his side, bear his own name, which she had neither the right to assume nor the power to forego. Almost a child in years, quite a child in guileless simplicity, she was to begin life with a woman's heart, and a woman's hardest trial-married, she was to bear the torment of suspense and the burthen of long concealment-innocent, she was to endure the trembling anxiety, the keen apprehension of guilt-she almost flinched from the task, and her courage well nigh forsook her. But even remorse-if the nervous regret, the newly awakened pang of recollection could be termed remorse, where even error had scarcely been-was not selfish in that pure heart and gentle spirit. Her sin, for such she now called it, was confessed in deep penitence, and each suffering in store for her she hailed as the purifying expiation which God would appoint and at last accept. On the following day, she spent an hour in the chapel, where she had so often knelt, and in the place where she had received Father Francesco's parting blessing, she prayed for him, and her heart whispered that he was praying for her. Perhaps it was his prayer which was obtaining for her at that moment the peace and the strength she so much needed. As the shades of evening were closing, Edmund Neville came to fetch her." They parted:-and Edmund reached his home, his secret choking in his throat. His father's first act was to place his hand on the Family Bible of the mansion whose decorations were relics of the battle of the Boyne and pictures of the siege of Londonderry, and solemnly swear by the sacred book, and all that it revealed, never to consent to his son's marriage with a Roman Catholic. All served to warn Edmund of the deeply-rooted religious and political prejudi es of his family. He was silent and abstracted, and the conversation was chiefly sustained by his father and the clergyman of the parish. It often touched on the state of the country, and the religious animosity which prevailed in it. His heart sank within him as he listened to the bitterness of party feeling which appeared in every word that was uttered; and when, in the family prayers that night, Mr. Neville solemnly implored that his household and home might ever be preserved from the inroads of infidelity and popery, and never harbour a Papist among them, the image of Ginevra rose before him, as she had stood with her meek and fervent eyes raised to Heaven, pleading with him the cause of truth and of eternity." Edmund had been bred in luxury, and habituated to extravagance. "Work he could not; to beg he was ashamed;" and, worse than all, he was deeply in debt. He perceived that, to contend with his father's "iron rigidity of purpose was altogether hopeless, and now the idea first suggested itself, and gradually strengthened in his mind, "that Ginevra must give way." She was young; her convictions could not be very deeply rooted, and the example of others, his earnest solicitations, and the combined force of circumstances, might bring about what he so ardently desired. rose, "So confident did he feel of success, that his spirits and he amused his imagination with various pictures of the time when he would declare his marriage to the astonished world, and bring Ginevra home in triumph to his delighted family. His first step was to write to Walter Sydney, an old friend of his, and propose to pay him a visit at Heron Castle. There were some matters of business pending between their two families, concerning lands of Darrell-court, that were adjacent to Mr. Sydney's, which furnished a plausible pretext for this proposal. He felt an intense curiosity to see Ginevra's father and sister, and an inexpressible interest in observing all the peculiarities of that house in which she was so soon to be received under such strange circumstances." Margaret-the candid and sweet, if somewhat volatile and fickle Margaret-the beloved pupil, the plague and the delight of Walter Sydney, had by this time tasted of the bitter of the cup of life, as well as her sister. Her father appeared to her cold and estranged. His tenderness was all reserved for his Italian daughter, that unknown sister. Mr. Edmund Neville was already domesticated in the mansion, as an accident had fixed his friend Sydney there for a time, and made his beloved Margaret his affectionate nurse. Sydney had sympathized in her first dark sorrow, as in all her feelings, and even resented the imagined coldness of her father to his adorable, his idolized Margaret. That young lady's thoughts were running in a different channel. Like most, if not all girls she now began to speculate upon her own marriage as an event certain to take place : "It must be confessed, that the idea had often suggested itself to her mind that Mr. Edmund Neville, the friend, almost, like herself, the adopted child of Walter, the heir to an immense property in Ireland, and, as she had heard, distinguished at Oxford for his remarkable abilities, would