady Glenmore was too much absorbed in her disappointment, to pay any attention to their conversation; and when she roused herself from her reverie, she longed to ask Lady Tenderden if she knew any thing of the House, and whether it had broken up or not; but she feared to incur her ridicule. Other men came into the box to pay their court to Lady Tenderden; and Mr. Leslie Winyard contrived, in the general move that took place, to secure the chair immediately behind Lady Glenmore's, and endeavoured to regain her ear; but her mind was quite abstracted, and herself totally uninterested in all that was passing; so he leant back in his chair, and affected to be absent also, that he might appear to others to be occupied sympathetically with herself.

At length Lady Glenmore could restrain her inquietude no longer; and turning suddenly round, she said, "I wonder what can detain Lord Glenmore! he promised to join me here." The different persons looked at each other and smiled significantly; some in pity, some in derision, all in contempt.

"Oh you know, my dear," replied Lady Tenderden, "dese conjugal appointments are sensÉ to be broken; dey are de pie-crusts of life." Every body laughed, and poor Lady Glenmore coloured, as she felt a sort of indignation rise in her heart against the whole scene and the actors therein.

"But make yourself quite easy," Lady Tenderden added in a sort of childish voice, "dere is no danger for Lord Glenmore; I will be answerable for his safety."

Mr. Leslie Winyard affected to feel for Lady Glenmore, and to disapprove of this joke; and turning to her, he said in his most doucereux tone, "You may depend upon it, a very long debate has taken place, and engages Lord Glenmore's absence from hence necessarily. It was always expected that the House would sit very late to-night: what else could keep him away from you?" he whispered, with an expression that was intended should soothe her; and it did soothe her, and she felt grateful, and rewarded him by one of her sweetest smiles, saying,

"I conclude you are right." It was not long, however, before Lord Boileau came into the box.

"Boileau, are you come from the House?" said Mr. Leslie Winyard.

"No," he replied; "the House was adjourned very early on account of the ex-minister's illness, whose explanation was looked for."

Lady Glenmore heard this circumstance with a beating heart; and looking reproachfully at Mr. Leslie Winyard, she said, "You see you were mistaken; why did you deceive me?"

He affected, for a moment, to be overcome with disappointment and chagrin, and then said in a low voice, "Oh, be not uneasy; there are so many things may have detained a man in his station. Why do you suffer yourself to be thus wretched? Would to Heaven he knew! If he did but know, surely, surely he would be here. But how people mistake their own happiness! Were I in his place—"

"You would be where he is," said Lady Glenmore with composure.

"Doubtless," rejoined Mr. Leslie Winyard with great presence of mind, "for we cannot change natures with any one; nor indeed do we ever wish it." And then he relapsed into silence.

Although Lady Glenmore felt piqued and mortified at her husband's having broken his promise to her, she could not bear that any one else should cast the least blame upon him; and she dismissed her chagrin, and forced herself to talk gaily, as though her heart was light.

Mr. Leslie Winyard, apparently yielding to an irresistible impulse of admiration, once, and once only, whispered to her, "Admirable creature! it is only I that see through this disguise, and honour you for the sacrifice you are making of your feelings, considering the motives by which you are actuated."

She turned this speech off as a joke; but there was something in it which, though it pained, yet pleased her. How difficult it is for the purest natures not to lean to self-approbation when it comes in the soft breath of praise! Nevertheless, the minutes seemed hours to her till the curtain dropped, and she arose quickly to depart.

"Where are you going, ma chÈre dame?" said Lady Tenderden. "Positively you must come with me. I have a petit soupÈr on purpose for you; and as Lord Glenmore knows of old that it is my custom to have this always after de play, having been prevented from joining us here, he will not fail to come to my house, and we shall find him waiting for us."

"Do you really think so?" asked Lady Glenmore hesitatingly.

"Yes, to be sure I do; at all events, you can but come and try; it will be always time enough to go home afterwards." These persuasions, adroitly pressed, won upon Lady Glenmore's easy credulity, and she suffered herself to be handed down stairs, and got into Lady Tenderden's carriage.

"You look quite divinely to-night," said Lady Tenderden to her as they drove along—"positively ravissante; vous ferez fureur, je l'avois toujours prÉdit. Even when you had dat horrible English modiste to dress you, you were always lovely; but now—now that you have de vraie tournure, and dat le coupe de vos cheveux, and de plait of your petticoat, is d'aprÈs le dernier goÛt, depend upon it, all de hearts will fly to you."

Lady Glenmore laughed outright, it might be a little maliciously; for she knew that no scissors, however classical in the estimation of her companion, had touched the luxuriance of her beautiful hair, or any body but her old English maid fashioned her petticoat; but she enjoyed the mistake, and only thought, "This it is to be a minister's wife!"

When arrived at Lady Tenderden's house, every thing was prepared for the reception of the petit soupÈr, that is to say, about twenty people of the Élite; and the rooms were lit only to that precise degree of brilliancy which is best expressed by a jour tendre; but there was no Lord Glenmore.

Some of the gentlemen loitered round the instrument, touching the notes, and humming some fashionable airs. "Apropos," said Lady Tenderden, "nobody sings like Lady Glenmore, and Mr. Leslie Winyard will accompany her in a duet."

"Pardon me," said the latter, "I sing so ill, I should only put Lady Glenmore out," and he looked at her significantly; "besides, joking apart, I have such a cold, it is impossible I could utter a sound. But perhaps Lady Glenmore may be prevailed upon to favour us with an air, which will come doubly recommended when not marred by such an ignoramus as myself. Here are all sorts of beautiful things lying about;" and he turned over the music. "Not only all the modern, but all the half-antiquated compositions. Above all, here is my old admiration; and it has this advantage over many of its cotemporaries, it has echappÉ belle, and is not hackneyed, for this cogent reason, that hardly any body can sing it. I mean Haydn's Ariana À Naxos."

