M. DE MONTBRISON.

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private chat; "I would not write about it. I waited till you came. You know we were at Brighton in the autumn! Well, one evening I was walking on the marine parade, with my cousin Lady Susan Keppell; it was growing dark, and I had a thick Shetland veil over my face. Suddenly a tall, sallow man, wretchedly dressed, and looking half-starved, made a snatch at Susan's purse, which she was holding in her hand, for she had just changed a ten-pound note at the library. Sir Thomas Keppell, for whom in fact we were lingering on our way, was not many yards from us, and witnessed the theft. He gave chase, and raised the cry of 'Stop, thief!' Several gentlemen's servants who were on the parade joined in the pursuit, and soon caught him, not however before he had flung away the purse. A strange sort of impulse led me to go and look at the man; I raised my veil, and Susan and I went up to the little crowd now gathered around the culprit, whom Sir Thomas Keppell still grasped by the collar. O Grace! it was Louis de Montbrison, the man for whose sake I once defied parents, friends, and the opinion of the whole world. I cannot tell you how I felt as I gazed on the man who had been my favoured lover for three miserable years, during which I braved persecution, espionage, scorn, neglect, everything that was painful, rather than relinquish my engagements with the deceiver. There he stood, a convicted thief; he recognised me, and he swore at me, and called me by such horrible names, that a bystander struck him in the face. That night I thanked God, as I had never thanked him

before, for his great mercy in preserving me from my own self-will, in snatching me, spite of my obstinacy, from a fate a thousand times worse than death. And I thought of you, Grace, and how you warned me, and how I in my madness would not listen! Afterwards Lady Harriet sought out Louis's wife-my father prevailed on Sir Thomas Keppell not to prosecute. Oh Grace! that poor young creature, with her sick, hungry children, one a wailing babe, hanging at the bosom, defaced with his cruel blows! She avowed that he beat her with cruel violence when he was intoxicated; and she averred, that if a thousand pounds were placed in his hands at any hour, he would carry it to a gambling-house the next. And, Grace, he was married to that beautiful, unhappy creature, two years before he and I first met in my aunt's saloons, at Paris."

Grace shuddered. "O Eleanor! what an escape you had-how could you love that man ?"

“I cannot think, Grace. My feelings and tastes have undergone a complete change since then. I was almost a child when I first listened to his plausible tales; even my aunt had no doubt of his assumed position and of his boasted aristocratic descent; and as to religion, you know, Grace, I was very little better than a heathen! But now let us change the subject: have you any particular news to tell me ?"

"A little, though very common-place after yours. Elizabeth Warburton's book is come out, and has already had great success. I wrote yesterday to congratulate her on its appearance and its prosperity."

"Ah! that is not news-we have it, and we have all read it quite greedily; even papa says, complacently, 'It will do!' How proud Mrs. Oliphant must be !"

"Yes. She wrote to me a little while since, begging me to visit her next summer and bring back Margaret for a while to her old home. You remember Gertrude Talbot, the Puseyite of the school-room; she has just entered upon her noviciate in the convent, where her sister Magdalen took the final vows six months ago."

"I am not surprised at that. Puseyism is merely a dilution of Popery; it is, in fact, Romanism and water, just as some sharp critic says, N. P. Willis's poems on sacred subjects are 'inspiration and water.' Poor Gertrude! I fear she will regret her error before her weary, monotonous life comes to a close. Do you ever hear from any other old school friend ?"

"Yes, from Anne Warren. She is just as she was in the past, always talking as if she were a living condensation of Blair's Sermons,' 'Murray's Exercises,' with an occasional dash of 'The Whole Duty of Man.' Eleanor, she is made of good, true material; it is the springs that are wanting; she tries to move on her huge machine of moral principles by her own inherent strength, and very wearisome toil she finds it; she has yet to learn the truth of Young's declaration, that the true morality is the love of Christ."

"You think she will learn it, Grace ?"

"Oh yes, I hope so. The pharisee will become the publican some day; and even poor Gertrude in her

convent-grave may be taught of God, and brought home through much tribulation to the true fold."

"And now tell me of yourself, Grace. Is Dora at all bearable, and has Colonel Beauchamp proposed ?" "We will not talk of Dora, please. I could not make her the subject of conversation and refrain from sinning with the tongue. As to the colonel, he is still detained in the south, but when he returns I am nearly certain he will subject himself to the mortification of a refusal; and then I am afraid my troubles will begin in good earnest, for papa counts so much upon my becoming Mrs. Beauchamp, and finally Lady Rydale! If I am terribly scolded and punished, Eleanor, you and Hester must invite me in turns till the horizon at home shall clear again." If Grace was uncommunicative respecting her step-mother, Fred was by no means so scrupulous; and one frosty day when he and Eleanor were sauntering about the shrubbery, he gave such details of her proceedingsgleaned principally from Dawson-that Eleanor was moved to tears to think how she, by introducing her cousin, had caused all this misfortune and trouble.

"Eleanor," said Fred, "it is quite true you gave our family one bad member; atone for it by giving us another and better member, in you own person. Be my wife p

Captain Hamilton quite forgot that the conservatory was at some distance, and that his uniform was quietly reposing in the recesses of his wardrobe.

ELEANOR AND GRACE.

267

CHAPTER XXII.

"Farewell! I think we shall not meet again,
Till it be in that land where never change

Is known, and those who love can part no more."

SOUTHEY.

GRACE was sitting alone reading in Eleanor's room, when Miss Finch entered, and without any preliminary remarks sank upon the sofa and burst into tears.

"Dear Eleanor !" exclaimed Grace, "what has happened? You went away an hour ago, looking as blithe as a bird, and now you return weeping like a Niobe!"

"Oh, Grace!" returned Eleanor, trying to restrain her tears, "what will you say to me when I tell you that Captain Hamilton has asked me to be his wife, and I have refused him ?"

Grace did look very grave. She only said, "I did think you returned his affection, Eleanor. I had no idea you were merely amusing yourself with him. Poor, dear Fred, so buoyant as he always is, this bitter disappointment will throw him into the depths of despair."

"I have not been trifling with him, Grace. I do love him and esteem him greatly."