be a very desirable husband for the heiress of Grantley Manor." The relation in which Neville secretly stood to her sister, naturally gave rise to many perplexing incidents, and yet confirmed Margaret in the idea, that, changeful and singular as his conduct to her was, Edmund Neville was in love with her, as she more certainly was with him. He watched every turn of her countenance, he approached her eagerly, he turned abruptly away. He was often about to speak to her under great excitement— he stopped short. His whole conduct was as unaccountable to Margaret as to Walter, save on the theory of his love for her. But Edmund remained silent till a day when he had very nearly spoken at the manifest peril of cutting down three volumes of very pleasant reading into one. She had expected a declaration where a confession only was meditated, and abruptly interrupted, Margaret behaved exactly as a young lady in her circumstances may be presumed to do. Meanwhile the old and alienated friends, Walter Sydney and Leslie, came to understand each other better. Colonel Leslie read Walter's heart. He joked and even encouraged his love for Margaret, and thus threw the over-diffident elderly lover into greater distress. There is, indeed, quite enough of Walter's fears, and hopes, and doubts, as they all turn upon the same point, and hardhearted readers have generally less sympathy than becomes them with the passion, however ardent, which middle-aged gentlemen conceive for the daughters of a deceased mistress or old friend. Were the case reversed, and the mature lover a woman in love with the son of a former admirer-with a lad who from infancy had grown up under her eyes, the thing would be voted in. sufferable. But the nobler sex have many privileges, and the female novelists seldom overlook or fail to acknowledge them. While "Old Walter," Margaret, and Edmund Neville, are carrying on their game of crosspurposes at Grantley Manor, the family of Lord Dornington arrive at their seat from Italy; and from her friends Maud and Lucy, his lordship's daughters, Margaret gathers the most contradic-neck, laid her aching head against her breast; and while tory accounts of her mysterious sister, now every hour expected. Lucy admired and loved the singular Italian girl, while Maud doubted or detested her, and Frederic, their brother, owned he had never understood Ginevra, nor ever felt at ease with her whom he described as he had first seen her. The Warrens, who were conducting Ginevra to England, were met one day sightseeing at Genoa. "They were just looking at a magnificent Vandyke, the first marquis of Brignole on horseback, and near them was a girl with her eyes fixed on this painting, and it struck me immediately that I had never seen such strange eyes or such a peculiar dress.' "And it was Ginevra?' "'Yes.' "And what was her dress?' "A perfectly plain grey gown, no bonnet or shawl, but what is called in Italy a mezzaro, a sort of veil which covers the head, and hangs down like a scarf.' "And her face?-now do tell me something of her face.' "I have told you I cannot describe it. It is placid and very pale. At times so pale and so still that she looks like a marble statue. Her eyes are of such a light blue that they sometimes appear almost colourless. Her hair, also, is of the fairest sort. The only dark thing in her face are her eyelashes. They are like a black curtain, and throw such a dark shade under those very light eyes that it has the strangest effect possible.' Then should you say that her face had no expression ?' "No expression!-why, it is the most expressive I ever saw, that is the peculiarity of it. Notwithstanding that extraordinary stillness of feature, she renders her thoughts, by the intensity of her countenance, in a way that is perfectly astonishing. Seldom does a muscle of her face move but a speck of colour rises in her cheek, and deepens and deepens, while her eyes brighten, and seem almost to shine. They do not sparkle like your's, or like Maud's. Lucy says that you remind her of a morning in summer, and your sister of a moonlight night."' While they thus talked at Lord Dornington's dinner-table, the subject of their conversation had reached Grantley Manor, whither Colonel Leslie and his eldest daughter were summoned in haste. Margaret on that very evening was the unseen witness of the tender and almost passionately fond reception which the father, so cold to herself, or so ill understood, gave to the stranger. "What was Margaret feeling? She was there in the presence of a father, and of a sister-unheeded, unnoticed, unthought of. A strange foreign tongue was in her ears, and the gestures, the tones of impassioned feeling, were as new to her as the language which gave them utterance. She felt with indescribable bitterness, that she had no part in their emotion, that neither in the past nor in the present was she anything to her father; her sister appeared to her as a being