willing to consent, for she remembered that her last excursion had been rendered abortive by a visit to Norwood; but, flattering herself that her present scheme was secure from hazard of failure, she assumed an accommodating humour, and not only permitted Laura to go, but allowed the carriage to convey her, stipulating that she should return it immediately, and walk home in the evening. She found the De Courcys alone, and passed the day less cheerfully than any she had ever spent at Norwood. Mrs. De Courcy, though kind, was grave and thoughtful; Montague absent, and melancholy. Harriet's neverfailing spirits no longer enlivened the party, and her place was but feebly supplied by the infantine gaiety of De Courcy's little protegé Henry. This child, who was the toy of all his patron's leisure hours, had, during her visits to Norwood, become particularly interesting to Laura. His quickness, his uncommon beauty, his engaging frankness, above all, the innocent fondness which he showed for her, had really attached her to him, and he repaid her with all the affections of his little heart. He would quit his toys to hang upon her; and, though at other times as restless as any of his kind, was never weary of sitting quietly on her knee, clasping her snowy neck in his little sun-burnt arms. His prattle agreeably interrupted the taciturnity into which the little party were falling, till his grandfather came to take him away.

"Kiss your hand, Henry, and bid Miss Montreville farewell," said the old man as he was about to take him from Laura's arms. "It will be a long while before you see her again." "Are you going away?" said the child, looking sorrowfully in Laura's face.

"Yes, far away," answered Laura.

"Then Henry will go with you, Henry's dear pretty lady."

"No, no," said his grandfather.

"You must go to your mammy; good boys love their mammies best."

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"Then you ought to be Henry's mammy," cried the child, sobbing and locking his arms round Laura's neck," for Henry loves you best." My dear boy!" cried Laura, kissing him with a smile that half-consented to his wish; but, happening to turn her eye towards De Courcy, she saw him change colour, while, with an abruptness unlike his usual manner, he snatched the boy from her arms, and regardless of his cries, dismissed him from the room.

This little incident did not contribute to the cheerfulness of the group. Grieved to part with her favourite, and puzzled to account for De Courcy's behaviour, Laura was now the most silent of the trio. She saw nothing in the childish expression of fondness which should have moved De Courcy; yet it had evidently stung him with sudden uneasiness. She now recollected that she had more than once inquired who were the parents of this child, and that the question had always been evaded. A motive of

curiosity prompted her now to repeat the inquiry, and she addressed it to Mrs. De Courcy. With a slight shade of embarrassment Mrs. De Courcy answered, "His mother was the onl child of our old servant: a pretty, meek-spirited unfortunate girl; and his father—”

"His father's crimes," interrupted De Courcy, hastily, "have brought their own punishment, a punishment beyond mortal fortitude to bear ;" and, catching up a book, he asked Laura whether she had seen it, endeavouring to divert her attention by pointing out some passages to her notice. Laura's curiosity was increased by this appearance of concealment, but she had no means of gratifying it, and the subject vanished. from her mind when she thought of bidding farewell to her beloved friends, perhaps for

ever.

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When she was about to go, Mrs. De Courcy affectionately embraced her. 'My dear child," said she, "second in my love and esteem only to my own Montague, almost the warmest wish of my heart is to retain you always with me; but, if that is impossible, short may your absence be, and may you return to us as joyfully as we shall receive you."

Weeping, and reluctant to part, Laura at last tore herself away.

Hargrave had so often stolen upon her walks, that the fear of meeting him was become habitual to her, and she wished to escape him by reaching home before her return could be expected. As she leant on De Courcy's arm, ashamed of being unable to suppress her sensibility, she averted her head, and looked sadly back upon a dwelling endeared to her by many an innocent, many a rational pleasure.

Absorbed in her regrets, Laura had proceeded a considerable way before she observed that she held a trembling arm; and recollected that De Courcy had scarcely spoken since their walk began. Her tears suddenly ceased, while, confused and disquieted, she quickened her pace. Soon recollecting herself, she stopped; and thanking him for his escort, begged that he would go no further.

"I cannot leave you yet," said De Courcy, in a voice of restrained emotion, and again he led her onwards.

A few short sentences were all that passed till they had almost reached the antique gate which terminated the winding part of the avenue. Here Laura again endeavoured to prevail upon her companion to return, but without success. With more composure than before, he refused to leave her. Dreading to encounter Hargrave while De Courcy was in such evident agitation, she besought him to go, telling him that it was her particular wish that he should proceed no farther.

