the sneer that followed him, and, extremely annoyed at the circumstance, he spoke of it to his wife.

The Countess was as much surprised as himself, and she had almost made up her mind to tell him that Valmour had once been her plighted lover; but her heart failed her, when she saw her husband gazing sternly upon her. She blushed in confusion; and, under pretence of giving Horatia a lesson, but in reality to afford herself time for reflection, she got up and hastily left the room: by this ill-advised and imprudent silence she provoked her melancholy fate. Had she but made him her confidant, had she but unveiled her heart before him, and showed him all her pure and spotless thoughts, she would have gained an empire, absolute and supreme, over the mind of the haughty Dungarvon. Alas! when did ever concealment between a wedded pair bring anything but unhappiness to both?

"She knows the cause," said Dungarvon, taking a deep breath, "and she does not tell it." At this moment, Joyce entered the room. "My lady has just dropped this letter," he said,

respectfully offering him the long-treasured-up evidence.

Dungarvon took the open letter, and read it. Here was proof enough to convict. The blow was almost overwhelming. His fame, his pride, his very life, seemed burning to revenge the insult he had received. The artful Joyce took advantage of the distracted state of his mind, and advised him never to gratify his enemies by making public the secret of his disgrace, but to act at once, and firmly.

"Your lordship cannot, of course, after such a discovery, permit the Countess to remain under your roof," cried the steward, in a voice of affected sympathy; "but you may remove her elsewhere, without exciting any unpleasant remarks, and then challenge the duke."

"That shall be done first," exclaimed the enraged Earl; "bring me my desk."

The challenge was written, without any cause being assigned by Dungarvon for such a strange act; and Joyce, fearful lest something might happen to change the determination of his infatuated master, offered to deliver it himself.

Had the Countess, even at this late hour, returned to her husband, or had he sent for her, one word might have undeceived him and saved herself; but she sent down word that she had letters to write; and Dungarvon, heart-struck and miserable—one moment cursing her treachery, the next despising himself, and vowing that from that time forth he would abandon the world, leave the society in which he should feel himself a marked man, contemptible in his own eyes, ridiculous in the eyes of others passed the remainder of the day in a state of mind bordering on insanity.

At break of day on the following morning, he set off for the glen, and met the Duke, attended by Joyce and another confidential servant. In an hour from that time he was stretched on his own bed, desperately wounded.

The Countess, as soon as she quitted the presence of Dungarvon on the preceding day, fully resolved on acquainting him with every particular concerning her former engagement with Valmour. Strong in this determination, she took out the packet of letters, and put them

aside, ready to be shown to him. It was years since she had opened any of them, for Olivia loved her husband far more than she had ever loved Valmour. She reproached herself for the temporary ignorance in which she had kept him, and vowed in future never to have a thought or a wish unconfessed. She was thus employed on the following morning, when Joyce entered the room, and told her that her husband was dying. The feelings of Olivia may be imagined. Almost frantic, she rushed past him and reached the room where they had laid Dungarvon; but she only came to hear that he believed her a faithless-a guilty wife.

At first Olivia thought that he must be suffering from temporary insanity, and she looked on him with unfeigned pity; but, when he proceeded in a stern voice to signify his intentions concerning her, then indeed she perceived that he was labouring under a delusion, more fatal to her than to himself. She would have repelled the charge, with the lofty indignation of a heroine; but alas! Olivia was a meek and timid woman; and the very nature of the

accusation was at once so startling and so dreadful, that it might well fetter her tongue, and cause her spirit to faint within her.

Dungarvon commanded his unhappy wife to leave him, and the steward lost no time in leading her from the apartment, under the pretext that his lord could not yet bear to be agitated by any lengthened dispute.

On the following day, her child was torn from her, and carried away from the Abbey. This was too much for the bereaved mother to bear. She fell insensible on the floor; and awoke from her swoon, only to rave of the cruelty of her husband, and bewail the loss of her child. For many days, the faithful Rebecca watched by her, and lavished on her every care in her power; but her own strength gave way under the fatigue and anxiety she suffered, and she was removed from her post, and replaced by Fanga.

From that time, Lady Dungarvon became subject to occasional fits of derangement, and was confined entirely to the oak drawing-room, and the sleeping room which adjoined it. In this oaken room there was a sliding panel in the

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