married? And did not think it likely any one would be found to have him? To be sure he was very lame-but then he was so good and kind, and his young wife declared that it only served to make him dearer to her. She is very beautiful, and so merry and affectionate. His sisters tell me that she has made Sidney quite a different being already, and as full of animation as herself. I quite long for their return."

The last words fell upon Hester's ears as though uttered a great way off, and she fainted. That fainting fit, and the long illness which followed, gave her cousins some faint clue to the past; but they never knew the whole truth, only enough to make them bear with and pity her.

Gentle reader, let us never wish for riches, or fame, or beauty, or any thing that we have not; but be sure that had it been good for us, God would have given it without our asking, and that if He witholds it, it is in love, and for some wise purpose. Let us also take warning by the melancholy history of Hester Lovell, and beware of pride.

PRIDE AND JEALOUSY.

(Continued from page 191.)

CHAPTER II.

WE pass over the parting between Edward and his uncle. It was such an one as might have been expected-of advice on the one hand and grateful acknowledgments and promises on the other. Still less shall we attempt to describe the adieu of Edward and Constance. Enough that the last "good bye" was spoken and that Constance listened to the rumbling of the wheels which bore her lover away, still fancying she could hear the noise of the carriage when it had long been out of sight and hearing too; and that with a feeling of sorrow not to say of desolation, she retired to her chamber to pray for the happiness of her beloved.

All that day and that week, to Constance how lonesome did every thing appear. The voice which had awakened so many an echo in her breast was to her no longer audible. No more could she listen to the bounding step of her lover hastening to greet her; and even the beautiful spots which had had for her in times past so much of enchantment, presented to her gaze no new features of loveliness now. Her very piano seemed out

of tune and when she strove to sing some blithe and merry song, somehow her voice slid into a mournful strain and she was obliged to rise from the instrument and brush away her tears. What womanly heart that has experienced the pain of such a separation but will acknowledge the strength of the feelings— the truthfulness of the pourtrayal.

On the seventh day after his departure, the postman brought Constance a letter. It was an epistle from Edward. She had received one before but only to announce his safe arrival at the termination of his journey, and journeys were not performed so quickly then as at present. Scarcely able to repress her first impulse of rushing to the door and snatching the packet from the letter carrier, no sooner had Constance obtained possession of the prize than she hurried to her boudoir, and with glistening eyes and throbbing pulse fell to its perusing.

Who shall tell the emotion with which she regarded that letter filled as it was with expressions of devoted attachment. It was her first LOVE LETTER. Oh what magic to a young and affectionate woman is there in those words. What a bright era in her existence is the moment of the reception of that first tangible proof of true affection. What though the adored one has murmured his love by the still waters, in the blushing moonlight, or by the glarish sun at noon; words are but airand when they have died away upon the ear they have ceased to exist excepting as memory recals the hour, the spot and the occasion of their utterance; or as imagination pictures their recurrence in times to come. But the first Love Letter. It is a thing to be read and re-read- to be opened again and again. It is the dear representative of the loved one to be pressed to the heart and worn there as some precious amulet. The first love letter! what a subject for a Wilkie or a Reynolds.

And with what delight did Constance from time to time receive the cherished memorials of the past — they were so full of tenderness-so replete with affection. His success was her success now, and his life her life. Week by week did Edward communicate to Constance, the authors he read, the lectures he attended, the examinations for which he was preparing. And with what gentle admonition in reply to those letters did she counsel him not to work too hard, but to mingle some gentle recreation with his severe studies.

But circumstances had happened since the departure of Edward of which he was ignorant. A new visitor had obtained footing in the Lodge; Sir Henry Hargrave who had been

abroad for four or five years had returned and called to renew the acquaintance which had been previously commenced. Struck by the fine person and fascinating manners of Constance he had paid her somewhat marked attention, and had in outward semblance, although certainly not in inward effect supplanted Edward in her good graces. Together they strolled through the grounds, and owing to her natural gaieté du cœur Sir Henry was admitted on the best terms-but only of friendship-with Constance. In her singleness of heart she never thought to refer to this in her letters to Edward. Love is after all a selfish wight, and even the generous Constance had been so thoroughly imbued with the principle of love and SELF that she remembered not to mention the circumstance of Sir Henry's polite attention in any of her epistles. On the other hand, Mr. Ormington, who, however strange it may appear was unconscious of the understanding which existed between Edward and Constancein his letters to his Nephew dilated in glowing terms upon the new intimacy, and even expressed his hope that the union which he predicated between Sir Henry and Constance might be a source of happiness to both.

There was an air of mys

This was wormwood to Edward. tery too in the fact of Constance's silence upon the subject which puzzled and displeased him. Determined to satisfy himself, unnoticed and without intimation to that effect, he returned home.