He instantly stopped, and, clasping her hand between his, "Must I then leave you, Laura," said he; "you, whose presence has so long been the charm of my existence!'

consciously pressing, in the energy of speech, the hand which held hers-" Indeed it is to no common-place woman that I wish to resign you. Lonely as my own life must be, its chief pleasures must arise from the happiness of my friends, and to know that you are happy." Laura stopped, for she felt her voice grow tremulous. "But we will not talk of this now," resumed she; "I shall be absent for some months at least, and in that time you will bring yourself to think differently. Promise me at least to make the attempt."

"No, Laura," answered De Courcy, "this I cannot promise. I will never harass you with importunity or complaint, but the love of you shall be my heart's treasure, it shall last through life-beyond life-and if you cannot love me, give in return only such kind thoughts as you would bestow on one who would promote your happiness at the expense of his own. And promise me, dearest Laura, that when we meet, you will not receive me with suspicion or reserve, as if you feared that I should presume on your favour, or persecute you with solicitations. Trust to my honour, trust to my love itself, for sparing you all unavailing entreaty. Promise me, then, ever to consider me as a friend, a faithful, tender friend; and forget, till my weakness remind you of it, that ever you knew me as a lover."

"Ah, Mr. De Courcy," cried Laura, tears filling her eyes, "what thoughts but the kindest can I ever have of him who comforted my father's sorrows, who relieved-in a manner which made relief indeed a kindness-relieved my father's wants? And what suspicion, what coldness can I ever feel towards him whom my father loved and honoured? Yes, I will trust you; for I know that you are as far above owing favour to compassion as to fear."

"A thousand thanks, beloved Laura," cried De Courcy, kissing her hands," and thus I seal our compact. One thing more; shall I trespass on your noble frankness, if I ask you whether, had not another stolen the blessing, I might have hoped to awaken a warmer regard? whether any labour, any cares, could have won for me what he has forfeited ?"

Silent and blushing, Laura stood for a few moments with her eyes fixed on the ground, then raising them, said, "From you I fear no wrong construction of my words, and will frankly own to you, that, for my own sake, as well as your's, I wish you had been known to me ere the serpent wound me in his poisoned folds. I believe, indeed, that no mortal but himself could have inspired the same-what shall I call an infatuation with which reason had nothing to do? But you have the virtues which I have been taught to love, and-and-But what avails it now? I was indeed a social creature; domestic habits, domestic wishes strong in me. But what avails it now?"

"And was there a time when you could have

| loved me, Laura? Blessings on you for the concession! It shall cheer my exiled heart when you are far distant; sooth me with delightful day-dreams of what might have been; and give my solitude a charm which none but you could bring to the most social hour."

"Your solitude, my honoured friend," replied Laura, "needs it not; it has better and nobler charms-the charms of usefulness, of piety; and long may these form your business and delight. But what makes me linger with you? I meant to hasten home that I might avoid one as unlike you as confidence is to fear; the feelings which you each inspire. Farewell. I trust I shall soon hear that you are well and happy."

Loath to part, De Courcy endeavoured to detain her while he again gave utterance to his strong affection; and when she would be gone, bade her farewell in language so solemn, so tender, that all her self-command could not repress the tears which trickled down her cheeks. They parted; he followed her to beg that she would think of him sometimes. Again she left him; again he had some little boon to crave. She reached the gate, and looking back, saw De Courcy standing motionless where she had last quitted him. She beckoned a farewell. The gate closed after her, and De Courcy felt as if one blank dreary waste had blotted the fair face of nature.

CHAPTER XXVIII.

The evening was closing, when Laura proceeded on her way. She had outstaid her purposed time, and from every bush by the path side she expected to see Hargrave steal upon her; in every gust of the chill November wind she thought she heard his footstep. She passed the last cottages connected with Norwood. The evening fires glanced cheerfully through the casements, and the voice of rustic merriment came softened on the ear.

"Amiable De Courcy!" thought Laura. "The meanest of his dependents finds comfort in his protection, while the being on whom I lavished the affection which might have rejoiced that worthy heart, makes himself an object of dread, even to her whom he pretends to love."

She reached home, however, without interruption, and was going to join Lady Pelham in the sitting-room; when happening to pass a looking-glass, she observed that her eyes still bore traces of the tears she had been shedding, and, in dread of the merciless raillery of her aunt, she retired to her own room. There, with an undefined feeling of despondence, she sat down to reconsider her conversation with De Courcy.