from another world, who had taken possession at once of an affection of which she had been unjustly deprived. Had she not also had a mother? In her own little room, had she not often wept in silence as she gazed on her gentle features, and had a father's tenderness ever soothed or consoled her?" While evil, jealous, and even revengeful thoughts were busy at Margaret's heart, a low knock was heard at her door. "She felt, by an instinctive impression, that it was her sister who had come to seck her; a sense of faintness her, she almost fell. In an instant she was caught in came over her, and as she was crossing the room to meet Ginevra's arms, who placed her gently on the couch, drew her close to herself, twined her arms round her own the eldest sister sobbed, as if her heart would break, the youngest soothed her with murmured words of affection, even as if she had been addressing a weeping child. 'Margaret felt as if a mother was speaking to her, a strange repose stole over her heart, she wept freely when a soft hand was laid on her forehead, and a gentle earnest kiss was pressed on her burning cheek. The evil spirit fled, the icy cord that had bound her heart gave way; she raised her head, smiled through her blinding tears, looked at a face which might have been an angel's; and, again finding hers in that sheltering bosom, murmured "Sister, O sister! are you come at last? Not the one I have expected for a few weeks, but the one I dreamt of years ago.' "Another soft kiss was pressed on her cheek, and Ginevra said "Do not talk now, sister, your hands are cold, your check is burning. I know your head is throbbing. My own! I know you are suffering; you must lie down and rest.' It was true that Margaret felt unwell; but it was a strange comfort to cling to her new sister, to yield to her wishes; to suffer her to help her to undress: and then, when she laid her head on her pillow, to look up into her face, while she bathed her aching temples. "Sister,' she exclaimed, rousing herself for an instant, 'you have come a long distance to-day; you must be tired. What are you doing here?' 46 6 Resting, dearest, by your side. I should like to stay here all night, watching you sleep.' 466 No, no,' cried Margaret, you must not stay. Go, sister, go; but let me see you to-morrow when I awake. I shall be so afraid of having only dreamed of you. It is strange; but I feel as if I had seen your face before. Kiss me again before you go.' "Ginevra bent over her sister, kissed and blessed her, and then, sinking on her knees by the side of the bed, she said, in a low voice "Sister, shall we pray together?" Margaret put her arm round her neck, and, drawing her close to herself, whispered in her ear "Are there prayers that we may say together.' "The one that God himself made,' answered Ginevra; the amen fell from Margaret's lips, a heavy sleep closed and her soft low voice repeated the Lord's Prayer, and as her eyes. Ginevra prayed sometime longer by her sister's side; she prayed in silence, and now and then printed a fervent kiss on the hand that was unconsciously detaining her's. She gently disengaged her hand, reluctantly yielded her A low knock at the door roused her from this position. place to Mrs. Dalton, and then retiring to her own room, remained for two hours with her face buried in her hands, and absorbed in thought." This is a very pretty scene, and yet we imagine that the naughty, but candid and generous English girl, petted and spoiled, and apt to be resentful, is not less true to universal nature than the character of the young saint who buried so many mysteries in her troubled heart. The two sisters, thus instantly knit in affection, get on charmingly, until trifles "light as air," and weightier causes, together with the insinuations of Maud Vincent, aroused the jealousy of Margaret, who is compelled to notice the secret intelligence subsisting between her saintly sister and Edmund Neville-Edmund, all but her own declared lover, and to whom she had given her ardent love! Many little incidents conspired to confirm her doubts. She loved and admired Ginevra, and felt her superiority, but, like Frederic Vincent, could not "make her out." "Can you persuade yourself,' she one day said to Walter, that Ginevra is only seventeen? 66 66 6 Why, she looks very young, does she not?' Yes; but she is so wise, so wonderfully wise! I wonder if it is all real. She is like somebody in a book ; and yet I should as soon think my Italian greyhound affected as my new sister. Such strange thoughts come into my head, Walter, while she is talking to me. Sometimes I think of the Scripture text about entertaining angels unawares; and then, again, she puts me in mind of that beautiful stanza of Coleridge : "Her slender palms together prest, "One morning as she was coming out of her room, she saw Ginevra at the end of the gallery, on which her own opened, with a letter in her hand. She was reading it attentively, with one knee resting on the edge of the window-seat. She seemed very much absorbed with its contents, and there was a spark of colour in her pale cheeks. Margaret walked up to her, and put her hand on her shoulder. She gave a violent start, and turned quite pale, and when her sister said, with a smile, I am afraid I have startled you very much,' the colour rushed back into her face, and she trembled visibly. I hope you have had no bad news from Italy,' said Margaret, while Ginevra hastily folded the letter in her hand, and thrust it in the folds of her dress. 