It was late in the evening when he arrived, and entering the grounds through the orchard he made his way to the library unobserved.

The window was open, and at the piano-forte Constance and Sir Henry were seated side by side. We do not say that the Baronet's arm was encircling the waist of the fair girl. But to Edward as he stood in the shade it looked unaccountably like it. They were singing some new duet and a very lively one it was to judge by the bursts of laughter which accompanied each essay. They were very jocund-oh they were uncommonly merry-that young girl and that handsome Baronet. Perhaps it might have been imprudent in Constance to exhihit herself on such easy terms with so fine a man, and with so excellent a handle to his name. Titles do wonders! as well as noble features, long dark curling locks, and gentlemanly deportment. But poor Constance she loved laughing better than sighing-and then again how could she possibly tell that her lover was peering through the window just at that moment when he should have been, according to all ordinary calculation, so many miles away.

The evening air was murmuring in the shrubbery upon which that window opened and the stars were shining brilliantly in a cloudless sky. On a sudden Constance rose from the music, put on her bonnet and shawl, and taking Sir Henry's arm threw back the door and stumbled on her lover. In falling she dragged Sir Henry on his knees-who nowise loth remained in that position until informed of the cause of the mishap and assured that Constance was not hurt, but only frightened by having fallen over some man at the door, who had precipitately taken to flight. Sir Henry and Constance quickly retreated, ordered all the doors and windows to be barred and fastened, and sat down as is usually the case when a robber has been scared, to talk of all the burglaries and murders which have been committed in the neighbourhood for at least a century before.

A sense of uneasiness settled upon Constance's mind for the rest of the evening--and she was not sorry when Sir Henry for the sixth time rose to take his leave and departed.

Edward returned to Oxford the next day. He went as he had come, none knowing that he had been near the place. Happier far would it have been for him, for all, had he determined quietly to await the issue of what he was unable at the time to comprehend, or had he condescended to ask an explanation, rather than, urged by the promptings of his jealous nature, paid that visit by which his worst fears were seemingly realized, and, if the truth must be told, his honor as he could not but feel, in some measure compromised.

--

Yet such is human nature-we are never happy when we might be so but by our endeavours to satisfy our minds that all is well, we are continually springing the very mine of misery we are so anxious to avoid. How truthful is the poet's axiom

"Where ignorance is bliss

'Tis folly to be wise."

Acting upon what he had seen, and hard thoughts gradually growing still harder in his mind, Edward cherished the viper in his bosom which was to sting him. His letters to Constance grew fewer and colder. Replies of remonstrance and reproach succeeded. Rejoinders containing dark hints of broken hearts and perjured vows followed, and thus from the jealously of one and the thoughtlessness and pride of both, two hearts were becoming dissevered in which the same principle of friendship existed, and the same pure flame of affection burned on to the last.

CHAPTER III.

Many months had rolled away and Edward still absent, sent fresh excuses to his uncle for deferring his return home. Now he was deep in some author who had to be perfectly understood, now he was on a visit to some college friend with whom he was reading, and now he was shortly expecting to go up for examination, and every day, nay, every hour was of the utmost consequence as regarded his future failure or success. Matters had thus continued for some time when one evening Edward unexpectedly presented himself before Mr. Ormington, and complaining of ill health, brought on by too close application in his preparation for his "little go" asked and obtained permission to travel for a few months on the Continent. Somewhat surprised by the change of tone, but convinced by his looks that Edward really was unwell, the old gentleman gave his reluctant consent to his nephew's making the grand tour, then, as now deemed so essential to the completion of a young man's education. Preparations for the journey were hastily made. Edward seemed, strange as it appeared, to evince an unwonted anxiety once more to leave that home which he had formerly parted from, although elate with hope, still with a feeling of regreta feeling subdued only by the stronger hope of a speedy and happy return. Mr. Ormington marked these demonstrations with pain-although he forbore to enquire, he could not but entertain the fear that there was a deeper cause for the sorrow so apparent than that which presented itself on the surface.

And Constance, how bore she this crushing of her hopes. Her pride forbad her to ask if no remains of the former love dwelt in the bosom of her foster-brother. And from sheer listlessness, or from a desire to repress her gushing tears, the emblems of her saddened feelings, she silently submitted even in the presence of Edward to the assiduous attention of Sir Henry Hargrave.

How do philosophers prate of man's mastery over circumstances. In more instances than we may be willing to admit, circumstances obtain the mastery over ourselves and often to circumstance rather than to himself, is to be ascribed the fortune of the one man and the failure of the other. And so in the case before us. Circumstances which admitted of the easiest solution followed one upon another to change doubt into certainty-suspicion into conviction. One kindly word spoken as in the "days of old" by Edward-one grain less of jealousy