Never was task more easy, or more unprofit

able. She remembered every word that De Courcy had uttered; remembered the very tone, look, and gesture with which they were spoken. She recollected, too, all that she had said in reply; but she could by no means unravel the confused effects of the scene upon her own mind. She certainly pitied her lover to a very painful degree.

"Poor De Courcy!" said she, accompanying the half-whisper with a heavy sigh. But having, in the course of half an hour's rumination, repeated this soliloquy about twenty times, she began to recollect that De Courcy had borne his disappointment with considerable philosophy, and had appeared to derive no small comfort from the prospect of an intercourse of mere friendship.

This fortunate recollection, however, not immediately relieving her, she endeavoured to account for her depression by laying hold of a vague idea which was floating in her mind, that she had not on this occasion acted as she ought. Friendship between young persons of different sexes was a proverbial fomenter of the tender passion; and though she was herself in perfect safety, was it right to expose to such hazard the peace of De Courcy? Was it generous, was it even honourable to increase the difficulties of his self-conquest, by admitting him to the intimacy of friendship? It was true, he had voluntarily sought the post of danger: but then he was under the dominion of an influence which did not allow him to weigh consequences; and was it not unpardonable in her, who was in full possession of herself, to sanction, to aid his imprudence? Yet how could she have rejected a friendship which did her so much honour? the friendship of a man whom her father had so loved and respected? of the man to whom her father had wished to see her connected by the, closest ties? the man to whom she owed obligations never to be repaid? Alas! how had she acknowledged these obligations? By suffering the most amiable of mankind to sport with his affections, while she had weakly thrown away her own. But the mischief was not yet totally irremediable; and dazzled by the romantic generosity of sacrificing her highest earthly joy to the restoration of her benefactor's quiet, she snatched a pen, intending to retract her promise.

An obsolete notion of decorum was for once favourable to a lover, and Laura saw the impropriety of writing to De Courcy. Besides, it occurred to her that she might withdraw into Scotland, without formally announcing the reason of her retreat; and thus leave herself at liberty to receive De Courcy as a friend whenever discretion should warrant this indulgence. After the most magnanimous resolves, however, feeling her mind as confused and comfortless as before, she determined to obtain the benefit of impartial counsel, and changed the destination of the paper on which she had already written |

"My dear friend," from De Courcy to Mrs. Douglas.

With all her native candour and singleness of heart did Laura detail her case to the monitress of her youth. To reveal De Courcy's name was contrary to her principles; but she described his situation, his mode of life, and domestic habits. She enlarged upon his character, her obligations to him, and the regret which, for his sake, she felt, that particular circumstances rendered her incapable of such an attachment as was necessary to conjugal happiness. She mentioned her compliance with her lover's request of a continuance of their former intimacy; confessed her doubts of the propriety of her concession; and entreated Mrs. Douglas's explicit opinion on the past, as well as her directions for the future.

Her mind thus unburdened, she was less perplexed and uneasy; and the next morning cheerfully commenced her journey, pleasing herself with the prospect of being released from the harassing attendance of Hargrave. On the evening of the second day the travellers reached Grosvenor-street; and the unsuspecting Laura, with renewed sentiments of gratitude towards her aunt, revisited the dwelling which had received her when she could claim no other shelter.

Her annuity having now become due, Laura. soon after her arrival in town, one day borrowed Lady Pelham's chariot, that she might go to receive the money, and purchase some necessary additions to her wardrobe. Remembering, however, the inconveniences to which she had been subjected by her imprudence in leaving herself without money, she regulated her disbursements by the strictest economy; determined to reserve a sum which, besides a little gift to her cousin, might defray the expense of a journey to Scotland.

Her way chancing to lie through Holborn, a recollection of the civilities of her old landlady. induced her to stop and inquire for Mrs. Dawkins. The good woman almost compelled her to alight; overwhelmed her with welcomes, and asked a hundred questions in a breath, giving in return a very detailed account of all her family affairs. She informed Laura, that Miss Julia, having lately read the life of a heroine, who, in the capacity of a governess, captivated the heart of a great lord, had been seized with a desire to seek adventures under a similar character; but finding that recommendations for experience were necessary to her admission into any family of rank, she had condescended to serve her ap-prenticeship in the tuition of the daughters of an eminent cowfeeder. The good woman expressed great compassion for the pupils of so incompetent a teacher, from whom they could learn nothing useful.

