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Yet Henry was young, it was his heart's long-cherished dream of bliss, and the wound was new; therefore it was many hours ere sleep visited his eyes; and next day Mrs Ford perceived that his pillow had been wet with tears.

But that night Henry was not the only restless, sleepless one in the house. In the next room, separated from him only by a thin partition, lay Richard Everly, tortured by feelings deeper, darker far. The recital of his loss and his wrongs had roused up the never-sleeping but sometimes quiet spirit of revenge, and acutely it burned in his breast. He fancied he would be baffled, and the idea produced a kind of madness, prompting him to rush on blindly to his purpose. Patience is ofttimes difficult to maintain, but to a nature like Richard's its exercise was an impossibility. He looked back on the months which had elapsed since the death of his wife and his boy, and saw that he had made no progress towards the fulfilment of his oath. Might not the following months, nay, might not the whole of his future life, be equally abortive? The bare thought of this caused him to gnash his teeth, and resolve on the coming day to do something towards the chief work of his existence, though what that would be was entirely unknown.

Thus resolving, he fell asleep; and, in his excited state, to sleep, was to dream. He thought he saw his enemy within his power, and with fiendish rage he trampled him beneath his feet. Henry, too, was there looking on; and to him he turned with gratitude, for he thought he had been the instrument by which the baronet had become his victim. Before the group was a precipice, at the base of which rolled the deep, raging sea, and clutching the struggling Sir Edward in his arms, he plunged with him over the abyss, and they fell together into the waters. There they wrestled together in a terrible death-grip, and, like music of sweetest sound, rose on the young man's ears the agonizing shrieks of the old ruthless sinner. In answer to his prayers, he grasped him only the tighter; and they finally sank, down-down-down, and the hissing of the waters stopt all other sounds.

It was only a dream, but vividly indicative of Richard's thirsting desire for vengeance. In the midst of all his horrors, he awoke, and wished it had been true. Ah! passion-tossed youth, that unholy feeling cherished so devotedly in thy bosom, has yet a chance of being gratified, for circumstances are on the wing, connected with thee, and those into whose society thou hast been thrown, which shall enable thee to wound to the heart that father-in-law whom thou hatest. Events are at hand which, in hurrying succession, shall change the fortunes of most of our characters, causing them to pass through scenes of great excitement, and experience many mixed yet strong emotions, opening up to them paths of life entirely unexpected, and finally issuing in much that is both pleasant and painful.

CHAPTER XIV.

THE FOUNDLING.

WHEN Diamond and Henry parted at the foot of the stair in St James' Court, the former ascended to her abode with a tumultuous rush of feelings in her soul. Well as she had been schooling herself for years to the ordeal, it had come to her with crushing power; and while she had never for a moment doubted what course she ought to pursue, or shrunk from following it, yet who can wonder that the sacrifice, when it burned away on the altar of her heart, caused her the most exquisite pain? That heart, fitted by nature for the highest and truest phase of matrimonial life, and unconsciously twined with its thousand love-strings round a worthy object of affection, could not but be wounded when, in obedience to supposed duty, it yielded up all its hopes, crushed its longings, and stood desolate in its now lonely path.

She entered the room where Andrew still sat; and though she endeavoured with all her might to conceal her agitation, it was in vain. The old man at once noticed her pale face, tear-dimmed eye, and quivering lip.

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'What's the matter, Diamond?" he asked, gazing at her in wonder.

"Nothing," answered Diamond, faintly, and endeavoured to smile.

"Naething!" echoed Andrew, incredulously. "Dinna tell me that. Does that white, bluidless face, wi' its expression o' strong agitation, mean naething? Come, my ain lassie," he added, drawing her to his bosom, "ye mauna refuse to tell me a' yer sorrows. Ye ken very weel that there's nane loves ye wi' a stronger love, or wad dae mair to comfort ye. Now, ye canna deceive me. I see that something has occurred the nicht to grieve ye. Will ye, then, be sae cruel as keep it to yersel', and doubly vex baith yersel' and me? Come, that's a guid lassie, tell me what has happened."

Diamond was quite subdued now, and lay weeping violently on the old man's breast. He said no more, knowing that when she grew calmer she would open her heart to him. Nor was he mistaken; for in a little her sobs ceased, and lifting her face half up from its concealment, she told him briefly the particulars of her interview with Henry. The blow was nearly as great to him as it had been to the youth. Like Henry, he treated her idea as foolish

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and absurd, and sought to reason her out of it; and until she had shown him the reasons which had influenced her, he felt impatiently disappointed.

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Stupit lassie!" he exclaimed, "this maun never be. What has either you or Henry to dae wi' what kind o' mithers or faithers ye had? If ye are weel-behaved yersel's, and like ane anither, as I ken ye dae, what mair is necessary? Come, come; Henry and you maun mak' it up again the morn's nicht."

Very sweetly, yet with sad earnestness, Diamond strove to let Andrew see the matter in the fine, delicate light in which she herself viewed it, and explained to him that, while her refusal to become Henry's wife caused her inexpressible pain, it would only increase that pain if he or any one urged her on the subject. She let him understand, that Henry had in the end acknowledged the impossibility of their union, and that they had parted that night under the full conviction that all idea of it must be abandoned,

Andrew was loath, very loath, to give up his point. He could not, as might, indeed, have been expected, be brought to see the force of the young girl's reasoning; but his faith in Diamond's principle, and strong, correct mind and heart, caused him to be silent, and he only sighed as he kissed her and bade her good night ere they retired to rest.

It is now, we think, the most appropriate time to tell the reader more about this young girl, Diamond Hunter, who, it will be understood from past conversations, is the Foundling of our Tale.

