Marion was in a little apartment which belonged exclusively to her; thither Colonel Grahame, aware that it was no time for the observance of punctilious ceremony, immediately directed his steps.

He knocked gently at the door, and, Marion's soft low voice bidding him come in, he raised the latch and entered. She was sitting in an attitude of pensive meditation, her head resting on her hand, her face paler than marble, and her long eyelashes still wet with tears. She did not look up, and for a moment Grahame observed her in silence; but when he essayed to speak, she started from her seat; a deep blush suffused her countenance, and she said, in an embarrassed tone,

"Is it you Colonel Grahame? I thought it had been Minoya !5

"And am I less welcome than Minoya, Marion ?" asked Grahame, gently. "You know" he added, “I have been admitted to this little apartment before, and I come now to inquire if you are quite recovered, for I would not go till I see you as well as usual."

"Thank you," she replied, in a hurried tone; "I am well, quite well; so go, do not let me be the cause of taining you."

But Grahame saw that she could with difficulty restrain her tears; and deeply compassionating her feelings, he took her hand, and leading her gently to a seat, placed himself beside her. Marion seemed struggling for composure, and Grahame during the momentary silence which prevailed, was revolving in what manner to speak upon the delicate subject of O'Carroll's visit. At length, he ventured to say,

"I have been conversing with a friend of yours, Miss Stanley, who expresses great solicitude for your happiness, and an earnest desire to see you. I come to intercede for him, and he waits only to receive that permission, which he authorized me to say, would make him the happiest and most grateful of men."

Marion made an effort to reply, but her voice failed; and bursting into tears, she covered her face with her hand, and remained silent. Grahame was distressed

by this extreme emotion, and anxious to sooth her feelings, he said with affectionate solicitude,

"My dear Marion, I cannot see you thus unhappy, without excessive pain. I am far from urging you to see Captain O'Carroll, if it is repugnant to your wishes."

"And was it indeed, Captain O'Carroll, whom I saw?" asked Marion, raising her tearful eyes, with a look of earnest inquiry, to his face. "Why,

"It was

indeed he," returned Grahame. did you doubt it, Marion ?"

"I thought it a delusion," she replied; "I knew not how he could be here, and in connexion with you."

"And did you hear him address me?" asked Grahame, fearful that the harshness of his salutation might have been remarked by her.

"I heard nothing," returned Marion; "I saw him, whom I never expected to see more, and I fainted. Since you left me, I have been striving to remember what has past; but it seemed to me nothing but a dream.”

"It was not a dream, Marion, but a reality; and may it prove to you a most delightful one. O'Carroll will explain to you all that seems surprising; and since you do not forbid me to conduct him hither, I shall interpret your silence as assent.'

She blushed and trembled; but she vainly strove to speak, and Grahame, happy that a gleam of light was at length dawning through the darkness which had gathered early around her youth, quitted the cottage, and conducted the impatient O'Carroll to the door of her apartment.

Then remounting his horse, which had been patiently waiting for his master, in a sunny nook of the rocks, he rode slowly from the place. Talbot walked by his side, and they conversed as they went, upon the singular and interesting events of the morning.

VOL. II.

14

In a tumult of hope and eager expectation, O'Carroll approached the residence of Marion Spencer. When he found himself alone in her presence; when he gazed upon her youthful figure, drooping like a delicate flower, beneath the withering touch of early sorrow; when he remarked the paleness of that lovely countenance, which he had last seen glowing with health and happiness, he forgot the painful regrets which had so long embittered his existence. The past, with all its corroding disappointments, seemed like the troubled dream of a night, and he remembered only the love which he had bore her; and was conscious only of the joy of again beholding, and being permitted to address her. As she sat pale, silent, and motionless before him, his emotions spurned control. He saw the woman he adored, depressed by sorrow and misfortune, and with impassioned tenderness he rushed towards her; he fell on his knees before her, and pressed her passive hand to his lips and heart, with all the fervor of devoted love. They neither of them spoke, but Marion's tears flowed apace, and the sight was like oil thrown upon the fire, to O'Carroll's feelings. Marion observed it, and made a slight effort to withdraw her hand from his; but aroused by this gesture, O'Carroll held it still closer to his heart, exclaiming, in a tone of mingled tenderness and reproach,