66 6 "As the latter turned round to speak to her sister, she was struck by the expression of her countenance. It was, as usual, very still, but painfully anxious." Ginevra was a poetess, a musician-a Muse as well as a saint, and her improvisations, musical and poetical, fill many eloquent pages. Among those who owned her varied spells, was "Old Walter," who was, however, more strongly drawn to her, because, deep-read himself in silent suffering, he felt that she was unhappy. One evening a jocular conversation arose on Margaret's presumed marriage with Edmund Neville, which now was the common talk of the country. Ginevra was shortly afterwards left alone with Walter, the Puseyite, or incipient Romanist. "He had felt an increasing interest about her during the last few days. Like most reserved persons, he had a quick insight into human feelings, and having often suffered in silence himself, he easily detected the marks of silent suffering in others. That she was unhappy now he could no longer doubt. He had sometimes fancied before that her eyes had filled with tears, which a firm resolution had alone restrained from flowing, but now he saw them stealing down her cheek faster than her hand could brush them away. He addressed to her some trifling observation, and her mouth quivered when she attempted to reply. There was not a shade of temper in her face; but it was evident that she was struggling with a powerful emotion, and steadily endeavouring to subdue it. Walter's prejudices would not have been easily conquered, had this young girl appeared happy, or had she, on her arrival among them, displayed a childish or ungracious sorrow; but as it was, she was suffering, and she was struggling. The source of that suffering he knew not; where she found strength to struggle he discerned not yet; but he longed to soothe that pain, and to help those efforts, as he would have longed to feed the hungry or to shelter the naked. He pushed the portfolio towards her and said— Have you seen these engravings?' 666 'O, no,' said Ginevra, mournfully. 'I have no news to get from Italy: my only remaining friends left Verona some months ago, and since my uncle Leonardo's death, and Father Francesco's departure for America, the links that bound me to my native land have been severed one by one. And Italy'-she continued, with a "She looked at them at first in silence; but by degrees voice of more emotion than she had ever yet betrayed-grew interested, and then animated. A print of St. and Italy is nothing to me now but a tale that is told-a dream that has been dreamt-a prelude to the life that is now beginning.' "A happy life, I trust,' said Margaret. "Thank you, sister, thank you,' answered Ginevra, in a voice that, without any apparent reason to herself, affected Margaret; her manner was at once tender and abrupt, and she left her suddenly." Upon another day, Margaret had requested her sister to place some flowers in the room of an expected lady-visiter. "She followed her up stairs, and not finding her in the room which she had pointed out, she opened the door of the next, which was the one that Edmund had occupied all the time he had been at Grantley. Ginevra was standing by the writing-table, and examining the blotting-paper book. She was turning over the pages with a look of interest, and holding it upside down, she carried it to the light, and seemed employed in making out some indistinct traces of writing. Margaret felt an annoyance, greater than she quite understood, at seeing her thus employed. With that feeling of reserve and delicacy, which by nature and by education she was particularly alive to, earnestly as she would have wished to visit that room after Edmund's departure, and to detect and find pleasure in the most trifling traces of his presence, she had never ventured beyond the door, or even supposed it possible to gratify such a wish. Ginevra put down the book, and moving towards the chimney, stood a moment gazing at the fire, and then walking away, and meeting Margaret at the door, started and coloured; when she said to her, 'You have put the flowers in the wrong place,' Ginevra turned back in silence, took up the vase of flowers, and followed Margaret to the south bed-room. Peter's Martyrdom seemed to fix her attention; she said, in a low voice, as her head was bent over it— "He must have known he was forgiven