still, and look on, than she became extremely anxious to be of service to them in reality, and having luckily witnessed, while yet but a child, a good many performances of the same kind at a merry-making mansion near her home, she was able to give many hints that were really of importance. As the business went on, and the second and third charades were formed, her courage increased, because not a word was said about her being expected to act. She no longer kept her eyes fixed either upon her needle or the floor, nor did she tremble as heretofore at the sound of her own voice. There was something in the very nature of the office assigned her that seemed congenial to her spirit. A sweeter-tempered creature never lived than Mary Bell, and though her constitutional shyness had of late been irritated by the eternal quizzing, nay, mockery, of her cousins, into an almost morbid desire. of escaping observation, the idea of being useful to others made her forget herself, and released her for a time from that terrible sensitiveness which genuine shyness produces, and which is probably more painful in its effects than those who have never suffered from it can easily imagine. The great source of Mary Bell's present relief from this suffering, however, did not so much arise from her own increased courage, as from the total absorption of all the faculties of all her cousins in preparing themselves for exhibition. Mary Bell had been the standing joke of the family ever since she entered the house, and never had the shafts of their boasted wit wanted an object since she had been within their reach. But now they had no time for fun, no leisure to invent accidents which should make Mary Bell look like a fool. All the energies of their nature were devoted to appearing to the greatest possible advantage in their charades, and Mary Bell was often blushing from pleasure instead of shyness without their being at all aware of it.

The individual, who beyond all comparison enjoyed all these rehearsals the most, was Charles Wilmot. Though by no means addicted to what the Belmont family called fun, he was very fond of amusement, and these charades amused him in many ways. He had a remarkable power both of conceiving character and representing it; and the graceful facility with which he could improviser a part was quite extraordinary. Without being at all a vain man, he liked greatly to exercise this power, it was a great amusement to him; and, moreover, it was very pleasant to feel himself of such great importance to the troop as he was speedily made aware of being. The three Miss Belmonts were very handsome, and being constantly the object of attention and admiration to three very handsome girls can scarcely ever be disagreeable to any young man of five-and-twenty. But this was not all that Charles Wilmot had to interest, to charm, to enchant him. Who has not felt the value of a smile from those who smile rarely? Who has not felt the strange, mysterious attraction of extreme reserve when it relaxes into gentle kindness of manner towards themselves? It was impossible to watch the versatile talents of Wilmot as Mary Bell now did, without being charmed by them; and it was equally so for a young girl who believed herself and her observations to be totally overlooked amidst the busy interest of what was going on, to keep such watchful guard over her countenance as to prevent its expression from being read by one who, despite his occupation, had still leisure enough to watch it keenly. Little did Mary Bell think that every smile that

brightened her eye, and dimpled round her mouth-nay, almost every thought that arose within her innocent heart-was seen, noted, and deeply cared for, by Charles Wilmot. He was exceedingly well satisfied, and considerably pleased, by the undisguised admiration which flashed from the bright eyes of Fanny Belmont, but he was touched to the very soul by the unconscious involuntary repetition of it, which he read in those of Mary Bell. When Charlotte smiled upon him in approval, till she showed her magnificent teeth from ear to ear, he smiled at her in return, and each felt the pleasant consciousness of being thought exceedingly charming by the other. But when his eye caught the soft, sweet smile of Mary Bell, nothing but his watchful care not to bring upon her, and himself conjointly, the observation of the family, prevented him from being at her side in a moment to ask her why she smiled, and whether she thought his conception of his character right, or wrong. When the bright cheek of Margaret became brighter still, as he acted with her, he thought her very lovely, and liked his occupation all the better for giving him the opportunity of looking at her; but if a blush mantled the soft cheek of Mary Bell as her eye met his, he longed to throw himself at her feet, and confess at last that it was to please her, and her only, that he exerted himself.

