It was a sorrowful morning at the Villa Caprini on the 22d of November. Agincourt had come to take his last farewell of his kind friends, half heart-broken that he was not permitted even to see poor Layton before he went. Quackinbose, however, was obdurate on the point, and would suffer no one to pass the sick man's door. Mr. Ogden sat in the carriage as the boy dashed hurriedly into the house to say “Good-bye.” Room after room he searched in vain. No one to be met with. What could it mean?—the drawing-room, the library, all empty!

“Are they all out, Fenton?” cried he, at last.

“No, my Lord, Sir William was here a moment since, Miss Leslie is in her room, and Mrs. Morris, I think, is in the garden.”

To the garden he hurried off at once, and just caught sight of Mrs. Morris and Clara, as, side by side, they turned the angle of an alley.

“At last!” cried he, as he came up with them. “At last I have found some one. Here have I been this half-hour in search of you all, over house and grounds. Why, what's the matter?—what makes you look so grave?”

“Don't you know?—haven't you heard?” cried Mrs. Morris, with a sigh.

“Heard what?”

“Heard that Charles has gone off,—started for England last night, with the intention of joining the first regiment ordered for India.”

“I wish to Heaven he 'd have taken me with him!” cried the boy, eagerly.

“Very possibly,” said she, dryly; “but Charles was certainly to blame for leaving a home of happiness and affection in this abrupt way. I don't see how poor Sir William is ever to get over it, not to speak of leaving May Leslie. I hope, Agincourt, this is not the way you 'll treat the young lady you 're betrothed to.”

“I 'll never get myself into any such scrape, depend on't. Poor Charley!”

“Why not poor May?” whispered Mrs. Morris.

“Well, poor May, too, if she cared for him; but I don't think she did.”

“Oh, what a shame to say so! I 'm afraid you young gentlemen are brought up in great heresies nowadays, and don't put any faith in love.”

Had the boy been an acute observer, he would have marked how little the careless levity of the remark coincided with the assumed sadness of her former manner; but he never noticed this.

“Well,” broke in the boy, bluntly, “why not marry him, if she cared for him? I don't suppose you 'll ask me to believe that Charley would have gone away if she had n't refused him?”

“What a wily serpent it is!” said Mrs. Morris, smiling; “wanting to wring confidences from me whether I will or no.”

“No. I 'll be hanged if I am wily,—am I, Clara?”

What Clara answered was not very distinct, for her face was partly covered with her handkerchief.

“There, you see Clara is rather an unhappy witness to call to character. You 'd better come to me for a reputation,” said Mrs. Morris, laughingly.

“It's no matter, I'm going away now,” said he, sorrowfully.

“Going away,—where?”

“Going back to England; they 've sent a man to capture me, as if I was a wild beast, and he's there at the door now,—precious impatient, too, I promise you, because I 'm keeping the post-horses waiting.”

“Oh, make him come in to luncheon. He's a gentleman,—isn't he?”

“I should think he is! A great political swell, too, a something in the Admiralty, or the Colonies, or wherever it is.”

“Well, just take Clara, and she 'll find out May for you, and send your travelling-companion into the garden here. I'll do the honors to him till lunch-time.” And Mrs. Morris now turned into a shady walk, to think over what topics she should start for the amusement of the great official from Downing Street.

If we were going to tell tales of her,—which we are not,—we might reveal how it happened that she had seen a good deal of such sort of people, at one era of her life, living in a Blue-Book atmosphere, and hearing much out of “Hansard.” We merely mention the fact; as to the how, it is not necessary to refer to it. Not more are we bound to say why she did not retain for such high company what, in French, is called “the most distinguished consideration,”—why, on the contrary, she thought and pronounced them the most insupportable of all bores. Our readers cannot fail to have remarked and appreciated the delicate reserve we have unvaryingly observed towards this lady,—a respectful courtesy that no amount of our curiosity could endanger. Now, “charming women,” of whom Mrs. M. was certainly one, have a great fondness for little occasional displays of their fascinations upon strangers. Whether it is that they are susceptible of those emotions of vanity that sway smaller natures, or whether it be merely to keep their fascinations from rusting by want of exercise, is hard to say; but so is the fact, and the enjoyment is all the higher when, by any knowledge of a speciality, they can astonish their chance acquaintance. For what Lord Agincourt had irreverently styled the “great political swell,” she therefore prepared herself with such memories as some years of life had stored for her. “He'll wonder,” thought she, “where I came by all my Downing Street slang. I 'll certainly puzzle him with my cant of office.” And so thinking, she walked briskly along in the clear frosty air over the crisped leaves that strewed the walk, till she beheld a person approaching from the extreme end of the alley.

