Lady Emily had hoped that her mother might not be gone to bed when she reached home, for her measurement of time had been very inaccurate at Bolton House. It was, however, long since Lord and Lady Kendal had retired to rest; and Emily found, to her surprise, that it was nearly two hours later than she had imagined. It was long before she could sufficiently compose herself even to prepare for the rest she now needed, and she sat and mused for a while on the strange eventful evening she had passed. A few short words had changed doubt into certainty; and the long-cherished hope had been realized. A few short words had at once thrown over the barriers of reserve, which habit, education, and delicacy had erected, and drawn from her lips the confession of those feelings, which, under any other circumstances, she would most scrupulously have concealed. It seemed as if so little had been said! She had even almost a difficulty in recalling what had actually passed, and yet the fate of her life had been decided. It seemed too like a dream, and she longed for the morrow, when again they should meet. Then, she might hope to enjoy her happiness-now, it was too new-too overpowering for enjoyment. She had a feverish impatience to impart all her feelings to her mother, and yet to embody those feelings in words, would have been difficult.

The extremes of joy and grief but too closely resemble each other in their first effects upon our frame, and Emily felt relief in tears to her over-excited mind. Then came that feeling of deep gratefulness, with the humble sense of her own unworthiness, which attends the consciousness of real blessings. She had often prayed, not presumptuously or lightly, for the earthly objects she desired-but humbly and fervently, that she might be so ordered in this life, as would best fit her for the

purer joys of heaven. She thought her prayer was heard in thus committing her to the care and protection of this first object of her earthly love; and falling on her knees in pious gratitude for the happiness that awaited her, she prayed that thankfulness in prosperity, and resignation in adversity, might never forsake her.'

A chapter of deep interest follows. Our readers will thank us, we are sure, for extracting part of it. Lady Kendal had intended to pave the way for the disclosure of Dacre's proposal, by a preliminary conversation with Lord Kendal; but, from the habitual awe with which she regarded her husband, had allowed him to leave the house in the morning without doing so. It is resolved that the secret is to be communicated the instant he returns. He is expected at four o'clock: the hour comes, but no Lord Kendal.

Five o'clock came. Lady Kendal rung the bell, and asked if « my lord" was at home, and desired she might be told as soon as he returned. She tore up papers already condemned; threw them into the fire, and then walked about the room: she could settle to nothing. The halfhour struck, and she began to think he must have been detained. Six o'clock came, and now she was sure he would soon be at home; for he had ordered dinner at half-past six. The minute hand had reached the

quarter, and Lady Kendal felt a little angry. He had made a point of dining earlier than she liked-had insisted on greater punctuality-and had told Lady Kendal that she encouraged unpunctuality by never being in time; " and then to be too late himself, is so provoking," thought she; and for a moment felt herself almost a victim.

Half-past six came. Emily entered, dressed for dinner. She thought she had heard her father's step some time before. She fancied she had heard her mother go to his dressing-room-thought they were at that moment discussing all that filled her heart and mind; and was not a little surprised and disappointed to find Lady Kendal standing at the window in her morning attire.

"It is very odd your father is not come home," said Lady Kendal. "I don't know what to do about the dinner; he desired it might be on the table at half-past six."

"The dinner is quite ready, my lady," said the servant, who had just entered. "The cook wishes to know if it is to be sent up before my lord comes home."

Lady Kendal said, "No;" it was to be kept in readiness for his return. "I wish Lord Kendal would have been in time to-day," said she to Emily, as the servant closed the door. "One feels they must think us so capricious, not to be punctual, after all your father said upon the subject this morning."

"Seven o'clock struck. Lady Kendal and Emily began to feel uneasy, and to say to each other that nothing was likely to have happened, and that there was no cause for alarm (a sure sign that the alarm is, in fact, already taken).

"How did papa go out this morning ?" enquired Emily.

"On horseback, I believe," was the reply.

"Then had we not better send to the stables to know if the horses are returned ?"

They did so; and the servant brought word back, that the groom and horses had been at home ever since half-past three; that his lordship had said it was cold, and that he should therefore walk; and had given no further orders to the groom.

