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sweetest gem, my pearl, my babe! And tell me, Annette,” continued the poor lady,“ tell me, was it a dream ? I fancied I had seen Lord Cunnington, I fancied he told me my husband will soon return; but Annette, you must not let him come to me, for I cannot show him the babe,—she is dead, dead, dead."

“ Cheer up,” said Annette, affected, notwithstanding her prejudice.

“What should I cheer up for? Oh, yes, I remember my dream ; he told me he would love me, and I like to be loved.”

A groan was heard from the boudoir.

“ What is that? said the baroness, turning very pale; “how nervous I am! but I used to be so fearless once—but my babe is dead, and I have nothing to love; go, Annette, to Lord Cunnington, and ask him why he has forsaken me? go and ask him where my husband is ? and do not let him come here."

[graphic]

“Not Lord Cunnington ?”—

“Yes, how stupid you are, girl! I must see Lord Cunnington, or else my poor husband will come.”

Eldrido rushed from the boudoir,—and when Annette at length succeeded in pacifying the baroness, the young Spaniard was not in the house.

Nothing could be more clear, thought the soubrette ; and she wondered where all this would end.

Alas! where do all such idle speculations end? In reproaches, in sorrow. There will dawn a morning of reflection when the evening,—the dark night of hasty judgment is repented of; then how bitterly does the weak heart upbraid itself, how it laments it ever heeded the delusive webs which entangle our thoughts into the belief of tales which plunge many fellow-christians in woe!

CHAPTER XI.

“Mi scacci sdegnato,
Mi sgridi severo;
Pietoso, placato
Vederti non sperò.
Se in questi momenti,
Non senti
Pieta.
Che ingusto rigore !
Che fiero consiglio!
Scordarsi l'amore
D’un misero figlio,
D'un figlio infelice
Che colpa non ha."

Alone-dispirited, wretched—crest-fallen, humbled, lowered, even by the loathsome accusation; alone in a private room, but a prisoner, sat Augustus Lord Cunnington, accused of the sin which was for ever

branded on its first perpetrator's brow;

-accused of murder—innocent, yet hardly knowing how to disentangle himself from a net of dreadful coincidences, which all arose to accuse him of a crime which filled Cunnington's soul with horror. He pressed his hands convulsively to his brow; he strove in vain to quell the quick pulsations of his heart; he asked himself if it were not all a dream,—and his soul, bowed down and stricken, bore testimony to the too sad reality.

His lips quivered, his eyes filled with tears, and when his faithful valet entered the room, Cunnington was leaning his head on the table, and sobbing like a child.

“Not a word of this to my mother, not a word,” said the unfortunate nobleman ; “how bears she her grief, her dis

grace ?"

“My lady is very ill.”
“ And Miss Lemington ?”
“Miss Lemington is also ill.”

“ Oh, God, where will all this end?” cried Cunnington.

“ Bear up your spirits, my lord; the Almighty will not let the just suffer for the wicked.”

" What say · they of the state of the baroness ?”

“ The baroness continues very raving, my lord, and her ravings are very much against your cause.—Yet the magistrates, though they are collecting the evidence, agree to wait for the lucid moments the physicians speak of.”

“ And the Spanish secretary—"
“Can nowhere be found.”
And the soubrette—”
“Persists in accusing your lordship.”
“ And the baron's remains"

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