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she supposed it was so; but, right or wrong, she would never forgive him.

Poor Annette, in her lonely splendour, strangely kept the anniversary of the famous morning of the fifteenth of June. She remained long awake over that scrap of paper, on which were written the only words which she possessed of her poor dear Edgar's. Not one kind syllable, not one fond phrase, did it contain but she kissed it, pressed it to her heart, wept over it, and read its lesson. She did not regret having temporarily yielded to the generous girl's enthusiastic impetration; for she felt that he would understand all, and gather from it only how much she loved him. She wept, and wept, and fell asleep, still weeping. And there she lay, still in her ball-room dress; her wreath and pendant of fast-fading flowers drooping upon the graceful form that heaved with slumber, and the

dreams of Edgar. And her rich brown hair gradually left its folds, as slumber deepened, and fell over the round chiselled arm on which her head was gently laid, the tresses mingling with the golden bracelets which yet encircled, but could no further beautify it. But she still held the precious paper to her lips, which breathed upon it the warm, fragrant incense of dreaming fondness!

And Edgar-where was he? Awake, still awake, in his silent chambers in the Temple. Not dreaming, but thinking-wildly, passionately, tearfully thinking-of her whom. he loved, not as men do; no, not as women do, but even as poets love, and poets only!

And thus passed, a second time noticed in this history, the early morning of the fifteenth of June.

CHAPTER XIII.

"He talked; Lord! how he talked!"-DRYDEN. "Oh! I could not choose but go

Unto the woodland hoar."-LONGFELLow.

WHEN Annette appeared at the breakfast table that morning, Frank thought that she looked as though she had slept but little, and been refreshed even less. When his Lordship, who, it must be confessed, was striving his utmost by plentiful attention to wean his daughter from her strange, quiet melancholy, and was more than annoyed to find all his attentions for the most part thrown away, left the room, Frank said hesitatingly—

"You danced with Glenbarton very often last night, Annette! I speak to you as your brother. It was acting unwisely, unlessno, I will not insult you."

The tears gathered in her eyes.

"I did not know it. Really, I often forgot where I was. How can I care for such scenes now? How would you have me distinguish between one dullard and another dullard? Even a title does not furnish a sufficiently safe distinction, I think."

"But you must be careful, my dear! I heard your names mentioned in one breath more than once. Glenbarton may translate what springs from real indifference as springing from seeming partiality. And-you understand me."

"Partiality! His translation will need a translation. The Earl of Glenbarton is scarcely the man to fill up the void left by—

VOL. I.

T

Frank! you understand me. I utter no complaints. I make my sacrifice to the sophistry of birth and the Heralds' College; but I anticipate some slight reward; at any rate, I expect to be unmolested. I may forego Edgar Huntingdon, but not for the purpose of being wearied by the tiresome attentions of our noble connection, or any other equally well-born, shallow personage. I lay aside love, but I expect peace."

O Eros! that thou shouldst yield to Eirene!

When Frank returned from a Bond Street stroll, uncomfortable at heart, and miserable for the first time in his life, he found Annette making-believe to be very busy with Tasso; as he passed he noticed that the book was upside down. She saw it too, and hastily turned it. He also took up a book; and the progress made by each was probably equally

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