have preferred his anger to the mortifying, the apathetic indifference, he now evinced towards him. Dungarvon never addressed him; and, if he ventured to ask a question, he received a cold monosyllable in reply. If this was hard to bear, how much more hard was the studied and polite formality of Horatia's manner; so different from her former frankness and confidential familiarity! Horatia and Rosemaldon had met once, and alone, since the eventful evening in the glen. Much had been said, and oh! how much more not said, but thought, during that interview. No word that passed between them was repeated, but very sweet was the consciousness of each, that the other loved. Our heroine could no longer deny to herself that Augustus had been influenced in his late conduct by jealousy, and she resented it by withdrawing her confidence entirely from him. The Countess was not to be persuaded that Lechmere had done any thing deserving of real blame. She accused Horatia of the most absurd affectation and fastidiousness, and felt extremely offended even with her son's coldness towards

her favourite: she assured him that, glad as she was to find that Horatia had got the better of her late illness, she regretted the great alteration perceptible in her manners. She had grown capricious and uncertain, and assumed an air of formality which was extremely disagreeable. As for Lechmere's behaviour, she affirmed that he had acted with a due interest for their honour, and that he had only delayed carrying the letter to the Marquis out of regard and affection for them all.

Edwin, the page, had never returned to the Abbey since he left it to attend his father to the glen. His after-fate remained still enveloped in mystery; and, in spite of the strict inquiries made for him by the Earl's orders, nothing had ever been seen or heard of him. Horatia, especially, conscious of the service he had rendered, was eager to thank and reward him; but she was obliged to content herself with anticipating the time when he would return, of his own accord, cured of all his youthful vices, made wiser by a too premature experience.

One evening, after Dungarvon and the Mar

quis had held a long conversation together, the former proceeded alone to the ruins of the gothic chapel. There he remained for some time, and then, after some hesitation, took his way to the cave in the glen. The entrance was now laid entirely open, and Dungarvon gazed long and mournfully down the dreary vault, musing on days long past, and events too sad to be recalled without shuddering. From the cave, he walked along the glen, pausing opposite to the hut of Fanga; many additions had been made to it since he, as a youth, had paid his daily visits to one of its inmates; and for the first time, Dungarvon called to his memory how eager had been the desire of Joyce, some months previously, to gain possession of this tenement. With increased emotion, he surveyed the irregular dwelling-place of the old crone; it had formerly made part of the ancient baronial castle, and was, though wild and rude in its construction, still sufficiently capacious to admit of the reception of an occasional visiter, such as Joyce. Since Dungarvon had been in the habit of going there, the situation of the door had

been changed; the entrance to the hut was now through a low archway, and it was defended by a strong door studded with iron nails.

The

"Can this be the once fancied elysium of my young hours?" he thought, descending to the level of the house. "How do increasing years change every feeling of our hearts!" silence was unbroken, save by the melancholy gurgling of a streamlet which was pent up in its narrow bed, and seemed to be fretting impatiently in its captivity. The fir trees still shot up, straight and sombre as before, and the hill beyond was covered with wood and verdure as green as ever; but the vicinity of the dwellinghouse bore an appearance of entire neglect and the most savage wildness; the well-remembered porch of honeysuckle had been destroyed, and at the spring where Alice daily went to dip her pitcher for the clear and sparkling water, dark weeds hung drooping down, contaminating its liquid brightness. It no longer beautified the spot; and, with a sensation of mingled sadness and disgust, Dungarvon turned away. There were no traces of Alice's presence to be seen

here; and yet he could at once recal to mind the sweet voice and the light gladsome step which had once been happiness to him. It is strange how a visit to a spot which we have not seen for years, will bring to our memory not only the scenes, but the very words we there have spoken. Dungarvon, at this moment, could have repeated sentences that he had heard uttered by Alice, and pointed to the spot where they had been addressed to his gladdened ear. Alas! what joy and sorrow memory brings. "She was often sorrowful, too," he thought,

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as though she had some internal monitor warning her that her hours of happiness would be brief. And have I not been punished for making them so? What could follow such a love as mine for that peasant girl but misfortune? I yielded in this case, also, without inquiry or suspicion, to the base insinuations of a villain, and her death was the consequence of my desertion. Could I but blot from memory

It was some minutes ere the Earl could re

cover from the melancholy feelings aroused by