The distance between them was yet considerable, and yet how was it that she seemed to falter in her steps, and suddenly, clasping her heart with both hands, appeared seized with a sort of convulsion? At the same instant she threw a terrified glance on every side, and looked like one prepared for sudden flight. To these emotions, more rapid in their course than it has taken time to describe them, succeeded a cold, determined calm, in which her features regained their usual expression, though marked by a paleness like death.

The stranger came slowly forward, examining the trees and flowers as he passed along, and peering with his double eye-glass to read the names attached to whatever was rarest. Affecting to be gathering flowers for a bouquet, she stooped frequently, till the other came near, and then, as he removed his hat to salute her, she threw back her veil and stood, silent, before him.

“Madam! madam!” cried he, in a voice of such intense agony as showed that he was almost choked for utterance. “How is this, madam?” said he, in a tone of indignant demand. “How is this?”

“I have really no explanation to offer, sir,” said she, in a cold, low voice. “My astonishment is great as your own; this meeting is not of my seeking. I need scarcely say so much.”

“I do not know that!—by Heaven I do not!” cried he, in a passion.

“You are surely forgetting, sir, that we are no longer anything to each other, and thus forgetting the deference due to me as a stranger?”

“I neither forget nor forgive!” said he, sternly.

“Happily, sir, you will not be called upon to do either. I no longer bear your name—”

“Oh that you had never borne it!” cried he, in agony.

“There is at least one sentiment we agree in, sir,—would that I never had!” said she; and a slight—very slight—tremor shook the words as she spoke them.

“Tell me at once, madam, what do you mean by this surprise? I know all your skill in accidents,—what does this one portend?”

“You are too flattering, sir, believe me,” said she, with an easy smile. “I have plotted nothing,—I have nothing to plot,—at least, in which you are concerned. The unhappy bond that once united us is loosed forever; but I do not see that even harsh memories are to suggest bad manners.”

“I am no stranger to your flippancy, madam. You have made me acquainted with all your merits.”

“You were going to say virtues, George,—confess you were?” said she, coquettishly.

“Gracious mercy, woman! can you dare—”

“My dear Mr. Ogden,” broke she in, gently, “I can dare to be that which you have just told me was impossible for you,—forgetful and forgiving.”

“Oh, madam, this is, indeed, generous!” said be, with a bitter mockery.

“Well, sir, it were no bad thing if there were a little generosity between us. Don't fancy that all the forgiveness should come from you; don't imagine that I am not plaintiff as well as defendant.” Then, suddenly changing her tone to one of easy indifference, she said, “And so your impression is, sir, that the Cabinet will undergo no change?”

She looked hurriedly round as she spoke, and saw Sir William Heathcote coming rapidly towards them.

“Sir William, let me present to you Mr. Ogden, a name you must be familiar with in the debates,” said she, introducing them.

“I hope Lord Agincourt has not been correct in telling me that you are pressed for time, Mr. Ogden. I trust you will give us at least a day.”

“Not an hour, not a minute, sir. I mean,” added he, ashamed of his violence, “I have not an instant to spare.”

“You 'll scarcely profit by leaving us this morning,” resumed Sir William. “The torrents between this and Massa are all full, and perfectly impassable.”

“Pray accept Sir William's wise counsels, sir,” said she, with the sweetest of all smiles.

A stern look, and a muttered something inaudible, was all his reply.

“What a dreary servitude must political life be, when one cannot bestow a passing hour upon society!” said she, plaintively.

“Mr. Ogden could tell us that the rewards are worthy of the sacrifices,” said Sir William, blandly.

“Are they better than the enjoyments of leisure, the delights of friendship, and the joys of home?” asked she, half earnestly.

“By Heaven, madam!” cried Ogden, and then stopped; when Sir William broke in,—

“Mrs. Morris is too severe upon public men. They are rarely called on to make such sacrifices as she speaks of.”

While thus talking, they had reached the terrace in front of the house, where Agincourt was standing between May and Clara, holding a hand of each.