"Oh, charming!" echoed one or two real amateurs; "do, Lady Glenmore, do let us prevail with you to grant us the favour."

"Come," joined Lady Tenderden's voice with the rest, "I am sure you will not have ended before Teseo will have arrived." Lady Glenmore was prevailed on to comply; and though she began unwillingly, it was a composition so much in unison with her actual feelings, that unconsciously she became identified with its expression; and she sang with such impassioned tenderness, and looked so much the Ariana that she sang, that all the men were in unfeigned raptures, and Lady Tenderden sat biting her lips in despite for having pressed her to the trial of her skill. Once or twice Lady Glenmore paused when there was a change in the movement, and half rose, saying, "This is too long, you will be tired;"—but she permitted a douce violence, and, reseating herself, finished the whole scena. However delightful her performance, and however delighted her audience might be, the odour of the delicate viands that now awaited them made a powerful diversion in favour of the latter; and with empressement, while murmurs of applause were still on the lips of many of her auditors, they hastened to arrange themselves at the table.

The Comtesse Leinsengen, who was of course of the party, observed to Lord Baskerville, as he placed himself by her, "I am quite glad to put de taste of dat horrid dull Teseo out of my mouth. How people can be so baroque as to choose such long old-fashioned things, good for nothing but your German professors!"

Lady Tenderden said, "Avouez, moi milor, qu'une romance ou barcarolle vaut bien mieux."

"After all," said Lady Baskerville, "music is a good thing, but supper is a better." And now came the general clatter of tongues and knives and forks, sweeter than all the harmony of the spheres.

"I have made a vow," said Mr. Leslie Winyard to Lady Glenmore; "guess what it is."

"No, tell me; for I never guessed any thing in my life."

"Why, never again to sing with you, even should you deign to ask me, for I am quite convinced of the truth of your hint, that I only mar the perfection of your song; and besides, the true way to feel with you, is to see you feel, unoccupied by any thought of one's own." Then, as if he avoided dwelling on the theme of his admiration, he talked gaily, and glanced at various topics with that agreeable lightness of manner which scarcely touches what it lights on, and alternately made her laugh and nearly cry, till her spirits got into that state of excitement which obscures reason, and leaves the mind in some degree open to impressions that, at soberer and more reflective times, it would cast off as not analogous to its healthful state.

It was at a very late hour that this party broke up. Day was breaking, and with its clear pale light shaming their orgies, before Lady Glenmore was actually on her way down stairs to depart; but suddenly the morning was overcast with one of those thunder-storms not unusual at the season, and torrents of rain burst from the clouds. A heavy thunder-clap, that made the very houses rattle again, broke over the spot where she stood: for an instant she paused, appalled, while the company were rushing up and down past her, and snatching their various coverings, to shield them as they flew to their carriages.

"You are not afraid?" said Mr. Leslie Winyard, gently pressing the arm that rested upon his.

"No, not afraid," she answered; but her countenance was very serious, and something seemed to reproach her for being in such a scene at such an hour without any natural protector. She moved on, however, to her carriage: it was the last at the door. "How do you go home?" she said to Mr. Leslie Winyard.

"Oh! any how," he answered; and he looked around. "I see my people have thought it wise to avoid the storm, and left me to take care of myself."

"Can I not set you down?" she asked, from an innocent impulse of good-nature; and again a still louder clap of thunder rebounded over their heads, and it was with difficulty the coachman held his horses, as they reared and plunged violently.

"If you will be so very gracious," he answered, stepping in after her; and at the same time the carriage door was shut, the footman leaped up behind, and off the horses flew to —— street.

"I am quite shocked," he said, "to take you out of your way; but really I think it was not quite safe, with these young horses, to let you go home alone, and unattended by any protector, in the midst of this terrific storm."

"Oh! as to that, I am sure Lord Glenmore would never let me have horses that were not to be depended upon."

"Will that tiresome name," thought Mr. Leslie Winyard, "never be out of her mouth;" while he replied at the same time, "Doubtless he would have that care; for who would not be happy to have such a precious charge as your safety delegated to him?"

"I am very tired," said Lady Glenmore, yawning; "I wonder what made me stay so late; but I will never do so again."

"I fear, indeed," he answered, "that this, to me, most fortunate moment will never return, and that I may never again be able to feel that I am of the least use to you." At length they arrived at Mr. Leslie Winyard's door. He reiterated his thanks, took his leave, waited at the threshold till he saw her carriage depart, and Lady Glenmore proceeded home.

No sooner was Lady Glenmore alone, than she began to reflect on the unsatisfactory way in which she had passed the night. She felt sorry that she had been prevailed upon to go to the supper, or, having gone, that she had staid so long; and, last of all, she regretted having set Mr. Leslie Winyard down in her carriage. With these excited feverish feelings, she arrived at her own door.

As soon as she began to undress, she learnt from her maid that Lord Glenmore had come home early, had waited till one o'clock for her ladyship, and then gone to bed. "Dear, how provoking!" she said, tearing off the ornaments she wore; "what could possess me to remain out so late! How sorry I am!" and all the while she was demurring in her own mind whether she should tell her husband that she had set down Mr. Leslie Winyard, or pass the affair over in silence. "He may be angry; and I meant no harm; and I cannot bear to see him displeased. Why should I tell him? a thing, in fact, of such common occurrence, and, in itself, so perfectly innocent." Thus, instead of going to peaceful rest, did a feverish inquietude take possession of her mind; for the first step of a married woman from the high road of unquestioned purity is doing any thing, however trivial in itself, of which, having done it, she feels she would rather not tell her husband.