tered, and hearing Mowbray's laugh, and seeing Fanny in the middle of the room, with her hands out like his illustrious mother, he said, folding his arms, putting his head back and drawing in, and biting his upper lip, as was his wont when he wanted to be ultra dignified, "As usual, Miss Neville, at your buffoonery, I suppose. If there is one thing more low and degrading than another, and more a proof of imbecility of mind, it is that turn for mimicry which you are eternally indulging in."

"I must say," said Fanny, bowing to this complimentary speech, "that l'eau benite de la cour of the Elizabethian age is not quite so sweet, my lord of Leicester, as that of our own."

"Never mind, Miss Neville," said Mowbray; "I have observed that persons who cannot themselves mimic, have no toleration for, but a great dread of, those who can; however, you have some good_authorities with you: is it not Percival who says, 'Parody is a favourite flower both of ancient and modern literature; its ludicrous properties derive their wit from association, and never fail to produce admiration and delight, when it unites taste in selection with felicity of application; even licentious specimens of it move to laughter; for we are always inclined to be diverted with mimicry, or ridiculous imitation, whether the original be an object of respect, or indifference, or even of contempt ? Recollect, too, that a polished Athenian audience heard with bursts of mirthful applause, even the discourses of their favourite Socrates burlesqued upon the stage. These 'wise saws,'" concluded Mowbray, laughing, may perhaps console you for more 'modern instances' of disapprobation."

"I'm not quite sure that they will," said Fanny, for there was a great deal of truth in Hogarth's answer to the young lady who said she envied him his powers of caricaturing."

"What was that?" asked Mowbray.

"Why, that the sense of the ridiculous had destroyed for him the beautiful; for, that in the face of an angel he could not help detecting something to caricature. It is for the same reason that one never can sympathize with an habitual sneerer, however affectingly and beautifully some of their thoughts may be expressed. I feel this in a peculiar degree with Vol

taire. One cannot even be sure that he felt it, when he wrote Zaire vous pleurez! and this doubt makes one almost check one's own tears, as they rise."

"That is a very profound remark of yours," replied Mowbray, "for there is a depth in all truth, which nothing but sincerity can extract. Even dogs can detect real from affected sorrow or anger, and sympathize with the former, as much as they neglect and pay no attention to the latter."

"Really, Miss Fanny," said Major Nonplus, perpetrating a pirouette, while he flourished his beadle's staff over her head, "I should be quite unhappy if you were my daughter; for they say, so young, and yet so wise, never live long."

"Pardon me," said Mowbray, smiling, "not that I would for a moment set Cicero's authority against yours; but you know the proverb he quotes in his book De Senectute. I mean

'Mature fias senex si diu senex esse velis.''

"Oh! if you begin with your classics, I'm off,” said the major, "for I never had any penchant for the ancients, male or female. Ha! ha! ha! but don't tell Mrs. N. this when you see her," added he, with his finger at the side of his nose, as he made his exit.

"Isn't that d―nd garter finished yet?" said Lord de Clifford gruffly, as he folded a note he had been writing during the foregoing conversation, "Mademoiselle Dantoville would have done it in half the time."

"It is a pity you did not give it to her to do, then," said Fanny indignantly, as her sister left the room, with tears coursing each other down her cheeks, as she placed the piece of embroidery upon the table, which her lord and master took up, and departed through another door.

"What superior beings your sex are, are they not, Mr. Mowbray ?" asked Fanny ironically, as the door closed on her brutal brother-in-law.

"They are superior brutes, when they set about it, certainly," said Mowbray, as he and Fanny went up stairs together to their respective rooms.

That night the lights flitted from room to room, and from corridor to corridor, in Il Leone Bianco-and "Within the surface of the fleeting river,

The wrinkled image of the city lay
Immoveably unquiet."

The last gondola had rowed away with every one but Lord and Lady de Clifford, and Mowbray, who, knowing that the latter must pass through the drawing-room on her way down stairs, as her bedroom was within it, concealed himself behind a curtain, in the deep recess of one of the windows, that he might ascertain what her dress was. There did not appear to be a soul left in the hotel; for the master and mistress of it, with all the servants, had been invited by Madame de A.'s domestics to go and see the ball. Lord de Clifford had confided "the Virgin Queen" to the gallantry of Sir Walter Raleigh, while he lingered behind to console his dear Amy, or rather his bien amiée, in the school-room, before he joined the brilliant pageant. Poor Julia was still sitting before her toilet, with a heavy heart, and her mask on, listening for the last footsteps to recede, that she might not encounter Mowbray, when the door was unceremoniously opened, and her husband entered, glittering and sparkling in the magnificent dress of Lord Lei

cester.

"How kind of you," said Julia, springing forward, "to come and let me see you, before you went. Your dress is really beautiful; and how well you have put on the garter," continued she, stooping down to look at it.

