Lady Wetheral spoke of the morning's entertainment with perfect approbation, as they drove home. "Every thing was so agreeably arranged—every body was so inclined to be amused, which constituted the charm of a party al fresco. Lord Farnborough, perhaps, was less disposed to consider himself at ease than the rest of the group; but circumstances did go a little 'À tort et À travers' with poor Lord Farnborough. Some people were in the wrong place, assuredly, which might create a little uneasiness; but, considering the difficulty of selecting and arranging a large morning party, it had been admirably conducted. There was a little too much vivacity in Captain Ponsonby's manner: he was rather too empressÉ—but Lord Farnborough displayed the man of fashion in every movement." Christobelle did not argue against her mother's opinions, and Sir John Spottiswoode sat, determined to be silent.

"Lord Farnborough," continued Lady Wetheral, "tells me he intends wandering round Lochleven some weeks longer."

"At Clanmoray?" asked Christobelle.

"No, my love, he thinks of building at Kinross." Christobelle sank back into her former position, quite indifferent to the whereabout of Lord Farnborough. Her ladyship resumed:—"Sir John, what a lovely creature is Fanny Ponsonby! I think I never beheld more beautiful eyes!"

"Miss Ponsonby is a beautiful woman!" replied Sir John Spottiswoode.

"I mean Fanny Ponsonby, the lady you monopolized, my dear Spottiswoode."

"I mean the same lady; but I was guilty of no monopoly, Lady Wetheral."

"She is most lovely indeed. My dear Bell, what an agreeable companion Miss Fanny Ponsonby would be to share in your lake diversions!"

"No, mamma, pray don't ask Fanny Ponsonby—pray think of no companion for me. I am a solitary being. I love to be alone."

"My dear girl, you are jealous!"

"I am not jealous of any one, I hope. I admire Miss Fanny Ponsonby—I think her very lovely—but I require no companion."

"Would you live quite alone, my love? It is not the wish of a young lady in general."

"When I feel particularly dull, mamma, I will ask for Miss Fanny Ponsonby."

Christobelle could not clearly define her fear of Miss Fanny Ponsonby's society, but her name would evermore be coupled with painful feelings. The first emotion of jealousy towards another had been elicited by her, and perhaps the recollection of that suffering inclined her to shun the innocent cause of the subtle intruder. Christobelle became restless at the mention of such a visitor at Fairlee; and though she endeavoured to reason away her alarm, the internal struggle increased. What could her mother mean?

The clouds broke away towards the evening, and the rain ceased; the terrace was soon dry, though the raindrops hung upon every leaf, and the bright lake lay tranquil after the storm. Lochleven was beautiful in its freshness, and the green tints of its wooded sides stood out in deeper and brighter light and shade from the heavy showers. Yet Sir John Spottiswoode did not ask Christobelle to walk with him; he did not ask her to admire with him the setting sun, or to look with him upon the deepening shades of evening. He sat profoundly attentive over "Bacon's Essays," and not once did his eye or lip address her. She also endeavoured to read, but her thoughts wandered over the incidents of the morning. Her eyes fixed themselves upon the lake, and not upon the page of history, as she considered the disappointments of the day, and mused upon the changed manner of Sir John Spottiswoode. She wished they had never joined the party to St. Mungo's Isle—she wished she had persevered in her solitary habits, and never accepted the invitation to Clanmoray.

Captain Ponsonby had wearied her, and Lord Farnborough's manner had offended her. Were these things an equivalent to the estranged manner of her friend? She wished she had been Fanny Ponsonby, for then Sir John Spottiswoode would have sought her. She wished she had been Fanny Ponsonby, for then the gentlemen would have avoided her. She had no pleasure in being so publicly attended by Captain Ponsonby and his guest. She would have given worlds to have been silent and free from remark.

Lady Wetheral took her seat by Christobelle's side, as she gazed vacantly upon the sparkling waters.

"Your thoughts are far away, my love, and yet I can guess their flight. They are at this moment at Clanmoray, and you are thinking of Fanny Ponsonby."

The truth of the remark startled Christobelle. It brought the colour into her face and forehead.

"Never mind Fanny Ponsonby, Bell. You have no rival there!"

"Do you think so, mamma?" she exclaimed. "How can you possibly tell his feelings?"

"His attention was exclusively given to you, Bell, though I confess you coquetted rather rashly."

"With whom did I coquette, mamma? I cannot endure that expression, it sounds so frivolous and vain."