"But that was," she observed, "their father's lookout, and in the meantime, it was so far well

that July was doing something towards her keeping."

After a visit of some length Laura wished to be gone, but her hostess would not suspend her eloquence long enough to suffer her to take leave. She was at last obliged to interrupt the harangue; and breaking from her indefatigable entertainer, hurried home, not a little alarmed lest her stay should expose her on her return home to oratory of a different kind.

Lady Pelham, however, received her most graciously, examined all her purchases, and inquired very particularly into the cost of each. She calculated the amount, and the balance of the annuity remaining in Laura's possession.

"Five and thirty pounds!" she exclaimed"what in the world, Laura, will you do with so much money?"

"Perhaps five and thirty different things," answered Laura, smiling; "I have never had, nor never shall have, half so much money as I could spend."

"Oh, you extravagant thing!" cried Lady Pelham, patting her cheek. "But take care that some one does not save you the trouble of spending it. You should be very sure of the locks of your drawers. You had better let me put your treasures into my bureau."

Laura was about to comply, when, recollecting that there might be some awkwardness in asking her aunt for the money while she concealed its intended destination, she thanked Lady Pelham, but said she supposed it would be perfectly safe in her own custody; and then, as usual, avoided impending altercation by hastening out of the room. She thought Lady Pelham looked displeased; but as that was a necessary effect of the slightest contradiction, she saw it without violent concern; and the next time they met, her ladyship was again all smiles and courtesy.

Some blanks remaining to be filled up in Lady Pelham's town establishment, Laura took advantage of the present happy humour, for performing her promise to the kindhearted Fanny, who was, upon her recommendation, received into the family. A much more important boon would have been granted with equal readiness. Lady Pelham could for the present refuse nothing to her dear Laura.

Three days," three wondrous days," all was sunshine and serenity. Lady Pelham was the most ingenious, the most amusing, the most fascinating of woman kind.

"What a pity," thought Laura," that my aunt's spirits are so fluctuating! How delightful she can be when she pleases."

In the midst of these brilliant hours, Lady Pelham one morning ran into the room where Laura was at work

"Here's a poor fellow," said she, with a look and a voice all compassion," who has sent me his account, and says he must go to jail if it be not paid instantly. But it is quite impossible for me to get the money till to-morrow."

"To jail!" cried Laura, shocked-" What is the amount !"

"Forty pounds," said Lady Pelham, " and I have not above ten in the house."

"Take mine," cried Laura, hastening to bring it.

Lady Pelham stopped her.

"No, my dear good girl," said she, "I wont take away your little store, perhaps you may want it yourself."

"Oh no," said Laura, "I cannot want it; pray let me bring it."

"The poor man has a large family," said Lady Pelham; "but indeed I am very unwilling to

take-"

Her ladyship spared further regrets, for Laura was out of hearing. She returned in a moment with the whole of her wealth, out of which Lady Pelham, after some further hesitation, was prevailed upon to take thirty pounds; a robbery to which she averred that she would never have consented, but for the wretched situation of an innocent family, and her own certainty of repaying the debt in a day or two at farthest. Several days, however, passed away, and Lady Felham made no mention of discharging her debt. Laura wondered a little that her aunt should forget a promise so lately and so voluntarily given; but her attention was entirely diverted from the subject by the following letter from Mrs. Douglas

"You see, my dear Laura, I lose no time in answering your letter, though, for the first time, I answer you with some perplexity. The weight which you have always kindly allowed to my opinion, makes me at all times give it with timidity; but this is not the only reason of my present hesitation. I confess, that, in spite of the apparent frankness and perspicuity with which you have written, I am not able exactly to comprehend you.

"You describe a man of respectable abilities, of amiable dispositions, of sound principles, and engaging manners. You profess that such qualities, aided by intimacy, have secured your cordial friendship, while obligations beyond return have enlivened this friendship by the warmest gratitude. But, just as I am about to conclude that all this has produced its natural effect, and to prepare my congratulations for a happier occasion, you kill my hopes with a dismal sentence, expressing your regret for having been obliged to reject the addresses of this excellent person. Now this might have been intelligible enough, supposing you were preoccupied by a stronger attachment. But so far from this, you declare yourself absolutely incapable of any exclusive affection, or of such a regard as is necessary to any degree of happiness in the conjugal state. I know not, my, dear Laura, what ideas you may entertain of the fervency suitable to wedded love; but had you been less peremptory, I should have thought it