to me. I must see you once more. My tortured and wounded heart must be soothed by you. It is your lips that must tell me, I must forget you; it is from your lips I must hear that your heart is another's. You must teach me how that calmness may be gained, which will enable me to pass through the world without outraging it by the storm of passion warring within me. Come to me, Julian, I entreat you. For the chance of again seeing you, I feel that I could stake all in this life besides. Dream not of refusing me. It would madden me, and lead to acts that you would deplore to your last hour. I know Mr. St. John has expected you at Marston for the last week, therefore your visit will excite no surprise. Julian you must come !".

This letter was a complete bouleversement to poor Julian. His heart beat most painfully, every nerve in his frame vibrated with emotion. What was he to do? How act in such a position? He felt that all he had read was wrong, imprudent, nay, even criminal: but still the aggressor was the loveliest of women; and it was love, deep and absorbing love for him, that had led her to sacrifice every feminine scruple, and forget that in owning her affection, she owned her shame. He was in a tumult of feeling truly pitiable, and which seemed to destroy every power of reflection. He felt that he was upon the verge of a precipice, and that necessity rather than inclination forbade his turning from it.

Was he to answer the letter? He must-but in what manner?-how address one who had written words which, like living fire, had bid his heart burn within him? It was torture to tell her that he could not join her at Marston; yet still he dared not be unkind-he must be tender of feelings so devoted, so impassionate, which in a manner imparted their ardor to his own. He commenced many letters, which by turns were destroyed; at length he dispatched one, unsatisfactory to

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himself, at once too tender and yet too cold. The only part of the affair which afforded him any satisfaction on reflection, or in which he acted with some degree of firmness, was having refused for the present to go to Marston.

His plans for the day were wholly frustrated, and he lounged about the streets after the completion of his letter, unmindful whither he went or whom he met ; returning to the club-house at length, that he might again peruse the epistle which had so discomposed him. There he encountered some acquaintances, and accepted their proposal to dine early with them for the purpose of visiting one of the lesser summer theatres. Indeed, the only relief he felt from the variety of feelings which pressed upon his mind, was in the noisiness and conviviality of these merveilleux, who, considering themselves as privileged anomalies in thus being found within the bills of mortality in the month of October, when pheasants, festivities and flirtations were all awaiting them in the country, indemnified themselves for the privation by astonishing the audience, and turning the heads of the actresses at the Olympic or Adelphi theatre, which they honored with their titled presence. Not that Julian found pleasure in the thing; on the contrary, it would have annoyed and incensed him on any other occasion, but now it prevented thought, and therefore was chosen as the lesser evil.

It was in the frame of mind brought on by the circumstances just related, that Julian appeared before his cousin in Grosvenor Square, and we must cease to wonder at his being absent and dejected. His plans relative to the Cecil family had been wholly frustrated, and it was only on Blanche interrogating him that he recollected what they had been. He felt abashed in her presence, and at a loss how to conduct himself. Was he to confide all to her? Conscience said no ; still it was with a sort of half-resolve it should be so,

that he asked her to ride with him, knowing the long interview would give him the opportunity.

In the morning, very soon after he had breakfasted, and while reflecting on what Blanche's comments would be, should he, during their ride, intrust her with the whole of Lady Florence's desperation and imprudence, a note was put into his hands. It was from the object and sole occupier of his thoughts. He opened it with breathless impatience, and found only these few lines.

"For your own sake-for my sake-come to me. I shall expect you from twelve till midnight, FLORENCE.

CHAPTER XXII.

"Yet beautiful and bright he stood,
As born to rule the storm ;

A creature of heroic blood,

A proud, though child-like form."

THERE are few men who have not experienced in their own persons, how perfect is the separation which a difference of profession and politics causes to those who in early life may have met with intimacy, if not with affection. It was thus with the Duke of Strathhaven and Captain Cecil. At one period of their youth, few days passed without their meeting, and the residence for a short time of the gallant and noble-minded boy at a clergyman's in the neighborhood, was considered by the young Herbert Cecil as a rare pleasure and advantage. It was during one of those days of exploits which they loved so much to spend together, and which the boyish Fitz-Henry enjoyed as much as his elder friend, that the latter, falling from a tree where he was seeking the nest of a jay that had levied tribute on his mother's garden, was immersed in the deep fishpond on the borders of which the bird had established itself. Entangled in weeds, and stunned by his fall, he must inevitably have perished, but for the prompt and courageous assistance of Fitz-Henry, who, though less, and scarcely hoping to be of service to him whom he ventured to save, plunged, heedless of self, into the deep and muddy water. His cries, and manfully exerted strength, were the means of saving his nearly suffocated friend; and they were both extricated from

their perilous position at the moment when their powers were fast failing, by some workmen who had heard the fearful cries of the alarmed Fitz-Henry.

The noble daring of the courageous boy was the subject of much admiration to the whole neighborhood of Riversdale, but none felt it more deeply than the grateful heart of Herbert Cecil; and it gave a warmer coloring to the affection he already entertained for "brave little Wat," as he called bis young friend.

This ripening friendship, however, was soon and completely checked. Walter Fitz-Henry was removed to the military college, there to commence a career as unexampled in valor and distinction, as the renown and honor which it gained him. Nearly at the same time the young Cecil entered the navy; and being immediately ordered to the American station, where he remained many years, even the occasional meetings, to which at parting they had pledged themselves, were rendered perfectly impossible.

Time passed on: Herbert Cecil had his share of peril and warfare, though he failed in attaining the honors which seemed to strew the path of his more fortunate friend. For years they never met. At length, at a levée, which Captain Cecil attended soon after obtaining his promotion and subsequent to his marriage, he beheld his "brave little Wat" in the form of the distinguished Sir Walter Fitz-Henry; who, Generalissimo of the forces in Spain, stood, covered with medals and orders of every description, receiving universal attention, and the tributary homage of a crowd of admiring friends and acquaintance.

Captain Cecil, in his turn, approached, while his heart trobbed with pleasure at the rencounter. He extended his hand to grasp that of the idolized hero. It was taken, faintly pressed,—and a few kind words of everyday courtesy passed the lips of the once blunt and warm-hearted Walter, but nothing further. Captain