to leave you, I cannot obey you yet. I must win your . . . ." "My friendship, my deep, deep esteem. Oh, Mr. Cunnington, you were my brother's friend, you received his last sigh, and I will never, never forget you." A host of recollections crowded to Cunnington's brain; thus it was that Alice Lemington had offered him her friendship. A pang shot across his heart, he dared not speak of love in that chamber of death. They gazed on each other; their lips tremulous with many conflicting feelings,their hearts palpitating,-their eyes reflecting the language of their hearts; that language on both sides clad in despair, though the cause of each other's sorrow was not unknown; but, at length, Anna tore herself away, and Cunnington was left alone. Oh! how he longed to feel again as he was once, free-hearted and light; for Alice Lemington he had felt youthful love, but towards Anna it was a passion which had twined itself into his existence; but an indescribable fear prevented his speaking as he would to her to love her in despairto bask in the sunshine of her gaze,―to hear her voice, that was, at least, some comfort; he hardly dared to hope for more. Alone with the dead-Cunnington felt the nothingness of life, the transient existence of all earthly expectations. How altered were now the features which had been so admired for manly beauty; how hollow now the praise seemed which once hovered round the wealthy heir's path. He had fluttered for a time in the world's gay vortex like a butterfly, whose aerial existence was to terminate on the nearest approach of changing weather; but amidst the flowers Alphonzo had found the nectar of purer honey-the one drop of ineffable price, the hope of salvation, that guided him through the difficulties and trials which beset alike the path of rich and poor. Alphonzo's heart had been the abode of honour, and buried in his bosom the recollection of many, many noble deeds, had cheered him in his last hour of mortal agony. He died in the faith his conscience believed best; and as the aspirations of his religion had led him to acts of virtue, what mortal dare be presumptuous enough to assert his doctrine was faulty? No wonder Cunnington felt his scalding tears fall; he had lost a steady, a noblehearted friend, one who often had led him from the path of folly,-one to whom Cunnington would have blushed to own an unworthy thought,-one who protected virtue, who detested vice. Fame had been Alphonzo's darling dream; he had not yet shaped it into any particular form, but it had hovered around him like a halo of great brightness; and in every quiet unobtrusive virtue he had trained his heart for that period when fame at its climax surrounds the young with flattery and deceit. Alphonzo deemed he was preparing for earthly fame, but a brighter crown of glory was awaiting him, one which stings not the brows it encircles; he was preparing for death, and even now, stretched in that cold eternal slumber, the same sweet smile hovered round the pale lips; and as Cunnington gazed, thus he thought he should like to die. CHAPTER VIII. Juste ciel! puis-je entendre et souffrir ce langage? RACINE. The Baron de Scala was in no very amiable humour, as, wholly unattended, he rapidly threaded the mountain passes, apparently absorbed in unpleasing reflection. He muttered words to himself, then pressed his courser on at its swiftest pace; his dark brow was lowered,-his lips compressed, his eyes darted expressions deeply set in anger. There are moments in men's lives when their worldly occupations are particularly |