And could Mary Bell be quite unconscious of all this? No, not quite. There was enough of talent, enough of attraction in Charles Wilmot to touch the heart of any girl (if fancy-free) who had reason to believe that she had touched his. But, alas! too greatly was the charm increased in the case of Mary Bell. She was surrounded by all the nearest relations she had in the world, save her father, and to all, and each of them, she felt and knew herself to be an object of contempt and ridicule. She never met the eye of either of them without reading in it something of reproof or of mockery. Her cousin William, indeed, often told her that she would be devilish handsome, if she would leave off being so cursedly shy; but there was so much more of insult than of compliment in this, that she shrunk from him with more repugnance than from either of the others, and would rather at any time have met the biting ridicule of the bright-eyed Fanny than the offensive compliments of her brother. Dangerous, indeed, was the contrast which the manners of Wilmot offered to all this, and the poor stranger felt it in her heart of hearts. Not that she dared to hope that Wilmot loved her. The very utmost flight of all the vanity in her composition could not carry her to such a height of presumption; but she was sure he pitied her; she was sure that he understood her feelings, though nobody else did, and that he did not consider shyness as precisely the same as mental imbecility; she was sure that he took pleasure, great pleasure in seeing her amused by his performance; she was almost sure that he took more pleasure in pleasing her than any body else. How angelic must be the mind in which pity could thus triumph over vanity! Mary Bell thought that she could never feel too grateful for such exceeding kindness, and thus, almost as a matter of duty, her gentle young heart melted away till every feeling was centred and absorbed in love. And that Charles Wilmot loved her, tenderly loved her in return, is most certain. In fact, he loved her, even more than he was himself aware of, for his mind was at ease upon the subject. He saw plainly enough, and strange would it have been had he not, the

effect produced upon her feelings by the contrast of his manner towards her with that of all others who surrounded her; he knew that he was loved; he knew too that neither the Bolton-street aunt, nor the naval father, could find any reasonable objection to his alliance, and therefore reposed himself in perfect security upon a happy future, which required no anxious cares on his part to bring to fruition.

The time he had fixed upon in his own mind for declaring his affection was the return of Captain Bell from his cruise; and in thus delaying it there was both kindness and discretion: kindness, because he feared that did he make known his attachment while she continued in Boltonstreet, her aunt and cousins would infallibly find means to turn the happiness he hoped to bestow into torment of some kind or other; and discretion, because he wisely remembered that having no living parent, or other near relation, to assist his judgment in the all-important matter of choosing a wife, it became his duty not to be over hasty in deciding finally, and for ever, upon a point so vitally important to his happiness. And thus, in the very fullest enjoyment of hope as reasonable as it was delightful, his fancy amused, his talents displayed, his vanity gratified, his tenderest feelings excited, yet his heart completely fearless and at ease, it can hardly be doubted that Wilmot enjoyed the month of practising most vividly. With intentions so generous,-so honourable, so far beyond all that the very highest hopes of Mary Bell had ever suggested, how is it possible to say that Wilmot was acting otherwise than well and nobly? It would be unjust to say so, inasmuch as every thought and purpose of his heart was good. there was a greater mixture of selfishness in the happiness he was enjoying than he at all suspected. Had he endeavoured a little to put himself in the place of Mary Bell-had he endeavoured to guess how she felt, as silent, apart, and often unnoticed for hours together, she watched his lively spirits display themselves in unnumbered gay and gallant sayings and doings with her happy cousins,-had he done this, he might perhaps have perceived that it was possible his intended wife was less perfectly happy than she might have been had his cautiousness been a little less, and his anxiety about her present feelings a little greater.

Yet

Time galloped gaily along, however, with the charade-players, and the day for which the exhibition was fixed was rapidly approaching, yet still the means of performing the last scene of incubus had not appeared. Richard Belmont had told them to "trust him," and they had done so rather longer, as it seemed, than was prudent, for a few days only remained for the "practising," yet still the contrivance he had promised was not forthcoming. Nothing could be better than the whole of Richard Belmont's performance of the agonies of a guilty man strug gling with troubled dreams, and had the representation been a drama instead of a charade, there would have been no more occasion for an incubus to appear bodily upon the scene, than for the ghost of Banquo to appear at the table of Macbeth. But in a charade, it was clearly necessary that an incubus as visible to the eye as to the mind should be brought upon the scene, or the verbal catastrophe would be abor

tive.

"Confound the fellow!" exclaimed Richard, having once again gone through the part, and the very next day being that fixed for the

dressed rehearsal. "He swore by all the gods that a carpenter could invoke that his confounded skip-jack should be here this morning." These words were scarcely uttered when the only servant permitted to approach the theatrical premises, knocked at the door, and announced the arrival of the anxiously expected mechanist. He was ordered to appear, and did so instantly, bearing in his hand a something of very mysterious ugliness of form, which by the judicious use of a little cobler's wax could be made to spring to a very considerable height. The first performance of the little monster was hailed with a perfect shriek of admiration and delight; and then the guilty Richard laid himself once more upon his restless couch, and bade the tormentor do his worst. Again the cobler's wax was judiciously applied, and again the hideous little figure sprang into the air; but instead of perching on the breast of the conscience-stricken Richard, it bounded pretty nearly in the opposite direction.