It was now near eight. All thoughts of dinner were over. Both mother and daughter grew every minute more anxious and uneasy. The servant was sent once more to the groom, to ask where he had left Lord Kendal; and that information obtained, it was determined that two men on horseback should be despatched, in different directions, to make enquiries at every place at which it was probable he might have visited. It was a relief to think of any thing to be done. It cheated time of that prolonged existence of each minute, and for the moment it almost soothed the anxious watchers into the belief that they had hastened the event for which they watched.

It was probable, that from whatever cause Lord Kendal had been detained, he would not now return on foot. The sound of each approaching vehicle gave rise to feverish hope. Their lips were parched; their tongues seemed to cleave to the roofs of their mouths, as they listened in speechless anxiety to the noise of every passing carriage. More than

once the sound appeared to be fast approaching their door, and the mother and the daughter involuntarily turned their eyes towards each other, till the deception was over-the rumble of the wheels had faded gradually on the ear; and then the sickness of disappointment succeeded the quick beat of expectation that had excited them for an instant before. The return of the grooms was awaited with increasing impatience; for the agony of suspense was becoming each minute more intolerable. A word of real information might break the chain of frightful shapeless terrors, which imagination had raised. Not the well in the desert is more wanted to slake the thirst of the traveller, than that which can soothe for a moment the torture of doubt. Like the air that is supplied to those who have gone to the depths below, comes the word of information to relieve the fearful tension of suspense, and save the sufferer from his bursting agony.

Lady Kendal and Emily listened in vain for the sound of the horsemen's return. The grooms were still pursuing their unsuccessful search in quest of their master. Again the sound of wheels was heard; but they had listened to that sound so often in vain, that they tried not to heed the noise. For a time it seemed scarcely to approach; but still it continued other carriages passed by at the rapid pace of pleasure or of business, and, for a moment, interrupted this slow advancing sound: but nearer and nearer it drew; and they could no longer withhold their attention from the direction whence it came. It was within a few doors of the house, and as it still approached, they held their breath; the impulse was involuntary, for they had done so often before on that evening, and they expected but the same disappointing result. It now was close to the door; they listened for its continuance, but the sound had stopped. They looked at each other, and at that instant the bell was rung. Lady Kendal grasped her daughter's hand: the band of terror seemed tightly to bind their heads-their eyes were fixed, as though they looked for certainty in the vacant air-motionless, and pale as death, they sat for an instant to catch the sound that followed. steps of the carriage were let down-footsteps were heard on the stairs. Emily would have sprung from her seat, but her mother's hand was locked in hers-and with Lady Kendal the power of motion seemed suspended. A commotion was heard in the hall-Lady Kendal clung tighter to her daughter the door opened, and a stranger entered.

The

"Tell me"- said Lady Kendal,—she was almost stifled, and she could not speak. The stranger approached.

"For God's sake tell me, sir, if you know any thing of my father?" exclaimed Emily, in a tone that showed how deep was their alarm.

"I am come for that purpose," replied the stranger: "but," added he, in a voice of kindness, "ladies, I entreat you to be composed." Oh, what a knell of grief does that entreaty ring upon the ear of those, who once have known affliction !

"Tell me the worst!" said Lady Kendal, in the hurried tone of desperation.

The stranger hesitated, and looked at Lady Emily to see if he might proceed in safety.

"Where is he?" exclaimed Lady Kendal, in a louder voice; and her eyes seemed to start from her head as she glared on the stranger.

"Lord Kendal is in the house," replied he, in a soothing voice: "he is still alive.

Lord Kendal had been struck with apoplexy. He does not live to hear the communication intended for his ear. But his death seems to exercise some mysterious and blighting influence over the fate of Dacre and Lady Emily. With the warmest avowal of love, and assurances that he had given her no cause for resentment or change, she intimates to him her unalterable resolution never to be his. He in vain attempts to penetrate the mystery, and at last, hopeless, and almost wearied of life, resolves to leave England. There is a fine strain of feeling and reflection in the following passage :—

There are events in life that seem too great, too sudden, too overwhelming, to be true. We cannot believe that the hopes, the joys, and the sorrows of life, can depend on the work of a minute. We measure by the hours, the days, and the years, that have been spent in their anticipation, enjoyment, or endurance. We look to the gradual realization of our hopes and wishes; we think our joys will be weakened by decay, ere they depart. We trust that time will wear away, with its slow workings, the keenness of sorrow: but on these sudden revulsions of fate we are too much startled to believe them possible, and the first impression is to doubt the reality of the change that has been wrought.