"My love, strangers would remark you flirted too much with Captain Ponsonby, though I could comprehend your intentions, and I was amused with your little tracasseries."

"But how can you judge of his feelings towards Miss Fanny Ponsonby, mamma?"

"Because her attachment to him could not be concealed; it was apparent in her looks, and in the pain she discovered during his attentions to you."

"We hardly exchanged words, mamma," remarked Christobelle, in great surprise; "and then only in the boat returning from the island."

"I am ignorant of what took place during your return, my love; but I saw enough to convince me that Lord Farnborough does not return the love of poor Fanny Ponsonby."

Lord Farnborough!—and her thoughts were with Sir John Spottiswoode! Her eyes fell upon the Lake in bitter disappointment. "I thought he had watched me—I thought he had not cared for Fanny Ponsonby!" were her silent reflections.

"I see," continued Lady Wetheral, in tones of triumph, "his lordship is jealous of Captain Ponsonby; and there you acted with great tact. I am sure it will lead to a proposal. He will be afraid of Arthur Ponsonby, and it will lead him to take a hasty step, but that step will exalt you into the future Duchess of Forfar. I fancied his Grace asthmatic this morning; he certainly wheezed very painfully as we walked up the pathway. This will raise you far above your sisters, my love; far more exalted than Julia. Lord Farnborough has proved my physician; he has entirely chased away my nervous complaints."

Christobelle could not answer. She quitted the room in haste, and took shelter in her own apartments. There she prostrated herself, and prayed for a tranquil spirit. She knew her mother's temper, and was aware of her ambitious spirit; but she did not like Lord Farnborough, and never would she sell herself to be his wife. She would not confess that she loved Sir John Spottiswoode, or that she had given her affections to one who did not value the gift; but she would surely and perseveringly decline Lord Farnborough, if indeed that hasty step was ever taken which was to proceed from anger towards his friend, Captain Ponsonby.

Christobelle had witnessed Clara's misery, and suspected that Julia was not happy in her grandeur, therefore, she would not become the third prey to her mother's overweening ambition. She might suffer reproaches and harsh conduct, but she would not marry for wealth, and pine away in silent misery, a beacon to the thoughtless and the avaricious. If Sir John Spottiswoode quitted Fairlee, and if Lochleven was a fever-spot upon his heart, Christobelle felt she must endure sorrow: it could not be more despairing than the feelings of Fanny Ponsonby, to whom her heart now clung in sympathy, and without pain. Fanny Ponsonby would be now a companion most grateful to her taste; all jealous fears were ended, and they could walk and weep together in fellowship. Poor Fanny Ponsonby! Christobelle wept for her and for herself. She remembered her abstracted look, and the haste with which she fled from her brother's remarks upon love. She remembered the downcast eye when Sir John Spottiswoode addressed her upon the subject of a lover's heart, and she saw her weep during the singing of "Desolate is the dwelling of Morna." How her heart yearned now to be near her!

Christobelle felt too unwell to return again into the drawing-room. The struggle of her thoughts brought on severe headache, and she tried to forget her disquietude in sleep. Lady Wetheral visited her daughter, before she retired for the night, and smiled as she spoke of her hasty retreat.

"Did Sir John Spottiswoode miss me?" Christobelle asked in some perturbation, as she rose from an unrefreshing doze, to listen to her remarks.

"No, my love, I believe not. He expressed very polite regrets at your indisposition, but he has been reading the whole evening. He mentioned his return into Shropshire the end of this week."

Christobelle sank back in silence upon her pillow.

"Good night, my love, I will not keep you awake; but I trust your headache will be slept away. Take sal-volatile, and those nervous-drops, they always did me good, and we shall see what to-morrow will bring forth."

"So soon does he go, mamma?"

"Yes, my love. I think it would be advisable to ask Lord Farnborough to Fairlee, to superintend his intended little sporting-box at Kinross. I shall sound your father. Good night Bell."

Lady Wetheral retired, and left Christobelle again in silence and in darkness. She could not sleep. The night passed so slowly, as she lay revolving all these things in her mind! When she was happy, her nights flew by, and she rose refreshed; but now the hours lagged heavily, and her waking thoughts were upon the departure of Sir John Spottiswoode, and the introduction of Lord Farnborough in his place. She did not rise refreshed. She was tired and unhappy when she descended into the breakfast-room. Sir John Spottiswoode was there alone; and, as he paid the compliments of the morning, his voice was thick, and sounded hoarse. Christobelle was sure he had caught cold upon the water, and it was to protect her that he exposed himself to wet, and had thrown off his cloak. She was overcome by the recollection, and, though she approached him timidly, she was in anxious fear lest he should suffer by his attention. His hand was heated as it touched hers in salutation, and she held it in alarm.

