tire seemed to add to the natural graces so lavishly bestowed upon her. Constance turned to Sir Charles, and demanded who she was; but the question had scarcely escaped her lips, when the blood mounted impetuously to her cheeks, and she would have given worlds to have recalled it, for a gentleman, whom she had not before observed, at the same moment leaned forward, from a back seat, to address the object of her inquiry; and she immediately recognized him to be Maningham.

Sir Charles changed colour, his gaiety vanished, and he replied " I really know not-I never saw the lady before;" and immediately

sunk into silence.

In vain Constance attempted to direct her attention to the performers-the scene before her had lost every interest-in spite of all her efforts, her eyes continually wandered to the spot where Maningham was seated. A sentiment stronger than curiosity, a feeling like jealousy, took possession of her mind; she wished to quit the Theatre, but a dread of what Sir Charles might think prevented her making the proposal.

Sir Charles seemed to watch her countenance with restless anxiety, while a deep and gloomy melancholy took possession of his fine features.

Constance looked at her mourning habit, and the concording dress of her companion-if Maningham saw them together, if he remarked their appearance, if he discovered that they were travelling without any associate but a domestic, what would he think, what could he suppose, but that she was already married, or engaged to be so?

She flattered herself that she no longer entertained any wish of uniting herself to Maningham; she was convinced, that to indulge such a hope was become criminal; but she wished still to retain his friendship, his good opinion-could she do this, when the apparent levity of her conduct, the facility with which she substituted one object of attachment for another, the ease with which she surmounted an affection so lately professed, and the object of which had been so generously disinterested; could she do this, when every concurring circumstance must prove to him the littleness, the weakness of her mind, and her incapacity of discriminating merit so superior as his? She wished herself a thousand miles distant-the idea of being seen by Maningham, was agony-she could scarcely have been more anxious to conceal herself from him, had she been conscious of the most criminal conduct.

The conclusion of the play at length induced Sir Charles to propose going home.

Constance rose with delight to quit the Theatre; unfortunately she beheld the party in which she had seen Maningham, rise also a tremor agitated her whole frame. Sir Charles presented his hand to assist her; she hesitated-stopped in irresolution-and then, reflecting how capricious she must appear to him, accepted the offered civility but her irresolution had produced the very incident she most wished to avoid, by giving the party of Maningham time to advance; and just as she reached the box-door, she beheld him beside her.

Sir Charles paused involuntarily-he gazed,

first on Constance, then upon Maningham-his observation increased the confusion of the former. "Let us go on, let us go on," cried she, with emotion; dear Maningham, let us go on."

The sound of her voice, as she thus accidentally, and by mistake, pronounced his name, reached the ear of Maningham-it vibrated on every chord of his sick heart; he let go the hand of the young lady he had been conducting from the Theatre, and turned, with emotion, to the spot where Constance stood.

The young lady ran on to join the rest of her party.

Constance attempted to speak to him, but articulation failed.

"Sir Charles Rouverie! happy, happy man!" said Maningham, regarding the mourning dress of Constance. "Miss Mounstewart, Con- . stance, is it can it be possible? You need not my felicitations," continued he, addressing Sir Charles; you are too, too eminently happy;" then seizing the hand of Constance, he imprinted on it a fervent kiss; and, beseeching Heaven to bless her, rushed out of the house.

Constance could not speak; she suffered Sir Charles to lead her from the spot, and, more dead than alive, entered the carriage, which waited for them at the door, Sir Charles and her woman following in silence.

CHAP. XVII.

Inspiring thought of rapture yet to be,
The tears of love were hopeless but for thee:"

WHEN they arrived at the inn, Constance took a candle, and wishing Sir Charles good-night, she would have retired immediately to her apartment. But Sir Charles taking her hand, entreated her not to leave him.

"I am really too ill to converse," said she, timidly, resigning the candle to her woman, who extended her hand to receive it from her, " and I cannot eat,"

"Only a few minutes," said Sir Charles, mournfully, "will I trespass on your time; suffer Jane to get her supper, and give me the pleasure of your society during that interval."

Constance seated herself in silence; and Jane, taking the hint of Sir Charles, retired; but a considerable time elapsed ere Sir Charles could profit by her absence. He walked about the room in agitation, paused several times, as if intending to speak, and again paced the apartment: at

length, however, he summoned resolution to say, "I cannot bear to see you unhappy; Oh, Constance! your emotion, your distress unmans me. I dread to offend you, but I can be silent no longer. It is impossible to speak my feelings. Is your attachment to Maningham so really fixed, so decidedly established, that it cannot be shaken? ean nothing restore your serenity ?"

Constance, in encreased agitation, attempted a reply. "Mistake not my feelings," cried she. "I am indeed, heart-wounded, but love makes no part in my emotion. It is a dread, an unconquerable dread, that I have innocently forfeited that esteem, which, to preserve, is necessary to my existence. I could behold Maningham the husband of another, I could rejoice in his felicity, but I cannot bear that he should think me weak or capricious. And what must he, what can he think of me this night?"

"And what do I not feel," said Sir Charles, mournfully,"to see you thus! Can I, dare I hope! Oh, Constance! deceive not yourself. Your feelings, your agitation, speak death to every fond hope I had dared to cherish. I know, I am conscious, that I am unworthy of you ; but I believed that you must in time have become sensible of an attachment so ardent, so tender as mine. I believed that your gentleness, your sensibility, would be awakened in my fa vour; and that my happiness was not unworthy of your consideration."

Constance rose from her seat." To believe that I can ever be insensible of your merit, or indifferent to your happiness," answered she,