D

-n it!" cried he, with an impatient stamp of the foot, "I can't stand here all night for you to look at me as if I was a puppet-show, I want those last books that came from Paris for Mademoiselle Dantoville. I think, poor thing, as she is up there by herself, you might have thought of offering them to her, only you never do anything that you ought to do." They are over there," said Lady de Clifford, rather haughtily, pointing to an opposite cheffoniere, with one of her small, white, delicately beautiful hands. "D. ―n you, madam," said her tyrant; "what do you mean by speaking to me in that tone, and as he spoke, he inflicted a blow upon the extended hand so violent and sudden, the pain of which was so intense, that poor Julia uttered a faint shriek."

"That's right, madam, make a scene, do, and let all the world know how ill-used you are; why don't you ring the bell for your maid, to come and see what a suffering angel her mistress is? I tell you what it is, madam, if you don't wash your face and dry your

tears, and go to that d-n'd ball directly as becomes my wife, without any further fuss, I'll find some means of bringing you to your senses."

So saying, he walked to the cheffoniere, took the books, and quitted the room through the passage door by which he had entered.

Suffering as she was, both in body and mind, still the habit of obedience and fear were so strong upon her, that poor Julia took off her mask, walked over to a basin, and plunged her face into cold water; but in trying to replace the mask, she found she was unable to raise her right hand; the wrist was out of joint, and swollen to a painful degree. She would gladly have gone to bed, but then, Berryl and all the servants were out; there was no one to undress her, and with her hand in that helpless state it was impossible even to make an attempt at undressing herself: it glanced across her that Mademoiselle Dantoville was up stairs, but she recoiled from the idea of asking her to do anything for her, with a feeling of sickening disgust.

"Yes," said she, "I must go to that horrid ball; if I can but bear the pain, the loose sleeve of my domino will hide my hand, and I must only hold my mask with the other hand till I can find some one to tie it." Having come to this decision, she opened the drawing-room door: it was a dark, lofty, spacious apartment, (like all the Venetian rooms,) at the moment partially and dimly lit by a pair of candles on the high antique mantelpiece, and one solitary Roman lamp on the table. The chains of the lamp, as well as the flame, were blowing about from the draught that came from the casement, and what added to the gloom, was the solemn stillness-only broken in upon by the faint and phantom-like echoes of the plashing oars of every passing gondola.

The

Lady de Clifford had got half across the room, when Mowbray, anxious to be sure that it was her, leant forward in his ambush to try and see her face, before which, however, she held her mask. move he had made caused a slight rustling against the curtain. Nervous and ill before, this mysterious noise, added to the sepulchral gloom of the room, completely subdued her already over-excited frame, and tottering towards a sofa, she sank fainting and exhausted upon it, the mask falling at the same time

from her lifeless hand. Shall we confess it? This scene which at any other time, or rather in the presence of any third person, would have driven Mowbray to distraction, between grief and fear now produced but one feeling, that of unmixed happiness. There lay before him, helpless and unconscious, all that he loved on earth; there might he pour out unchecked, unchided, all the deep-hoarded, pent up, burning love, which had been preying upon his breast so long-there lay that worshipped and unapproachable being at his mercy, the slightest touch of whose hand had been more than he had dared to aspire to. And what were the resolves of this man of honour

with most men falsely so called? "Si Leonini pellis non satis est, assuenda vulpina," is their invariable motto upon all occasions. Was it Mowbray's? Let him answer for himself. He sprang from his concealment, he knelt beside that senseless form, he bent over those pale cold features as though their spirit had fled, and, by looking, he would have gazed his own into them: he approached the slightly parted and beautiful lips, but their silent eloquence prevailed. "Yes, sweet soul," said he, retreating, "that pure and angel spirit which ever hovers round and guards you, shall be obeyed. I will not rob you, 'twould be a paltry triumph to take that which you would never give. Good God!" exclaimed he, well may she say all men are selfish-here am I actually feasting upon, revelling in her misery! I ought to get some water to revive her;" but here a fresh paroxysm of selfishness and self-delusion came over him, and he added, "it will be better to rub her hands." And raising the loose sleeve of her domino, her swollen, drooping, and blackening right hand met his view. "Good heavens," said he, can that monster, De Clifford, have done this! I heard his hated voice speaking angrily in the next room, and I thought-but then that was too dreadful-that I heard her scream. "Julia! my

Julia! yes, mine in spite of them all! only look at me, speak to me, tell how this happened!"—and as he tried to get the rings off her fingers which were now visibly swelling to, his kisses and tears-which deluged her hand, from the pain they occasioned, seemed to bring her back to a sort of half consciousness. "No! Berryl, no!" murmured she, putting her left arm round Mowbray's neck, and leaning her head