"Oh, you are feverish and ill, and you have caught cold by giving me your cloak! What can I do for you?"

"I have a little headache and sore throat," he replied, smiling; "but it will pass away, I hope, in the course of the day."

"It was that cloak," replied Christobelle, quite absorbed with fear, and totally forgetful that her hand was still held by him—"it was that cloak which you took off so suddenly, against my wishes. I was sure you would be ill!"

"I am not ill," he answered, feelingly: "your kind sympathy has cured me; but let me observe your pale cheeks in return, and let me mourn over them." Sir John Spottiswoode led her to the window, and looked so kindly at her, that tears sprang into her eyes. "Here are tokens of a restless night," he said—"here are signs of sleepless hours, and heavy thoughts, my dear pupil. Would I could calm your gentle heart!"

"Then stay at Fairlee!" she exclaimed, as she wept without control, and cared not for the consequences of her indiscreet words—"stay at Fairlee, and be as kind as you used to be!" Christobelle felt the arm of her companion drawn round her, and she was pressed to his heart, as he replied.—

"I will remain, dearest pupil, I will remain at Fairlee, whatever pain it may cost me! I will do whatever you bid me do, to give you pleasure. God forbid I should ever give you a moment's sorrow! I would sooner suffer a thousand pangs, than see you weep one moment. Why do you weep, and distress my heart?"

Christobelle could not help it. Was it, indeed, painful to remain at Fairlee? Captain Ponsonby was right, then, in his suggestion—there was a lady in the south! She could not reply; a suffocating sensation precluded all speech.

"Why are you here so early?" continued Sir John Spottiswoode, in gentle accents, as Christobelle still leaned against him; "and why are your spirits so agitated, and your rest broken? If such is your present state, what will your affectionate heart endure hereafter? Your delicate frame is unequal to contend with such deep emotions!"

Christobelle made a strong effort to check her weeping fit, and she became more tranquil. Sir John Spottiswoode's arm still surrounded and supported her; but she felt that, when its dear support should be withdrawn, she would be cast upon the wide world for ever.

"Your friends are round you," resumed her companion, "and you shall be the arbitress of my movements. I will not quit Lochleven while I can be of use to its dear inmate. Oh, my dear Christobelle! how the schoolmaster will guard his pupil! But when," he added, hesitatingly, drawing her closer to him, and even clasping her to his heart—"when will he be here again?"

"Whom do you speak of? Captain Ponsonby?" she exclaimed; "he wearies me, and every body wearies me!"

"I do not speak of him. I do not speak of Captain Ponsonby," replied Sir John Spottiswoode, withdrawing his arm hastily, and moving a few paces. "I mean another and happier man. You know whom I would name." He advanced again to the window, where Christobelle remained rooted. "You know whom I allude to, Miss Wetheral."

"Lord Farnborough?" she articulated, with difficulty.

Sir John would not meet her eye.

"I did mean that person. Will he not visit Fairlee, Miss Wetheral? Will he not? no, he is not worthy of such a heart—of such powerful affection!" He walked from the window to the door, and again he turned, and approached Christobelle. "It is a severe trial to have waited and loved as I have done, and yet suffer disappointment. It was a strange fancy—was it not, my pupil?—to wait so long, and hope so perseveringly? But I will not quit Fairlee, since you bid me not."

Christobelle could not comprehend Sir John Spottiswoode's emotion. She could not divine his allusions; she only grasped at his promise to remain, and even that was balm to her heart.

"Oh, yes," she repeated, "stay, and take my part, for I know I shall appeal to papa and you, if I am reproached."

"Who dares presume to reproach you? Who dares to offer a harsh word to you? By the heavens above, if I heard his false lips utter one syllable of unkindness to a creature too gentle and excellent for his worthless mind, I would strike him dead!" Sir John Spottiswoode's eyes struck fire, and his tall figure became still more erect.

"Of whom are you talking?—whose lips are false?" asked Christobelle, in stupid amazement.