then-his long penitence accepted-his trial ended! His suffering must have been to him a pledge of pardon.' "In general Ginevra was not perfectly at home in English; but when the subject incited her, she was eloquent in a manner peculiar to herself. Her language was picturesque, and she spoke as others write, but with a simplicity that took away from her conversation all appearance of effort or affectation. There was something in the tone of her observations which harmonized with the secret impressions of Walter's hidden life-that life of the soul which holds its deep and silent course apart from all outward converse with the world, or even from the most intimate associations of our homes and hearts. The writings of past generations, the solitary studies of years, his instinctive yearnings after a deeper faith and a wider sympathy than his own religious education or his own times afforded, had prepared him to feel for the young Italian, and he was listening to her original thoughts clothed in eloquent and expressive language, with an interest mingled with curiosity, when he perceived that she suddenly checked herself, and turning round, he saw Edmund Neville enter the room." Neville went away, and the conversation was renewed. Walter said "I have seen you for a few days, and scarcely knew you an hour ago, but I would fain serve you. May I?-can I?' "Mr. Sydney,' said Ginevra, and she took both his hands in hers, you have been very kind to me to-day ; and I do not regret'-she stopped a moment and then went on 'I do not regret that you have seen me thus agitated, thus disturbed-you will not think hardly of Miss Ginevra was to set her cap at Mr. Neville, which me-I know you will not.' "Her voice faltered, and Walter interrupted her. "It is so natural that you should seem depressedyou are so very young. Everything here must appear strange to you; and you have had afflictions,' he added still more gently, and glancing at her black dress; and some of those you love though not taken from you by death, are far away, and you would fain see them again— you would fain see your own home and speak your own tongue again.' "She raised her pale but most expressive eyes to his face, and said, slowly 666 she is very likely to do-for Mrs. Henderson says there never was a gentleman yet she did not make fall in love with her; and she was walking home with him yesterday; when they passed before the woodman's cottage, and when they came near the park gate, she turned one way, and he another: but I don't care; it don't signify. I won't say another word though she were to be married before you, and you had to be her bridesmaid.' "At this climax Grace burst into tears, and Margaret desired her to leave the room." But not so easily was the train of thought these idle words had conjured up dismissed. me the heart of Edmund Neville? Was it to him that There is one at whose feet I should wish to kneel, once again, before I die; but he is not where my home "Was it, indeed,' she thought, a true presentiment was. It is my mother's uncle,' she continued, as Walter that cast such a dark shade over the days that preceded looked at her inquiringly, Father Francesco. He left Ginevra's arrival? Has she come, with her strange Verona a year ago for a distant mission; he grieved to leave me, but his duty called him, and he went for how beauty, with her smooth tongue, with the magic of her long I know not. On earth I may never see him again-genius, and her resistiess captivation, to steal away from but yet I think I shall-not now, not soon--but once more in my life. It is when the agony deepens, and the shades darken that angels are sent to us. Perhaps,' she continued with increasing emotion, perhaps he will come to me when my strength is failing, and evil is waxing strong, and hope is forsaking me-perhaps God will send him to say to me, "Oh thou of little faith wherefore didst thou doubt ?'" 66 "Pray for me that my faith may never fail me.' Next morning, Margaret's maid, Grace, brought a railing accusation against the Papist foreigner," come to supplant her mistress. "She dressed so queer, and never slept anywhere on the road, but she was off to church before breakfast-but all that church-going does not come to good at last." Margaret rebuked her gossiping maid. "What do you or Mrs. Henderson know about it? I dare say we should all be the better of going oftener to church; Mr. Sydney thinks so, and walks a great way off every day for daily service.' Oh, but your grandpapa's butler says, Miss, that Mr. Walter is a Papist in disguise, and Mrs. Henderson would not be at all surprised if Miss Ginevra was to talk him over into being one in good earnest. John said they were looking at them Papish books in the library last night, and they were shaking hands over them, and Miss Ginevra was crying when he went in to put coals on.' 66 Shaking hands and crying? what are you talking about?' exclaimed Margaret, impatiently; but, at