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and warn him of dangers in the course of his wife? It made him, not suspicious, but thoughtful; and very meditative indeed was he during the journey to town; a reverie which weighed down Eve's spirits, inclined as they were to rise whenever she found herself safe from the observation of the mother, whose watchful tenderness she dreaded.

She looked sideways at the grave countenance of her husband; and, as minute after minute passed, bringing no change to the deep abstraction, she was inclined to marvel at the solemnity of the topics with which his brain was busy. She was beginning more fully to understand and appreciate his intellect. Hitherto she had girlishly ignored it, because she saw no accomplishments, because he had carelessly glanced at her favourite poet, and owned he had little value for his strains. But now her eyes were slowly opening to the clear comprehension, the subtle reasoning, and the practical wisdom which distinguished him. His information also she inclined to fancy boundless, and it was precisely on those subjects of which she was most ignorant. Any wish to arouse him was soon checked by the conviction of her want of power to converse

on topics of interest to him. Eve—whose lips had rarely opened but to charm-whose prattle had been cheering to Mordaunt, even if his ears had sometimes disregarded the meaning of the words sat now in sorrowful silence, learning that best, but bitter lesson, that she had been over-praised, over-valued, even as to her power of pleasing. Where there was no consoling assurance that her conduct had been actuated by true or high principles; where she trembled to look into her heart, and detect its weakness and wickedness; it was a little hard to find even vanity as to outward things worsted. Young, ignorant, infirm, she began to see that the greatness of his love might have sheltered her, if only she could have pleaded the earnest claim of an answering feeling in her own breast. As it was, she shrank from his tenderness; his respect and admiration she was sure could be hers no more.

Poor, miserable Eve! what to her was the easy carriage, or the soft folds of her velvet mantle? what the prospect of Whitefield as her own, of her mother's pride, or even of Mordaunt's release from her dependence, compared to the aching void, the yearning for the pity and sympathy which she had forfeited, and

the crushing consciousness of inferiority to the man she had deceived? 'I could almost bear it better, I think, if I hated him,' she said once to herself. The contradiction in the ideas did not strike her. Hope of better days died out in her; only tears of shame and mortification swelled her eyelids, and were frozen back again by fear of the awful, dignified form beside her, with its stern features, and the massive brow, whereon the destiny of empires might be weighing, so heavy did it seem to her with clouds of care.

It is growing dusk; he stirs at last, bends forward and looks out. So oppressive was the silence, Eve was impelled to break it; she scarcely knew how.

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Such deep meditation-what could be the subject ?'

He paused, with compressed lips, and a strange, full gaze on her. 'A small one-only yourself.'

Oh! if she could but have met that questioning look with a clear conscience, or even could she have found courage to open to it the doubts, the fears, the errors of that shrinking heart, would she not have found mercy and help? Even the strength and dignity she

dreaded would have been her shield. But she quailed; was silent, and averted her head. He said no more, and she was thankful for her escape from verbal questions. Singular that such abstraction had been busied only with her. She had just settled her inferiority too effectually to believe she was interesting to him; what then could have occupied him but distrust of her past conduct, of her motives, of her character? Her dread of him deepened tenfold.

Sir Mark had anticipated her arrival at Whitefield with the tenderest interest, but it was very different from what he had imagined. He alighted, careworn, chilled, disappointed; feeling only a bitter mockery at his past folly in the many anxious preparations he had made for her preparations barely, if at all, noticed by the pale, shivering woman, whose audible expression was of fatigue, whose inward cry was—'Oh, that I were again a child here! Oh, that I had died as the laburnum wreaths died away in my hair!'

CHAPTER XII.

For my heart was hot and restless,
And my life was full of care,
And the burden laid upon me
Seemed greater than I could bear.
But now it has fallen from me,

It is buried in the sea;
And only the sorrow of others

Throws its shadow over me.

LONGFELLOW.

JANE paced up and down in the morning

sunlight more impatiently than was at all usual to her. It was her principal hour for exercise, for as the day wore on Mr. Carisbroke's need of her presence increased; and even now she dreaded any prolongation of her walk, lest he should inquire for her.

At first this monotonous plodding along the same walks had been irksome; but custom had rendered it precious. Here, at the selfsame hour, she generally resumed the wonted threads of reflection, and the busy mind far outstripped the feet. 'I can think more quietly and comfortably in the middle walk than any other

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