"I know him!" continued Sir John Spottiswoode, kindling as he spoke; "but I will follow him through the world, if he gives one pang to such a heart as your's, dearest and loveliest pupil, creature of my fancy and my heart! He is not worthy of you, Christobelle." He stopped, and fixed his eyes upon her with an expression so wretched, that she took his hand in terror: he snatched it from her.

"Do not break my heart, Christobelle; and do not touch me, if you have mercy. Withdraw your wish, and let me quit Fairlee for ever!"

"Oh, no, no," she cried, clasping her hands, and sinking into a chair; "if you go, who will stand between me and my mother?"

"Your mother!" Sir John Spottiswoode gazed upon Christobelle with astonishment. "Your mother!" he repeated.

"I cannot, will not marry Lord Farnborough," exclaimed Christobelle, almost bending in agonized feelings; "and who will save me from her anger!"

"Christobelle!" burst from her companion. She heeded not.

"I will not be driven into misery to minister to ambition. It is so cruel—so very cruel."

"Christobelle!" again ejaculated Sir John Spottiswoode, "look at me!"

Christobelle could not look up—she could not shake off her weight of misery. She sat with her hands pressed tightly upon her heart. "If you leave me, who will assist my father in warding off my reproaches? Who will soften her heart, and soothe my poor spirit? Who will plead for me, and save me?"

Sir John Spottiswoode knelt by her side, and took her cold hands in his. "Christobelle," he said, "I will plead for you, and save you. Will you recompense me in return? Will you love and cherish the heart which adores and blesses you?—which would suffer all evils, all indignities, for your dear sake?"

Christobelle sat transfixed. She dared not breathe, lest the vision should vanish from her sight.

"Shall I tell you, Christobelle, how I have waited for you, and lived upon the hope of making you love me, when I was far away? Shall I tell you how I watched over you, and lingered till I could ask for you?"

Christobelle could only smile a reply to her lover's questions, and she was again folded in his arms. Oh, happy, thrice happy moment!

"Shall I tell you," demanded her companion, "how your mother deceived me, yesterday morning, when I spoke of you upon the terrace? No, I will not allude to it now, since all my horrible fears are ended."

"Tell me nothing now," she replied, "but let me return to my room, to think—to assure myself this is not a vision—to consider all things over." Miss Wetheral rose.

"Will you go with me to our rocky seat, after breakfast," he asked, "if I resign you now? I am loth to lose you from my sight; stay a few moments longer, dearest."

"Not now; but I will walk with you to our old place of refuge. The bell will ring, and I am too agitated to meet my mother. I could meet no one at this moment."

"But, my Chrystal, one—one more embrace!" and Christobelle was encircled again in the arms of the best and dearest of human beings. She flew from his embrace to the sanctuary of her own apartment, and her first movement was prayer. She prayed for humility; she prayed for strength to bear her load of happiness; and she prayed that she might not love the creature beyond the Creator. When Christobelle rose from her knees, she sat down to think upon all these things.

Sir John and Lady Wetheral were at the breakfast-table, when Christobelle descended the second time. She did not once meet her lover's eye, for she could not endure its brightness; but her bosom had cast its load of sorrow, and her thoughts danced in the beams of a new happiness. Lady Wetheral was pleased by her appearance.

"My dear Bell, that little headache was a tour de jongle to get rid of us all. Your dreams were pleasant, for your eyes sparkle, and you look most amusingly demure."

Christobelle cast her eyes upon the ground; a deep and most distressing suffusion crimsoned her face.

"Perhaps," continued her ladyship, "your gay dreams may have prognosticated good. I have also my dream. I am dreaming that friends from Clanmoray will call to-day."

Christobelle was silent. She knew her mother dreamt not of the blow which awaited her. She knew her ladyship did not dream of her attachment to Sir John Spottiswoode. She could not awaken her at that moment to the fallacy of her hopes, neither could she lend herself to deception. She was aware her mother's ambitious wishes believed her young heart unable to contend against a dukedom, and that her fear of Sir John Spottiswoode had ceased from the morning of Lord Farnborough's visit. She had then chatted to his lordship, in the full flow of happy spirits, and her mother's ambition had "o'ertopped" its meaning. She could not lead her into deeper error.

