features as his face was turned from me, but he held her hand in his, and she seemed in no hurry to withdraw it. I was tortured with rage and jealousy. Should I fly at once and leave Annette to my rival? No. She was but a woman, and why should she have power to make me wretched? I mustI would subdue my feelings, and resolution should teach me to forget her. I waited till she left the room, and entered it.

The opening of the door caused the stranger to look up; he scarcely however noticed my entrance, and his eyes fell quickly on the paper he was perusing. I sate down at the window-a quarter of an hour elapsed, and we did not exchange a word.

While this unsocial state of things continued, a third personage joined us ; he was a forward, self-sufficient, overdressed young man, who seemed to stand on excellent terms with himself; he stopped beside the stranger, and asked, in a drawling and affected voice, after the last night's debate; the invalid slowly raised his eyes, bestowed a look of supercilious indifference on the enquirer, and, without deigning to reply, quickly resumed his investigation of the newspaper.

Again, we were left together, when Annette came in to ask what the Captain would have for supper. "This is the gentleman I spoke of," she said in a whisper, directing her expressive eye towards me. Instantly the stranger threw aside the paper-" Mr. Mowbray," he said, “must pardon my inattention, I was not aware my pretty Annette's friend was in the room. That forward puppy chafed me. We, invalids, are somewhat testy, and to be pestered by a popinjay' would vex a philosopher. Will you permit me to share your supper?”

I was astonished; the cold and withering look with which he repelled the advances of the citizen, had given place to an expression of singular urbanity. His voice was soft as woman's; his manner bland and winning. I felt impelled irresistibly to meet his advances, and encourage an intimacy with the man, whom but five minutes since I looked upon with aversion.

Our tête-a-tête confirmed the feelings his first overtures had given rise to. The stranger's conversation was brilliant and intellectual. He had

been much about the world, and in his wanderings he had found no barrenness. I looked upon his countenance-once he must have been strikingly handsome, but the face was faded and care-worn, and its varied lines betrayed the workings of a bosom, where pride and grief, and many a strong passion, had for years careered. At times, however, the brow unbent, the eye flashed with intelligence, a smile of exquisite sweetness played around the mouth, while the perfect intonation of the sweetest voice I ever listened to, rendered his conversation fascinating.

One thing struck me as being unaccountable. The unknown was professedly an invalid, and yet he drank freely as if his health was unimpaired. As night advanced, a hectic overspread his cheeks, hitherto so wan and colourless; and when I took his hand at parting, I found it burning in my grasp.

I staid two days longer at "The Woodman." The stranger expressed his pleasure at my sojourn-and although he never rose till evening, we passed many hours together. With me he seemed to throw aside his coldness, as supported on my arm we walked slowly in some of the rustic avenues which issued from the village. These excursions were necessarily short. Notwithstanding his erect and easy carriage, probably the result of military habitude, his limbs could scarcely bear him through; and it was too evident that an unbroken spirit vainly contended with an exhausted constitution.

I had scarcely been a week in town before a note, with the Everton postmark, reached me. It was from the stranger, and contained a pressing request that I should dine with him on an early day. The billet bore no name, and was merely subscribed with an initial. I required little inducement to visit "The Woodman," and accordingly the invitation was accepted.

Annette received me with her customary kindness; but when I named the stranger, her eyes filled. "Ah! Mr. Mowbray, he is dying. Since you left Everton he has declined rapidly. I have often pressed him to call in a physician, but in vain; I hear his step upon the stairs, and you will no doubt perceive an alteration for the worse."

While she was still speaking the door unclosed, and the stranger entered. Oh God! how changed. The ravages of disease in one short week were frightful.

Dinner was served, but the stranger scarcely tasted it. The bottle passed rapidly, the dessert was placed upon the table, and we were left to ourselves. Filling a claret glass to the brim, "Come, Mowbray," he said, "know'st thou this day?" I replied "that I had no particular recollection of it." "Dull slave of law!" he exclaimed with a smile, "has Waterloo faded from the calendar already?" It was the anniversary of that battle, and we drank to the memory of the brave. Warmed with the wine, the stranger's spirits became excited. He had been there had been wounded-left upon the field—and returned in the list of the slain. He spoke with enthusiasm of that glorious fight. His descriptions became more vivid, his anecdotes racy and interesting. The pale cheek flushed-the dim eye brightened-but the exertion was too great to be sustained he soon became exhausted, and at last was obliged to own his feebleness, and accept my assistance to reach his chamber.

Business imperatively required my presence in London, and early next morning I left "the Woodman." Four days passed, and from Annette I learned that hourly he grew worse, and that the fatal crisis was fast approaching.

