loved-as never I believed I could love woman born. In you I have found the happiness I never thought to find in the world again: I had looked forward even to forgetting, with you, the grief that had rendered desolate my past life. Think, then, if I do not suffer! Think what the power of my love must be that has made me yield what no other consideration upon earth should have done-the right of punishing him. Kate, do you think, if I looked only to make my own happiness, that I should part from you? But think! think what a union would that be!-the blood of him who robbed me of my sister, who brought that dear mother to her death-that gentle, good, enduring, pious mother -one, hers and his! Nature would condemn it-she would rise from her grave to upbraid me. Never, Kate, never!"

66

Yet, if

you had not learned this cruel truth, dear Philip, you would not have been less happy."

"Kate, it can never be; much as I have loved

"You love me still; oh, Philip! you love me still; you cannot but love me, dear; while you live you will love me. What will you do? How will you forget me? How will you drive the thought of me from you? -the poor Kate who loves you, whom you have loved

so well."

He had turned from her, and leaned his face against the wall; she clinging to his hand, still spoke, weeping: "You cannot forget-oh, Philip! I know so well. Have I not read the dear good heart? I know it will pine, and grieve, and break, like my own. For you will not forget me. Our happy days; our long, long, quiet talks; our walks and peaceful evenings, and the hundred things

—the books, the songs, the music-all will remind you. You cannot forget! Philip! oh, do not go-my love! my dear, for your own sake, I pray you! See, listen! oh, do but turn to me!-your poor Kate, that has never, never grieved you that never will. Oh, Philip! think of the weary days to come and go, and never see me never to hear me speak. You have said you loved my voice, and will you never want to hear it? and who will take my place, who will so dearly love you ?— who'll be your own, your very own, your Kate ? Ah, Philip! have you not told me that the world seemed new, and full of happiness, since you had loved me, that was so dark before; and what will it be now? Dear love, it is not I have done you wrong! Oh, hear me! I will go wherever you may wish-I'll leave them all-go to another country. And if at times sad recollections come, I'll strive to comfort you; or I'll wait with patience till the shadow's past. Dear one,

let me atone for, with my care and love, a part at least of what others have made you suffer: you never shall regret that you forgave, in me, the faults that have indeed fallen heavily-Oh, do not take away your hand! Philip! my Philip! Is there none to speak for me? Oh, Philip—!”

She had sunk upon her knees, in the earnestness of her petition, still clinging to his hand; but he withdrew it; and as she, in the bewilderment of her agony, would have fallen on her face, he lifted her to the couch. Unable to speak, he pressed his lips to hers, in one long kiss; and with a silent adieu to the aunt, who then entered the room, he quitted the house for ever.

CHAPTER THIRTY-FIFTH,

THE CONQUEROR.

"Moments there are in life-alas, how few!-
When casting cold prudential doubts aside,
We take a generous impulse for our guide,
And following promptly what the heart thinks best,
Commit to Providence the rest;

Sure that no after reckoning will arise,

Of shame or sorrow, for the heart is wise,
And happy they who thus in faith obey
Their better nature."

SOUTHEY.

"In life's delight, in death's dismay,
In storm and sunshine, night and day,
In health, in sickness, in decay,

Here and hereafter-I am thine!

GOLDEN LEGEND.

THERE is something amusing in the pertinacity with which the world divests every public character of all claims to the usual incidents and belongings of a domestic life. The most trivial arrangements or movements are always to be attributed to any but the ordinary motives which dictate those of other people.

Thus when Philip Steyne, the unrivalled horsetamer, suddenly disappeared from the gaze of an admiring and enthusiastic public, and the absence, totally unaccounted for, was prolonged indefinitely, of the thousand-and-one singular and marvellous reports successively floated through the town, not one touched

upon the possibility of domestic affliction, or the many disappointments and mischances that flesh is proverbially and practically heir to.

But, long before the twelvemonth was expired, indignation, annoyance, regret and wonder, had been exhausted; and when eighteen months had passed away, though the huge red posters displaying the name so well known, with the impracticable postures, wholly unknown, still held their ground, at least in part, or fluttered mournfully from lone bye-wall or dreary hoarding—some new favourite held the place in the public mind which the subject of these flaming announcements so lately occupied.

And where was he the while?

I think I have let you sufficiently into the character of the principal of my story for you to be aware that he is not one to falter and hesitate in a resolution once formed. Little as you may be disposed to agree with his determination, you will be certain that it will not be suffered to fail, for want of stern will to bear it out.

One brief, unanswerable letter, Steyne wrote to the aunt of his betrothed, informing her of just so much, in just such terms, as he knew she would fully comprehend and enter into. That lady, in all the agitation and distress attendant upon the altered state of affairs, derived one amount of solid gratification from the fact that it was all attributable in some way to the unworthy nephew-in-law, whom she thereupon renounced with new fervour, and who very considerately lost no time in removing himself from the neighbourhood of her unlimited indignation.

In three days Philip had quitted London; in two

more, England. And from that time, until we again meet with him, he had scarcely slept two nights in the same town or village. At such pace as was compatible with the reputation of sanity, he had traversed the southern countries of the continent, retracing his steps here, continuing his journey there, suddenly quitting this spot, and as unreasonably halting at another, in a style that made it least a matter of congratulation (to be guilty of an Irishism) to the man who did not happen to be his companion. Philip was intent upon doing that of which every day, every hour indeed, seemed but to increase the difficulty; and finally Reason, as if disgusted at such total ignoring of her office, alienated herself from the offender, leaving him in an obscure Swiss village, at the mercy of harpy innkeepers, a raging fever, and the reputation of a rich Englishman.

Not far, perhaps you are thinking, from rightly served, and how much too kind Fate proves herself, when I relate how-the weary probation of that fever passed (you will thank me for sparing you that)-Philip awoke to a delicious sense of convalescent weakness, to find himself surrounded by English comforts, and to hear, in whispered tones, English tongues discoursing of his state hopefully-which speakers, at his stirring, shewed themselves in the persons of a portly doctor and a sweet-faced softly-speaking nurse; an old friend, too-poor Cary Hinton, no other-now a middle-aged and staid-looking, though still pretty woman.

Now you know these surprises are not to my fancy, as being generally beyond reason; and, above all, apt to shake the nerves of fever patients-though I believe no convalescent ever was much the worse for a