Christobelle's appetite was gone, and she scarcely touched the small French roll which lay upon her plate. She had eaten and drank in sorrow, though the meal did not afford nourishment; but, in joy, the very sight of food became loathsome. It appeared to Christobelle's mind, that Sir John Spottiswoode's love—his expressed love—was intellectual food, sufficient for many days; that her spirit would renew under its blessed influence, and that creature-comforts suited only the labourer and the hireling. It was impossible to remain long at the breakfast-table. She felt the triumphant glance of her lover was upon her, and her heart longed for solitude, to question itself again upon its sudden happiness. She wanted to ask herself, over and over, if it was really true that she was loved by Sir John Spottiswoode—if it was really true that her affections were returned, and that she was happy?

Christobelle quitted the breakfast-room as early as politeness would admit, for the desultory conversation of her companions was painful to her thoughts, and disturbed her train of mental reasonings. Sir John Spottiswoode watched her retreat, but she could not meet his imploring look. She knew its purport, and she would surely keep her promise of walking with him to the rocky seat; but she must be alone for some time. She required a short season of solitude, to task her thoughts and collect her scattered energies; and, above all, she wished to see her father. Before Christobelle could surrender herself to the floating visions of joy which crowded on her brain, she must see her father!

Christobelle remained an hour walking up and down her dressing-room, ere she could quell the emotions of her soul, and then she descended into her father's study. He was reading; and, for some moments, an indefinable sensation of shame kept her silent. At last, Christobelle gained courage to address her kind and indulgent parent. "Papa, if you are not engaged, I wish to speak to you, if you please."

Sir John Wetheral laid down his book, and assured his child his attention was ever alive to his Chrystal's summons: but she became agitated and confused as she approached the subject. "Papa," she stammered forth, "I came to say something, and I don't know how to say it."

Sir John Wetheral smiled, and drew her to him. "Well, my love, which is it—my Lord Farnborough, or the humble Captain? It must be a novel subject which confuses my poor little companion, and it must be a love affair. Which of them is intending to deprive me of your society, Chrystal?"

"Neither, papa." Christobelle became still more distressed and confused at his mistake.

"Well, then, it must be the old duke, or that young man with the whip. I cannot approve of either, my love."

Christobelle threw her arms round his neck. "No, no, papa; think again."

"Ah, I have it, Chrystal. It is that young wanderer upon the terrace, who is watching the windows of your apartments so eagerly." Christobelle's head fell upon his shoulder. "Be not alarmed, my child. If there is a heart as kind as Boscawen's, and as affectionate as Pynsent's, it is the heart of Spottiswoode. Now go, and tell him what I say."

Christobelle was too confused and too joyful to speak her gratitude, but her heart was known to the parent who had loved and watched over her from the hour of her birth. He led her to the door. "Go, my best love, and tell your friend, and my friend, that he has set at rest all my hopes and fears for your welfare. Tell him it is only into his hands I would relinquish my child. There, fly to the poor puzzled youth, for he is lingering under your windows." Sir John Wetheral closed the door, and his daughter was alone in the hall, almost stunned by the rapidity of the morning's eventful incidents. She would have proceeded to the terrace, but her mother's voice called her to the sitting-room.

"Bell, is that you?"

Christobelle found her ladyship seated in a lounging chair, employed with her knotting. She looked up.

"I thought I recognized your step, my love; the fairy step, as Lord Farnborough calls it. I wish you to remain entirely in the grounds, Bell; indeed, I wish you not to quit the house this morning. Stay with me, and wind these silks; they plague and impede my work."

"I am only going to the cliff, mamma: if any body comes, you will be so good as to send for me, perhaps."

"My love, I cannot send the whole establishment in different directions for you, upon all occasions. Your walks become a serious evil."

"I will remain on the terrace, then, mamma: I have promised to join Sir John Spottiswoode."

"I do not approve of such daily walks, Bell—such wild roaming over the hills. I wish you to wind these obdurate skeins for me: you forget caution and propriety. I insist upon your avoidance of Sir John Spottiswoode this morning. Lord Farnborough must not always find you appropriated."

Sir John Spottiswoode appeared at the window which opened upon the terrace at this moment. Lady Wetheral kissed her hand to him, and he entered.

"My dear Spottiswoode, assist me to persuade my restive daughter that so much exercise is hurtful. I wish her to remain with me this morning."

"The day is so beautiful, Lady Wetheral, and the air so reviving!" he observed. "I am sure this fresh breeze will exhilarate her, and bring the roses into her cheeks."

Her ladyship raised her glass to her eye, and slightly examined her daughter's countenance.