the same moment, she remembered that, when going to bed the night before, she had remarked traces of tears on her sister's face, and she felt annoyed at the idea that something had passed between her and Walter with which she had not been made acquainted. She treats me as a child,' was her next feeling, she kisses me, puts flowers in my hair, calls me her Reine Marguerite; but, now that I think about it, not one word has she said to me of her thoughts-of her feelings-of her past life—of herself, in short. And now, it seems, that Walter and she have been talking together, in the most confidential mannerhave been forming a secret friendship. I really have borne a great deal. I did not mind Mrs. Warren's saying, rather rudely, before me, how much papa admired her the most-her dress, at least, which comes to the same; and I told her she was the favourite, and that I did not mind it; and I do not mind it; but if Walter and she are to have long tête-a-têtes, and I am neglected by everybody" The farther remarks of Grace aggravated Margaret's humour, though she indignantly commanded silence "Very well, Miss, very well,' murmured Grace, with a look of much resignation. I will not say another word; no, not if the grass was to be cut from under your feet, or the very bed taken from under you; no, not if she addressed, on the night of his arrival, that strain of Three short I love him? O no; I am afraid of her. I cannot upbraid her, and I dare not ask her to have mercy. And yet, perhaps, she would. Can it be that Edmund has confided to her that he loves me? and that they met to speak of it yesterday?'"' Scenes followed which could admit of no mistake, no palliation; and as often as they met, Maud Vincent had always new stories to tell, and fresh proofs to give of Ginevra's baseness and hypocrisy. "But,' exclaimed Margaret, with impatience (for she felt the full force of Maud's insinuations), but can she really be a miserable hypocrite? Does she feign to serve God, to love goodness, to honour virtue? Is there no reality in her faith, in her piety, in her affections! Maud, she cannot be so disgustingly wicked!' 0, "My dear child, it does not follow, because your sister is a coquette, and, as I sometimes think, more than a coquette, that she absolutely feigns the sentiments she seems at times to possess. I dare say she has a sort of half scenic, half romantic religion, which is very common among Catholics, and which has nothing to do with morality; and I have no doubt that she is very good to the poor, and all that sort of thing; but her religion teaches that you can make up for every kind of sin by good works, of an easy description, and that if you confess and get absolution, you may feel quite satisfied, and go on just as before; so you see that Catholics can be very religious and very immoral at the same time, without being exactly hypocrites.' "I see,' said Margaret thoughtfully; that accounts for it all.' "The oft-repeated slander had been uttered, the false hood, which the lives of a thousand saints have disproved -which the voice of the preacher, the pen of the learned, the experience of millions, and miracles of grace, and prodigies of penitence daily contradict-had been brought to bear, and Margaret, sighing deeply, carried away with her, as that conversation ended, an unfavourable impression of her sister's character, and a most mistaken view of that sister's faith." "At that moment the sound of carriage wheels was heard, and both sisters started. "Yes,' exclaimed Margaret, in a loud voice, as the brow, and a false virtue on your tongue. You have de- Ginevra was by this time painfully aware that rumour gave to her sister her own husband, Ed-tended your actions. A false innocence has been on your mund Neville, for a lover; and still worse, that the affections of the innocent and unsuspecting Margaret were in imminent danger of entanglement, of the most terrible kind, which frankness alone could prevent. One day, Maud Vincent, on seeing Ginevra leave the room, offered to bet anything that she had gone out to waylay Mr. Neville. It proved so, and Margaret was in every way miserable. Next morning, Neville, by a hasty resolution, was to leave Grantley Manor; and that night, her motherly governess, still in the house as her friend, put his note of farewell into Margaret's hand. She dismissed her maid, shut the door, prest the note to her lips, and burst into tears. In a tumult of foreboding fears, she read that courteous, cold, commonplace farewell, which extinguished the last lingering hope in her aching heart. A restless and miserable night brought round the early hour at which Neville was to set off, and from walking up and down her room, Margaret unconsciously opened the door, and looked down the dark gallery. "At the farthest end of it a speck of light was visible; it was from the chink of a door; it was scarcely perceptible, but it was there, and the door was Ginevra's. 