• Dacre placed the letter again before him he looked at it; his eyes followed the words, but his understanding went not with them. He was stunned, he was petrified; and again he read it: his lips were parted, his mouth was parched, his eyes were unnaturally open, he was cold as death, and yet his forehead felt on fire: it seemed as if life itself had flowed from every other part, to add vigour to the suffering of his mind. And again he read it and now he dwelt upon each word of fondness, and a tear trickled unconsciously down his cheek. Yes! nature had her way, and Dacre wept. Oh, what a bitter grief is that, which wrings a tear from manhood in his prime! Man seldom weeps for man. He can see his comrades fall in battle: he can stanch, unmoved, the bleeding wound; he can follow to the grave, with a firm and steady step, the relative, the friend who loved him with a brother's love. Perhaps it needs the tenderness of woman to arouse his softer sympathies; perhaps it needs her softening influence to give power to the impressions that are made; perhaps he thinks how she would have wept for him, and shall he not, in return, weep for her suffering and sorrow? Shall not his footsteps tremble, where hers would have faltered? and will not he shed a tear on the grave where is laid the mother who nurtured, the sister who played, the wife who adored, or the bride who was pledged to him? Yes! for woman he weeps. The sternness of man is overcome by her gentleness, and their natures are thus assimilated by the sympa❤ thy that binds them,'

Switzerland and Italy are Dacre's destination; and amidst the magnificence of nature, or the associations of the past, he endeavours to school himself into calmness and tranquillity. We have commended, amongst other highly commendable qualities, his fair historian's talent for the description of natural scenery; and we shall treat our readers with a beautiful specimen of her powers in this department.

It was little more than twilight the following morning, when Dacre and his companion were roused. They were desirous of watching from the earliest dawn the gradual approach of the sun; and were the first on that morning who found themselves upon the spot where all had assembled the preceding evening to see its decline. The Righi is generally selected by travellers as the first spot from which they view the wonders of the Alps. It affords a fine panoramic display of the surrounding heights; and the spectator thus acquires some knowledge of the forms and positions of the different chains of mountains.

When Dacre and Mr Howard first gazed around them, it seemed as if they stood upon an island: nothing was to be seen above but the cold grey outline of the mountain-ridge; nothing below but the curling waves of some vast sheet of water: not a valley was to be traced, not a village to be descried. Had a deluge occurred in the night, it could not more effectually have seemed to efface by flood every object from their view. They had heard of this perfect deception produced by the morning mist alluded to the evening before, but till now they had found it difficult to believe how complete was the resemblance to the waving waters. The sound of voices was now heard: they turned to look who was coming; a motley crew were seen to hasten towards the spot on which they stood. Sunrise was at hand. The inmates of the two receptacles for tourists came hurrying up, with every imperfection of toilet,-unshaved, unwashed, uncurled, and half undressed: cloaks, coats, shawls, nightcaps, and handkerchiefs were pressed into the service, to conceal the deficiencies which haste had occasioned, or to protect the wearers from the morning chill. The mist gradually arose and dispersed the heavens were suffused with pink; and now the mountain-top catches from behind the light, and the snow seems to blush at the approach of the day.

"I never till now," observed Dacre," felt in full force the term of rosy-fingered morn!

• Fresh objects caught the increasing light. The coming day seemed to cast its brightness before, and all stood in silent expectation of that moment when the sun should rear his head above the mountain's summit. At length the golden rays are seen to shoot above the earth; a blaze of light appears; and in the heavens sits the monarch of the day, shedding life and heat on all below. It was a glorious sight-inspiriting, yet solemn.'

A new direction is suddenly given to Dacre's mind by certain events, which begin to throw light on the mystery attending his birth. What these are we shall not say; for we hold it altogether