"Bell, my love, your bloom is less vivid, but I think I prefer the delicacy of its present tone. I have very essential reasons for wishing you to remain with me this morning. I feel languid and unwell—very languid after the fatigues of yesterday." Lady Wetheral's voice grew fainter as she uttered the last sentence: and she sank back in her chair, in an attitude of languor. "My love, pray wind those skeins for me. I am a poor creature, you see."

It was useless to contend: Christobelle's destined walk must give way to her mother's quiet determination that she should not become conspicuous with Sir John Spottiswoode, and it was her duty to yield to her wishes. Christobelle relinquished, therefore, all hopes of a tÊte-À-tÊte with her lover, and prepared to obey silks. She had not courage to meet the disappointed eye of her companion, nor indeed did she wish him to discover, by the expression of her own orbs, how severely she suffered by her obedience.

Sir John Spottiswoode was silent under the existing order of things, and forbore to offer an opinion upon its unfitness; but he quietly assisted Christobelle's operations, and held the skeins for her better convenience in winding them. The whole affair arranged itself in such perfect pantomime, that she could not resist a smile and glance at her assistant, which amply repaid her self-control. An expression of gratified happiness played upon his manly countenance, and lighted up his eyes, which communicated itself to Christobelle's heart, and caused intense gratitude for the blessing conferred upon her in the gift of his affections. She felt that she could meet her mother's opposition, her irony, her bitterness, with patience, since she had won all that seemed valuable upon earth—all that was excellent, and affectionate, and kind—the heart of Sir John Spottiswoode. She had received the blessing too, at the very moment when her fears believed him indifferent to her elicited by Fanny Ponsonby, and continued by the surmise of Captain Ponsonby; yet it was a change so suddenly effected, that she could scarcely believe in its reality. Her lover knelt before her, holding the extended skein, yet she could not place faith in the certainty that all was not a dream: she heard her mother speak, and yet it appeared a vision, from which, she trusted, she might never wake.

"My dear Spottiswoode, you are Hercules with the distaff."

"I have made my choice too, like Hercules, Lady Wetheral. I have selected virtue, and I find I have also gained pleasure, for they are seldom separate, after all. Pleasure does not include virtue always: but virtue rarely moves without pleasure; I find it so now. I am virtuously employed, and it is my greatest pleasure. I have great pleasure in assisting your labours, Lady Wetheral."

"You appear to great advantage, Spottiswoode; but I hope you are not making a pain of pleasure. Bell has already broken her thread twice."

"Miss Wetheral is all kindness; she bears I am very trying to her patience. Another thread broken! My dear Miss Wetheral, be calm."

"I believe I must relinquish it, for a few moments," Christobelle observed; "my hands are so tremulous."

"I am going to lecture you, Miss Wetheral, to spare your mamma the trouble of pronouncing an exhortation in her languid state. Pray, make another trial, and hold your hand steadily—so." Sir John Spottiswoode pressed her hand affectionately, and held it as he continued—"Now, my dear pupil, you must try to feel tranquil, and be assured all efforts succeed, if they are made with perseverance."

"Very well," said Christobelle, laughingly; "my next effort shall be boldly made."

"But, stay," he added, detaining the hand she would have withdrawn, "stay one moment, while I examine this entanglement." Sir John Spottiswoode bent forward to conceal his movement and Christobelle's confusion from Lady Wetheral's notice. "This is rather a puzzling affair at this moment, Miss Wetheral, but we must succeed in time by mutual perseverance—if you are calm, and I am near you, to offer counsel. Do you perfectly understand me?"

"I believe I do. I am to be calm, and try to unravel this puzzling work in patience. I quite understand you, and I will try to do so."

"When did my pupil ever misunderstand my words?" he replied, with energy; and, forgetful of his own cautions and Lady Wetheral's presence, he caught Christobelle's hand to his lips. She was terrified at the action, but her mother had little time to express her indignation, for the door was suddenly thrown open, and the servant announced Lord Farnborough.

His lordship entered with a heated and raised complexion, and he attentively surveyed the apartment, as he spoke.

"So I am before him at last. I thought I should find the fox in his earth, for he was off an hour ago: this is capital."

"My dear lord, you are most welcome. This is really a neighbourly action." Lady Wetheral rose promptly from her languid repose, and received her visitor with bright smiles of pleasure. Lord Farnborough recollected himself, and recovered his self-possession, as he paid his devoirs to the party.

"I fear I came in rather hastily, Lady Wetheral; but you will excuse my eager manner, when you learn its motive. I thought Ponsonby had been before me. We have had a race for it, I assure you."