"That won't do, my good fellow !" cried the sleeper, starting up, "you could not have set it in the right direction." The experiment was repeated, and the thing sprang backwards, head over heels, very decidedly in the direction of the couch; but as to taking its station upon Richard's breast, no such purpose or such power appeared to exist in its wires. Again and again the experiment was repeated, but, always with the same result, till at length it became evident to the whole party that it was impossible to direct its movements with sufficient accuracy to render it available. The disappointment produced by this failure was so great, that Mrs. Belmont was unwilling that the astonished carpenter should witness it, and the man was hastily dismissed. And then it was really piteous to hear the exclamations of despair which burst from the troop, of late so enviable in their happiness!

"Good Heaven!" cried poor Mrs. Belmont, "what can I do? After such immense trouble, so much expense, and such expectations raised on all sides! This contre temps is really terrible!"

Nobody could comfort her. Every body felt that every word she said was true, and that instead of exaggeration she had not half expressed the extent of the disappointment which had fallen upon them. Fanny sat down in a corner, and actually appeared to be weeping, till Mr. Wilmot, who the more firmly he felt himself devoted to Mary Bell, the more carefully avoided a premature discovery of his feelings, with his usual forgetfulness of what she might think or feel in the interval, repaired, with every appearance of assiduity, to the side of her most admired cousin, and appeared to be whispering words of comfort in her ear, with a degree of earnestness that was really affectionate. It might fill many a page to tell all the anguish, the vehemently resisted, but still unconquerable anguish which wrung the heart of the unhappy Mary as she witnessed this seeming devotion. How vainly did she tell herself that she had no right to suffer! How vainly did she confess to her contrite heart, that could all the world see her agonies, there would not be one, save her poor devoted father, who would not blame instead of pitying her. Oh, why had Wilmot ever drawn her heart, her soul, her longschooled humble spirit from the shade in which they had contentedly nestled themselves for life? Mary Bell felt that it would have been very bitter to have listened to professions of love from Charles Wilmot, and then to have found those professions false; but, as it now seemed

to her, this misery would have been nothing in comparison to that of knowing that she had given her love unsought, and had now to watch the proof that it was unwished for and unvalued. Poor Mary Bell! She did the hearts of her fellow-creatures injustice in thinking that none would pity her, for but few could have known what she felt and have refused to do so.

But nobody did know what she felt, poor little soul, and while she was engaged in torturing herself as much as possible, at one end of the room, Charles Wilmot was exerting himself strenuously at the other in order to advance his own particular scheme of operations. He had fancied once or twice of late that the bright eyes of Fanny had followed him rather too curiously when he had yielded to the temptation of walking off the stage and across the room to say a few words to Mary Bell, on some pretence or other, for the purpose of indulging himself with the sight of her eyes raised to his face-and he was quite right. Fanny had observed him very curiously. Not above a week of the practising month had elapsed, ere this lively young lady had decided on seriously completing the conquest of Mr. Wilmot's heart, and permitting him, in due time, to become the lawful master of her destiny. It might, perhaps, have made some trifling difference in her speculations had she been aware that the remarkable brilliance of talent displayed by the young man, and his greatly increased air of happy gaiety, arose not, as she supposed, from the felicity of being perpetually within reach of the eyes to which he had more than once alluded in her hearing, but entirely to the full contentment ensuing upon having made up his mind, beyond the reach of any further harassing doubts, to take the neglected Mary Bell for his wife. But most assuredly she had no such stuff in her thoughts, and it was only within the last few days that she had taken it into her head to fancy that Mary Bell was putting herself ridiculously in Charles Wilmot's way, contriving somehow or other to make him speak to her whether he wished it or not. Such a notion as this could not by possibility enter the head of such a young lady as Miss Fanny Belmont, espe cially when she was beginning to fancy herself very violently in love (for not more than the twentieth time in her life) without producing some troublesome results. A rapid soliloquy, mentally uttered, as she watched Wilmot's sudden approach to Mary Bell, during the noisy moment which followed the entrance of the carpenter, may show what sort of results were probable in the present case. The eye that followed his movement was indeed bright, brighter perhaps than ever, but it could scarcely be called beautiful, for it boded no good to those it fell upon.

"If I believed it possible-if I only believed it possible," thought she, "that Mary Bell was such an artful little demon as to endeavour to show him that she is not so great a fool as she looks, and not quite so hideously ugly and vulgar as she appears to the world in general-if I could only believe this possible, I would teach her to know her place in a manner she should not soon forget. But, no! I have caught him -I know it, I am sure of it. These detestable mutterings only arise from a silly sort of good-nature on his part, which makes him fancy it amiable to notice her, because nobody else has patience to do it. But I know how charmingly gay and beautiful the little idiot looks