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About seventeen years previous to the time of which we have been writing, in the grey light of a soft, serene May morning, Andrew Pringle, one of the pressmen of the King's Printing-House, was ascending the few steps which led to the entrance of the building, when a bundle lying on the threshold caught his He bent down to look at it, for it was too dark to discern what it was; and then cautiously advancing his hand, he touched it. To all appearance, it was nothing more than a bundle of rags; but still there might be something wrapped inside, and Andrew picked it carefully up, and marched with it into the case-room.

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"Has ony ye lost ony thing?" he cried to the men, who were putting on their aprons preparatory to beginning work.

Every one protested that they had not, and crowded round Andrew, who was by this time curiously examining the bundle. "Where did ye find it?" asked one.

"Just on the doorstane," replied the pressman; and at the moment, having removed a fold of cloth, he started back, and stared about him in amazement.

“Guid guide us, it's a bairn!" he ejaculated, fixing his eye again upon the bundle.

"A bairn!" echoed all the compositors in a breath.

"It's as fack as death," said Andrew, taking away more folds of the cloth, and exposing the face of an infant sound asleep.

A universal burst of laughter now rose at poor Andrew's expense, who stood dumfoundered, looking first at his companions and then at the child, which he held very awkwardly in his arms.

"What in a'the earth am I to dae wi' it?" said Andrew, in a tone so comically earnest, that fresh shouts of laughter burst forth from every mouth.

By-and-by seriousness. was restored, and one after another pressed forward to get a view of the infant. Nothing but its face was visible, and, as its eyes were shut, that did not seem very interest ing. It was, indeed, pure as marble and soft as velvet, and long, silken lashes lay over the closed eyes; but beyond an expression of profound repose, there was little to attract. As they looked, however, a flutter passed over the little countenance, and the child opened its eyes. Then, indeed, did they one and all give vent to admiring exclamations; for the orbs were large, clear, and beautiful, and gave to the face a most attractive appearance. It seemed a very young female infant, lovely in spite of the rags which enveloped it; and as it looked round in unconscious innocence, all hearts were drawn towards it, and indignant anathemas were hurled against its unnatural parents.

A "chapel meeting" was hastily called, to consider what was to be done with the foundling, and it was unanimously agreed that she should not be sent to any charitable institution, but that the expense of her up-bringing should be borne by the men. A very little from each weekly would suffice, and every one eagerly grasped at the idea of making her the adopted child of the establishment. Andrew was particularly pleased with the proposition, and claimed to have the more immediate charge of her, since it was he who picked her up. This reasonable claim was at once admitted, and he was appointed her guardian. A name was now the next thing to be decided on, and this was found to be the most difficult matter yet encountered. There was no writing or any thing to indicate to whom she belonged; it was therefore necessary to choose without a guiding association. The general idea was, that her first name should have some connection with the printing-office, but it was long ere any thing was suggested which met with much approval. At last the names of the various types were mentioned, and it was decided by the majority to choose from these. Accordingly, a list was selected, as follows-Ruby, Nonpariel, Minion, Diamond, Pica and a long debate ensued as to the most suitable. One after the other was struck out, until only Ruby and Diamond remained; and so tenaciously did the advocates of each of these hold their ground, that it became necessary to put it to the vote, when, by a majority of two, the child received the appellation of

Diamond. The last name was much more easily settled, for Andrew suggested that it should be the same as that of the baronet who held the printing monopoly; and this idea was universally acceded to, so that the nameless, helpless thing which had been cast into their midst, was to be called Diamond Hunter.

A nurse was provided, and the little infant was taken as good care of as if she had belonged to the richest in the land. Time passed on, and she grew out of long clothes, into a beautiful, sprightly little thing, full of life, laughter, and glee. Andrew now took her to his own house, which was kept by a sister somewhat older than himself, and the hitherto silent household grew vocal with infantile mirth. A bond of love, strong and enduring as life, grew between the foundling and her warm-hearted protector, and thousands of times did Andrew rejoice at his good luck in finding her on that fresh May morning.

When she became old enough, she was sent to school, and kept there till she acquired an excellent English education. A few of the more enthusiastic of her patrons spoke of placing her in a boarding-school, where she might receive the higher accomplishments; but the strong, good sense of Andrew prevented this foolish step. He showed them that, to a girl in her position, such an education would rather be a curse than a blessing, and would infallibly render her unable to cope with the world as her position demanded. His sensible arguments were appreciated, and the idea was wisely abandoned.

One night, after due deliberation, Andrew revealed to Diamond the fact that she was a foundling, and minutely described the circumstances of the occasion, from the moment that he took her up from the cold threshold of the printing-house. She looked at him in earnest, silent wonder, and a shadow came over her bright face; but beyond the gathering of that shadow, no one knew that the knowledge had much affected her. Yet, from that moment, the young girl became a changed being. None comprehended the quiet depths which existed in her nature, the power of thought and feeling which rested and operated there. The conviction that she had no one of her own blood to love her, that they who ought to have cared for her had cast her off, and left her to the compassion of others, was to her saddening in the extreme; but this was not her chief source of pain. It was the facts, seemingly so obvious, that her parents were vile, and she illegitimate, which settled on her young spirit with a dark gloom, and penetrated her soul so deeply that its buoyancy was for ever gone. We may not justify the morbidly sensitive view she took of the matter, but it had its origin in the exquisite purity of her thoughts; and springing thence, we may not look upon it with other than an admiring eye. If it was an extreme idea, it was the rendering of homage to the highest laws of moral

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