“Are you ready?” asked Ogden, abruptly.

“Ready; but very sorry to go,” said the boy, bluntly.

“May we not offer you some luncheon, Mr. Ogden? You will surely take a glass of wine with us?”

“Nothing, sir, nothing. Nothing beneath the same roof with this woman,” muttered he, below his breath; but her quick ears caught the words, and she whispered,—

“An unkind speech, George,—most unkind!”

While Agincourt was taking his last affectionate farewells of the girls and Sir William, Mr. Ogden had entered the carriage, and thrown himself deeply back into a corner. Mrs. Morris, however, leaned over the door, and looked calmly, steadfastly at him.

“Won't you say good-bye?” said she, softly.

A look of insulting contempt was all his answer.

“Not one kind word at parting? Well, I am better than you; here's my hand.” And she held out her fair and taper fingers towards him.

“Fiend,—not woman!” was his muttered expression as he turned away.

“And a pleasant journey,” said she, as if finishing a speech; while turning, she gave her hand to Agincourt: “Yes, to be sure, you may take a boy's privilege, and give me a kiss at parting,” said she; while the youth, blushing a deep crimson, availed himself of the permission.

“There they go,” said Sir William, as the horses rattled down the avenue; “and a finer boy and a grumpier companion it has rarely been my lot to meet with. A thousand pardons, my dear Mrs. Morris, if he is a friend of yours.”

“I knew him formerly,” said she, coldly. “I can't say I ever liked him.”

“I remember his name,” said Sir William, in a sort of hesitating way; “there was some story or other about him,—either his wife ran away, or he eloped with somebody's wife.”

“I 'm sure it must have been the former,” said Mrs. Morris, laughing. “Poor gentleman, he does not give one the impression of a Lothario. But whom have we here? The O'Shea, I declare! Look to your heart, May dearest; take my word for it, he never turned out so smartly without dreams of conquest.” Mr. O'Shea cantered up at the same moment, followed by Joe in a most accurate “get up” as groom, and, dismounting, advanced, hat in hand, to salute the party.

There are blank days in this life of ours in which even a pleasant visitor is a bore,—times in which dulness and seclusion are the best company, and it is anything but a boon to be broken in upon. It was the O'Shea's evil fortune to have fallen on one of these. It was in vain he recounted his club gossip about politics and party to Sir William; in vain he told Mrs. Morris the last touching episode of town scandal; in vain, even, did he present a fresh bouquet of lily-of-the-valley to May: each in turn passed him on to the other, till he found himself alone with Clara, who sat sorrowfully over the German lesson Layton was wont to help her with.

“What's the matter with you all?” cried he, half angrily, as he walked the room from end to end. “Has there any misfortune happened?”

“Charley has left us, Agincourt is just gone, the pleasant house is broken up; is not that enough to make us sad?” said she, sorrowfully.

“If you ever read Tommy Moore, you 'd know it was only another reason to make the most of the friends that were left behind,” said he, adjusting his cravat at the glass, and giving himself a leer of knowing recognition. “That's the time of day, Clara!”

She looked at him, somewhat puzzled to know whether he had alluded to his sentiment, his whiskers, which he was now caressing, or the French clock on the mantelpiece.

“Is that one of Layton's?” said he, carelessly turning over a water-colored sketch of a Lucchese landscape.

“Yes,” said she, replacing it carefully in a portfolio.

“He won't do many more of them, I suspect.”

“How so?—why?—what do you mean?” cried she, grasping his arm, while a death-like paleness spread over her features.

“Just that he's going as fast as he can. What's the mischief! is it fainting she is?”

With a low, weak sigh, the girl had relaxed her hold, and, staggering backwards, sunk senseless on the floor. O'Shea tugged violently at the bell: the servant rushed in, and immediately after Mrs. Morris herself; but by this time Clara had regained consciousness, and was able to utter a few words.

“I was telling her of Layton's being so ill,” began he, in a whisper, to Mrs. Morris.

“Of course you were,” said she, pettishly. “For an inconvenience or an indiscretion, what can equal an Irishman?”

The speech was uttered as she led her daughter away, leaving the luckless O'Shea alone to ruminate over the politeness.