"Captain Ponsonby has not called, I believe," replied Lady Wetheral, in tones of mingled triumph and hope, "unless he is closeted with my husband."

"Ha!" exclaimed his lordship, "then he has preceded me? Lady Wetheral, allow me an immediate conference, if you please."

"Certainly, my lord; we will retire into my own sitting-room."

"Here, if you please, for time is very precious. Will you allow me to lead you upon the terrace, Lady Wetheral? You must excuse my impetuosity."

Lady Wetheral accepted Lord Farnborough's offered arm, and she was hurried upon the terrace; but not a glance or movement on her part betokened fatigue, or a remnant of her past languor. Her step was firm, and her eyes beamed with expected triumph.

"Chrystal, my own Chrystal," cried Sir John Spottiswoode, as the receding figures were lost to sight, "if ever I loved and admired you more truly and fondly than I fancied I could do, it was at the moment you renounced your plans to obey a parent, with a smile on your lip, and regret in your dear heart."

"But my real misery is yet to come," exclaimed Christobelle, though she felt herself pressed to the warm heart of her lover, and there was blessedness in the pressure.

"But why so?" he asked tenderly; "what has Chrystal to fear?"

"Lord Farnborough's visit is connected with myself; I know it as surely as if I heard the words spoken. I know I have so much to endure from my mother!"

"But you are mine, Chrystal; and who can take you from me now? Are you not my own, my very own?"

"I know it: I feel secure of you; but my mother will say such harsh things!"

"Fear not, my beloved. If we are true to each other, surely we can endure a little trial of patience."

Yes, he spoke truly. Christobelle could endure a long, long trial for his love. She could suffer a protracted misery, to deserve a heart so excellent. She had, too, a dear hope to sustain her, for her father approved her sentiments, and he would shelter her from the harsh reproaches meet her lover's entreaty to be patient with smiles. She told him she would endure all things with firmness—that she would not anticipate evil. She called upon him to rejoice with her in her father's approval, and she told him of her interview and confession. How swiftly did their short tÊte-À-tÊte glide by! and how delightedly did Christobelle listen to his fears respecting Lord Farnborough!

"But why did you not tell me all this? Why did you suppose such incredible things in silence—to leave me in such cruel and useless suspense? Oh, Spottiswoode, one word yesterday morning, and all this had been spared us!"

"No, I was silenced by your mother for ever, in our morning lounge upon the terrace. Had you not disclaimed all idea of Lord Farnborough this morning, and had not hope rushed into my heart unbidden, by the confession of your misery, I had never dared to breathe a word of my sentiments. I believed you loved Lord Farnborough."

"She could not tell you that! Surely my mother did not tell you so—oh! she never told you I cared for him!" Christobelle shuddered at the thought; but the encircling arms of her lover restrained the movement which impelled her to start from her chair.

"I was assured your heart was on the point of acknowledging Lord Farnborough's power, Chrystal—and your mother spoke in terms of proud approval."

"Oh, my mother, my mother!" exclaimed Christobelle, weeping at the thought of her cruel policy; "I might have been sacrificed for ever to your ambitious wishes! I should have been given in utter wretchedness to a man I did not love, and consigned to hopeless misery!"

"Weep not, dearest," said her companion, "and I will tell you how your presence shall brighten and bless the scenes of my solitary wanderings at Alverton—how it shall illumine my future life, and reward me for my patient waiting. Did you but know, my love, how I feared you would be appropriated, ere I could claim an interest in your heart, and, yet, how firmly I resolved to leave you to the working of its own resolves, you would pity and love me for my resolution."

"I do love you!" Christobelle concealed her face upon his shoulder. They were silent for some moments, but his lips were pressed upon her forehead, and she was in his arms—both too engrossed, with the certainty of being at last happy, to break the deep silence. Christobelle forgot her mother—she forgot Lord Farnborough; she thought not of his errand, or her future anger. She was in a trance:—she thought all reproach—all suffering—all unkindness, had no further power to wound, for she belonged to her lover, and he would shelter her, as he did at that moment, in his beloved embrace. The world without might struggle with deep and mighty commotion—it might drink deeply of the elements of strife, and do battle with the stirring natures of mortality—but she was safe from strife and suffering now. She had given herself, heart and soul, to the man she loved dearer than herself, or aught in creation besides. She was the promised bride of Sir John Spottiswoode!