0 that I dared to open it,' she exclaimed, that I dare burst into that room, and kneel to her, whom I wrong so grievously, whom I suspect "The handle of the door on which her eyes were fixed softly turned, and then she heard again the sound of steps, and her soul thickened within her; she thought she knew the step, she had so often watched its approach. It had once been music in her ears; and now, that slow cautious tread sounded like the knell-not of her happiness, that seemed gone already-but of all her future peace of mind. "I will speak to her,' she exclaimed. It is a dream, perhaps, and a horrid one. To see her will dispel it.' "She crossed the gallery with trembling steps-she paused at the door. The sound of deep and stifled sobs met her ears-she opened the door; Ginevra was on her knees, her hair streaming over her face, and her whole frame quivering with emotion. At the sound of the opening door she started up, and extended her arms wildly, pushing back the hair from her face, and uttering a sort of cry of hope and surprise, and some Italian word of endearment. Her eyes were blinded with tears; but in an instant she recognised Margaret, and said, "Sister! in so gentle and utterly mournful a tone, that it sounded like a cry for mercy. Margaret stood transfixed, bewildered, unable to collect her thoughts; but her eyes fell at that moment on a travelling fur glove that lay on the carpet close to the door. She knew it well, and a tumultuous tide of passion rushed over her soul, sent the crimson blood into her cheek, and heaved in her swelling and indignant breast. With flashing eyes and curling lip she held it out to Ginevra, who took it mechanically, and pressed her other hand to her throat, as if to subdue the convulsive agitation of her frame. "What do you wish? What do you want, sister?' she asked, as if she did not know what she said. for ever gone from this, my once happy home. 0, may he never return! May my eyes never behold him again! May his own conscience, if deceit and treachery have not for ever hardened it, torment and punish him for the misery he has brought upon me-ay, and upon you,' she continued (as Ginevra faintly murmured, For God's sake-for mercy's sake, do not curse him, Margaret'), 'you, my fallen, my most unhappy sister. O, Ginevra! Ginevra! was it for this that you were made so beautiful-so highly gifted-so captivating to be so infinitely vile? Ginevra, I could hate you for the injury you have done me, if I did not pity you from my soul. You who know so well, who can talk so well of pure, and noble, and holy things, you cannot be so hardened—you cannot be so dead to all feeling.' "Was it the calm of death-was it the deadness of the sou! that made those pale blue eyes so clear and mild in their meek and most expressive sadness? Was the look of tenderness with which she watched the excited and quivering features of her indignant sister, another piece of well-acted deceit, and the convulsive energy with which she pressed to her heart the small crucifix she wore round her neck, another proof of hollow formalism or miserable hypocrisy?" We cannot give the entire scene: it is enough that Margaret, struck by her sister's solemn warnings and entreaties, believed her to be, in defiance of the most decided appearances, innocent, pure, and holy. After Ginevra's solemn adjuration to her sister to give up all thoughts of Edmund Neville as she would avoid mortal sin, and to forbear asking for any explanation of her mysterious conduct, she continued : "Our paths of duty are different, and though we may live together, if that even be allowed, we must never forget that an invisible barrier has risen between us, which you cannot, and I dare not, remove. If, with a great patience and a holy trust, you will bear with me, and suspend hard thoughts, and abstain from harsh words, it will be a great and wonderful effort of virtue; and hereafter, my sister, you will be glad to think that you did not break a bruised reed-but if you cannot, then let God's will be done. Be it trial, or be it punishment, I am ready to receive at your hands far more misery than I have inflicted upon you. Only'-she stopped, hesitated, clasped her hands in supplication, and then, with a burst of such agony as she had not given way to before, exclaimed-Only, only spare my father.' Margaret held out her hand without looking at her, but, as she was leaving the room, she returned impetuously, flung herself into her sister's arms, and both wept with uncontrolable emotion; and when these two fair creatures parted, it was with a heavier weight of sorrow on their spirits than such young hearts are often doomed to en dure." We see few of the stolen interviews of the married pair; but on the evening before Edmund's departure they met. Neville had previously informed his uncle, Mr. Warren, that he had formed an attachment to Ginevra Leslie, whom he had met with in Italy, and that his father's |