“There it is!” cried he, indignantly. “From the 'Times' down to the Widow Morris, it's the same story,—the Irish! the Irish!—and it's no use fighting against it. Smash the Minister in Parliament, and you 'll be told it was a speech more adapted to an Irish House of Commons; break the Sikh squares with the bayonet, and the cry is 'Tipperary tactics.' Isn't it a wonder how we bear it! I ask any man, did he ever hear of patience like ours?”

It was just as his indignation had reached this crisis that May Leslie hurriedly came into the room to search for a locket Clara had dropped when she fainted. While O'Shea assisted her in her search, he bethought whether the favorable moment had not arrived to venture on the great question of his own fate. It was true, he was still smarting under a national disparagement; but the sarcasm gave a sort of reckless energy to his purpose, and he mattered, “Now, or never, for it!”

“I suppose it was a keepsake,” said he, as he peered under the tables after the missing object.

“I believe so. At least, the poor child attaches great value to it.”

“Oh dear!” sighed O'Shea. “If it was an old bodkin that was given me by one I loved, I 'd go through fire and water to get possession of it.”

“Indeed!” said she, smiling at the unwonted energy of the protestation.

“I would,” repeated he, more solemnly. “It's not the value of the thing itself I 'd ever think of. There's the ring was wore by my great-grandmother Ram, of Ram's Mountain; and though it's a rose-amethyst, worth three hundred guineas, it's only as a family token it has merit in my eyes.”

Now this speech, discursive though it seemed, was artfully intended by the Honorable Member, for while incidentally throwing out claims to blood and an ancestry, it cunningly insinuated what logicians call the À fortiori,—how the man who cared so much for his grandmother would necessarily adore his wife.

“We must give it up, I see,” said May. “She has evidently not lost it here.”

“And it was a heart, you say!” sighed the Member.

“Yes, a little golden heart with a ruby clasp.”

“Oh dear! And to think that I've lost my own in the self-same spot”

“Yours! Why, had you a locket too?”

“No, my angel!” cried he, passionately, as he clasped her hand, and fell on his knee before her, “but my heart,—a heart that lies under your feet this minute! There, don't turn away,—don't! May I never, if I know what's come over me these two months back! Night or day, it is the one image is always before me,—one voice always in my ears.”

“How tiresome that must be!” said she, laughing merrily. “There, pray let go my hand; this is only folly, and not in very good taste, either.”

“Folly, you call it? Love is madness, if you like. Out of this spot I 'll never stir till I know my fate. Say the word, and I'm the happiest man or the most abject creature—You 're laughing again,—I wonder how you can be so cruel!”

“Really, sir, if I regard your conduct as only absurd, it is a favorable view of it,” said she, angrily.

“Do, darling of my soul! light of my eyes! loadstar of my whole destiny!—do take a favorable view of it,” said he, catching at her last words.

“I have certainly given you no pretence to make me ridiculous, sir,” said she, indignantly.

“Ridiculous! ridiculous!” cried he, in utter amazement. “Sure it's my hand I 'm offering you. What were you thinking of?”

“I believe I apprehend you aright, sir, and have only to say, that, however honored by your proposal, it is one I must decline.”

“Would n't you tell me why, darling? Would n't you say your reasons, my angel? Don't shake your head, my adored creature, but turn this way, and say, 'Gorman, your affection touches me: I see your love for me; but I 'm afraid of you: you 're light and fickle and inconstant; you 're spoiled by flattery among the women, and deference and respect amongst the men. What can I hope from a nature so pampered?'”

“No, in good truth, Mr. O'Shea, not one of these objections have occurred to me; my answer was dictated by much narrower and more selfish considerations. At all events, sir, it is final; and I need only appeal to your sense of good-breeding never to resume a subject I have told you is distasteful to me.” And with a heightened color, and a glance which certainly betokened no softness, she turned away and left him.

“Distasteful! distasteful!” muttered he over her last words. “Women! women! women! there's no knowing ye—the devil a bit! What you 'd like, and what you would n't is as great a secret as the philosopher's stone! Heigho!” sighed he, as he opened his cravat, and drew in a long breath. “I did n't take a canter like that, these five years, and it has sent all the blood to my head. I hope she 'll not mention it. I hope she won't tell it to the widow,” muttered he, as he walked to the window for air. “She's the one would take her own fun out of it. Upon my conscience, this is mighty like apoplexy,” said he, as, sitting down, he fanned himself with a book.