I had already determined to visit "the Woodman" on the following day, when a note from the stranger caused me to set off immediately. Like the other, this note was without subscription, and the few lines it contained were almost illegible. I compared the notes, and the altered hand-writing sufficiently attested the awful change a few days had brought about.

I found him sitting in the parlour, where, as Annette told me, he had been occupied in burning papers. I stood beside him, and one look told me he had not many days to live.

My arrival, however, seemed to give him unfeigned pleasure, and pressing within his feverish grasp, he thanked me for attending so promptly to his letter. "Is the evening warm, Mowbray?" I replied in the affirmative. "Then," said the stranger, with perfect calmness, "you and I will take our

last walk together. I have been destroying papers of some moment, and I shall finish my task while dinner is preparing." He took a small packet from his writing-desk, unbound the blue ribbon which encased a number of letters, whose beautiful and delicate penmanship at once discovered them to be a female's. One by one his eye passed over their contents, and with an effort which seemed to require much determination, he flung them into the fire. ""Tis the last relic but one," he murmured, "and that lies here," and he laid his hand upon his bosom. Just then dinner was served: he ate little, drank a glass or two of wine, and then rising from the table, requested me to accompany him.

There was one shaded avenue that had been his favourite walk-we passed it, and turned our steps towards the church-yard. Entering through the wicket, we stopped beneath the huge yew tree which overspreads the gate. "I have been fortunate, my dear Mowbray," said the invalid, "in meeting with one so kind as you, to cheer the parting hours of my earthly pilgrimage. I am grateful-and as hitherto you have never asked a question touching my name or history, I would entreat it, as my last, my dying request, that you will never demand an explanation of my evening visit to this place. I will briefly state my wishes, and I feel confident that you will see them effected, when I am at rest." He led me along the walk until we reached the extremity of the burying-ground, and to my surprise stopped beside the grave of the beautiful suicide, whose fate had so often excited my sympathy. "Mowbray," he said, in a voice which betrayed the workings of an agonized spirit-" you will recollect this spot: lay me here-here-close to that solitary grave mark the place well, and promise that my last request shall be attended to." gave him a solemn assurance that his wishes should be obeyed. He was fearfully agitated : his strength failed-and with considerable difficulty he was enabled to leave the church-yard, and reach "the Woodman."

:

He threw himself upon a sofa,-and whether fatigue, or the place we had visited, affected him, I know not,-but his once fine face was clouded with an expression of the deepest sadness.

Once I observed a tear glisten on his cheek. "I must give in, Mowbray," he murmured feebly,-"the machinery of this poor frame is nearly worn out: assist me to my chamber." I did so― partially undressed him-laid him on the bed and at his earnest request, then left him alone.

The evening wore heavily on-midnight past, and the occupants of the inn retired to their respective chambers. I felt a feverish anxiety for the sick man that banished sleep. I rose and unclosed the latice-the air was chill, the night dark and moonless-a torturing presentiment of coming evil oppressed me, and I stole quietly to the stranger's apartment. A stream of light issued from beneath the door, but all within was hushed. I feared to enter, lest I should disturb him, and was about to retire, when a faint sigh startled me. An impulse beyond controul urged me to enter. The door yielded to my touch-I stood beside the bed-a fixed and glassy stare met my inquiring look -I snatched a candle from the table, and one glance told me that the stranger was a corpse, and the sigh I overheard was the parting struggle of a disembodied spirit!

I leaned over the departed soldier, and the marked expression of the countenance told that he had not passed quietly away. One arm was extended above the coverlet, and a prayer-book that had dropped from its hold, was

open at the beautiful petition "for persons troubled in mind, or in conscience." The breast was uncovered, and two remarkable objects met my eyethe cicatrix of a gun-shot wound, and the miniature of a beautiful girl. Other tokens of the "foughten field" were visible -and the wasted arm, scared by many a sword cut, bore silent testimony that the unknown had been engaged "where death was busy." We laid him in the grave he wished for-and the haughty soldier sleeps beside the fair unfortunate.

Who was he? Some posthumous document might tell me, and on the evening of his funeral, we opened his writing desk in presence of the village pastor. Within, letters and trinkets, perfumed billets, ringlets of hair and other "mementos of his lady-love," were discovered, but they bore no superscription. One sealed packet was addressed to me-it conveyed a large sum in bank notes to Annette, with an earnest request that I would marry her; and like the rest, it was without a signature. We found a Waterloo medal-the name and rank of the possessor would of course be engraven on the exergue; I snatched it from the clergyman; every letter was carefully filed out, and the word Dragoons" alone was traceable.

66

Who was he? Reader, I cannot tell his secret perished with THE UN

KNOWN.