"Marion, my beloved Marion! do not deny me this happiness, purchased by months and years of suffering!" The thrilling accents of her lover's voice, subdued the slight remains of fortitude which Marion possessed;

and sinking into the seat from which she had partly risen, she wept without an effort to restrain her tears. O'Carroll, touched by her emotion, forcibly commanded his own, and said, in a calmer accent,

"I have distressed you, Marion! forgive me; look upon me; nor turn away, as if I were an object to be dreaded."

66

Forgive you, Captain O'Carroll !" exclaimed Marion, in a low and tremulous voice, and raising her eyes for a moment to his face. "What have I to forgive? 1, who expected only reproaches, yet am greeted with such affectionate and undeserved kindness!"

"I came not to reproach you, Marion," said O'Carroll. "I came to speak to you, or of you, only with gentleness and affection. Tell me only that I am still dear to you, and the past is all forgotten, and the happy future rises in unclouded brightness before me."

"You cannot, ought not to say so," returned Marion, "till every circumstance which rendered me culpable in your eyes is explained; nor can I, till then, expect to he restored to that place in your esteem which I once occupied."

"In my love and my esteem you ever have and ever will occupy the highest place, dear Marion," returned O'Carroll. "My heart tells me, that parental authority, and not your own inclination, prompted you to desert me; and my fondest wishes will be realized, if I can again persuade my lovely Marion to accept the heart which once she did not think unworthy of her, and to bless me with the promise of that love which alone can constitute my happiness."

You

"You know not what you desire," returned Marion; "nor with whom you would connect yourself. know not that we are disgraced, exiled, proscribed; without a home, without friends, without a country! destitute, afflicted, and oppressed; compelled even to conceal that name which was once our pride; and dependent on the humanity of strangers for the daily comforts of life. It is with one thus portionless, obscure,

and wretched, that you, the heir of proud and wealthy relatives, seek for an alliance ?"

"It is with beauty, innocence, and virtue, that I seek to ally myself," returned O'Carroll, in a tone of feeling which evinced how deeply he was touched by Marion's melancholy picture. "Of this, dear Marion, I am assured, that, though fortune may have made you her sport, and given you to drink her cup of bitterness, it cannot be ascribed to any crime, to any failing even, of yours; and were 1 a rich and sovereign prince, instead of a poor soldier of fortune, dependent on the will of a testy relative, who may, at last, cut me off with a shilling, I would rather marry Marion Spencer than be the husband of the fairest, and the wealthiest heiress in the three kingdoms."

Marion smiled sadly, and sighed, as she answered,

"I can but be grateful for this generous and constant affection, O'Carroll; and you, who know my heart, may imagine its anguish, when I tell you I am forbidden to return your love; and that, perhaps, I am doing wrong only to see you.'

"Is then your father's aversion to me unconquerable?" asked O'Carroll, pale with anger and emotion; "and will he sacrifice his daughter's happiness to an unjust and cruel prejudice ?"

"You do him injustice, O'Carroll," returned Marion. "My father wishes my happiness, and he would gladly atone to you for his former unkindnesses. But there are other claims and deeper obligations which his grateful heart is anxious to repay. There is one, to whom we owe every thing; one who has shielded us from insult and ignominy, even at the risk of his own safety; one who has assiduously administered to our comfort, and cheered with his benevolent kindness the gloom of our melancholy solitude; one who has been to my father all that the most devoted son could be; and to me-what do I not owe him? more, far more than I can ever hope to repay."

"Marion!" exclaimed O'Carroll, passionately, "do not madden me by insinuations. Yet tell me, tell me at