“Poor Mr. O'Shea!” said a soft voice; and, looking up, he saw Mrs. Morris, as, leaning over the back of his chair, she bent on him a look half quizzical and half compassionate. “Poor Mr. O'Shea!”

“Why so? How?” asked he, with an affected jocularity. “Well,” said she, with a faint sigh, “you 're not the first man has drawn a blank in the lottery.” “I suppose not,” muttered he, half sulkily. “Nor will it prevent you trying your luck another time,” said she, in the same tone.

“What did she say? How did she mention it?” whispered he, confidentially.

“She did n't believe you were serious at first; she thought it a jest. Why did you fall on your knees? it's never done now, except on the stage.”

“How did I know that?” cried he, peevishly. “One ought to be proposing every day of the week to keep up with the fashions.”

“If you had taken a chair at her side, a little behind hers, so as not to scrutinize her looks too closely, and stolen your hand gently forward, as if to touch the embroidery she was at work on, and then, at last, her hand, letting your voice grow lower and softer at each word, till the syllables would seem to drop, distilled from your heart—”

“The devil a bit of that I could do at all,” cried he, impatiently. “If I can't make the game off the balls,” said he, taking a metaphor from his billiard experiences, “I 'm good for nothing. But will she come round? Do you think she'll change?”

“No; I 'm afraid not,” said she, shaking her head. “Faix! she might do worse,” said he, resolutely. “Do you know that she might do worse? If the mortgages was off, O'Shea-Ville is seventeen hundred a year; and, for family, we beat the county.”

“I 've no doubt of it,” replied she, calmly. “There was ancestors of mine hanged by Henry the Second, and one was strangled in prison two reigns before,” said he, proudly. “The O'Sheas was shedding their blood for Ireland eight centuries ago! Did you ever hear of Mortagh Dhub O'Shea?”

“Never!” said she, mournfully.

“There it is,” sighed he, drearily; “mushrooms is bigger, nowadays, than oak-trees.” And with this dreary reflection he arose and took his hat.

“Won't you dine here? I'm sure they expect you to stop for dinner,” said she; but whether a certain devilry in her laughing eye made the speech seem insincere, or that his own distrust prompted it, he said,—

“No, I 'll not stop; I could n't eat a bit if I did.”

“Come, come, you mustn't take it to heart in this way,” said she, coaxingly.

“Do you think you could do anything for me?” said he, taking her hand in his; “for, to tell truth, it's my pride is hurt. As we say in the House of Commons, now that my name is on the Bill, I 'd like to carry it through. You understand that feeling?”

“Perhaps I do,” said she, doubtfully, while, throwing herself into a chair, she leaned back, so as to display a little more than was absolutely and indispensably necessary of a beautifully rounded ankle and instep. Mr. O'Shea saw it, and marked it. There was no denying she was pretty,—pretty, too, in those feminine and delicate graces which have special attractions for men somewhat hackneyed in life, and a “little shoulder-sore with the collar” of the world. As the Member gazed at the silky curls of her rich auburn hair, the long fringes that shadowed her fair cheeks, and the graceful lines of her beautiful figure, he gave a sigh,—one of those a man inadvertently heaves when contemplating some rare object in a shop-window, which his means forbid him to purchase. It was only as he heaved a second and far deeper one, that she looked up, and with an arch drollery of expression all her own, said, as if answering him, “Yes, you are quite right; but you know you could n't afford it.”

“What do you mean,—not afford what?” cried he, blushing deeply.

“Nor could I, either,” continued she, heedless of his interruption.

“Faith, then,” cried he, with energy, “it was just what I was thinking of.”

“But, after all,” said she, gravely, “it wouldn't do; privateers must never sail in company. I believe there's nothing truer than that.”

He continued to look at her, with a strange mixture of admiration and astonishment.

“And so,” said she, rising, “let us part good friends, who may hope each to serve the other one of these days. Is that a bargain?” And she held out her hand.

“I swear to it!” cried he, pressing his lips to her fingers. “And now that you know my sentiments—”

“Hush!” cried she, with a gesture of warning, for she heard the voices of servants in the corridor. “Trust me; and good-bye!”

“One ought always to have an Irishman amongst one's admirers,” said she, as, once more alone, she arranged her ringlets before the glass; “if there's any fighting to be done, he's sure not to fail you.”