door, she put down her candle, and, standing like a statue in the middle of the room, said to herself, in a low, hollow tone:

"Alone!-once more alone!-that, at least, is some comfort. Alone again, with my own thoughts!"

She was silent for a moment, and then again muttered:

"Old and ugly!'-I am grown old and ugly!' And whose fault is it if I am? Does she think I can forget what I owe to her ?"

The girl looked wild and strange, as she thus stood, with her black dress, her black hair, her full restless black eyes, and her deadly pale face; sometimes her lips were still, sometimes they moved rapidly, but gave forth no sound, and sometimes she spoke audibly, either in a low, hollow voice, or in a hissing whisper.

"'Tis as I thought-she does not love him. Did she love Robert Sinclair? Oh! no, no, no!-not as I loved my William. Oh, could he but know what I have suffered, the grave would not hold him! She would not let me marry him, though she knew my condition. 'She would not,' she said, with her proud sneer, 'keep a married lady near her.' She knew I had no home to go to, no friend to shelter me; and when poor William left me to seek a home, and when he died in that strange place, with none but strangers near him, she turned me forth, in my shame and agony, to bring forth my baby in a workhouse. She called me strumpet!'-'vile strumpet!' Fanny Somerville!-shall I ever hurl back that name in Shall I ever brand you, as you face? your did me, with that foul word ?" She walked quickly up and down the room, with her brow knit, and her hands clenched; and then, pausing once more-" This, this," she said, her features working convulsively, "this I might have forgiven; but when I went back to her, that I might earn something to keep my boy, my darling Willie, from the parish-how was I treated then? Oh, my Willie ! my Willie when they came to say that you were ill, and calling for me, she would not let me go until I had dressed her for that gay ball; and when my trembling hands broke the string of pearls that I was putting in her hair, she struck me, and told me that I might go, for I did nothing but mischief, and she should be glad if the base-born brat were dead! And when I came to him, his little hands were clenched, his teeth were set, his beautiful curls were matted and damp with the death-sweat! My Willie ! my Willie ! my beautiful! my darling! You had died, calling for the mother that could not come to you! I ran-I struggled to get over those two weary, dark miles; but I could not come until you had been called away from your miserable mother. You, the only creature that loved me- -the only thing I had to love!"

She flung herself on the bed, burying her face in her hands, that her sobs might not be heard; and there she lay-the stricken, the bereaved one-until the convulsive heavings of her frame subsided in a death-like sleep. The candle burned down in the socket, the bright light of the morning sun streamed through the window, and Mary Smith awoke to wash the traces of tears from her eyes, to change her dress, and to go forth to attend Mrs. Howard with the most assiduous attention, and with the most submissive deference to her capricious wants.

For a fortnight Mrs. Howard kept her room, and saw no one. Charles said nothing, but was grave and silent. He did not neglect her; on the contrary, he was kind and attentive, but she evidently disliked his pre

sence. The evil spirit within her made her regard him as one who had marred her fortune, and she purposely shut her eyes to the wrong she had done him. She said often to Mary Smith, " But for him, I should have been Lady Sinclair, the happy wife of the only man I ever cared for."

All the people of the little town of St. Bennett's vied with each other in attention to Mrs. Howard during her illness (for she was really ill); some for Charles's sake, many because she was regarded as a great lady. When she was sufficiently recovered to see visitors, Mrs. Carthew and Mrs. Stoneman were the first admitted.

"Well, really," said Mrs. Carthew, "I am very glad your own maid was with you. As for Captain Howard, I don't know what h would have done but for his old friends the Selbys. By the way, the Selbys, I hear, were dreadfully disappointed at Captain Howard's bringing a bride with him. They hoped, I fancy, that he might take it into his head to marry Miss Eleanor. He! he! he !"

Marry Eleanor Selby!" exclaimed Mrs. Howard. "Really, Mrs. Carthew, that is an extraordinary idea! Captain Howard's family would scarcely have thought the daughter of an usher in a country school a fitting match for him."

"That's what I say," replied Mrs. Carthew; "but folks say that when a young man is very much in love, all these obstacles are soon forgotten. As for Mrs. Selby and her daughter, I believe they think themselves quite good enough for anybody; and whatever else may be said about the matter, I believe it is certain that Miss Eleanor would have had no objection. He! he! he!"

"Whatever may be said," remarked Mrs. Stoneman, with some sense of justice, "I believe people have never had any reason to accuse the Selbys of impropriety."

"That depends on what people call 'impropriety,'" said Mrs. Carthew, snappishly. "For my part, I do not consider it proper for any married man to desert his wife's sick-room, and spend all his time with a young girl. That's what folks say. Mrs. Howard will guess whether it is true or not."

Mrs. Howard replied rather haughtily, for her pride did not altogether relish Mrs. Carthew's manner.

"Captain Howard has certainly spent very little of his time with me lately," she said; "I have been too unwell to wish it."

But, as she made the acknowledgment, she felt angry that he had found solace with another, even for one solitary hour; and, as she observed with irritation to Mary Smith, after her visitors were gone, "It provoked her to think that she had refused a baronet for a man who cared so little for her. And yet," she said, "the very notion of a common country girl like Eleanor Selby being preferred to herself was rather too ridiculous.”

"Well," said Mary, "I do wonder to hear people say she is more beautiful than you are-you, who are so very beautiful! You can't think, Miss Fanny, how often I hear people say that Captain Howard ought to have married Miss Selby, and how sorry they were when" "Leave the room instantly," cried Mrs. Howard. "Do you mean to insult me?"

Not many minutes after, Captain Howard, quite unconscious of the

mischief which had been going on during his absence, entered with Mrs. Selby and Eleanor. Meeting them near his lodgings, he had invited them in to see Fanny, and Mrs. Selby had accepted the invitation, glad of the opportunity of making some inquiry, without the cold formality which Mrs. Howard's manner had produced. They were received very distantly, but the recent indisposition formed some excuse, and they got on as well as they could. At first, Eleanor-as indeed she had generally been since her old playfellow's return-was somewhat timid and silent; but Charles, anxious to throw off the feeling of restraint which hung over them, rattled on, asking her whether she remembered this or that adventure of his boyhood, until at last they both almost forgot the present, and Mrs. Selby, finding it impossible to draw Mrs. Howard into conversation, sat listening, with a somewhat melancholy smile. In reply to some reminiscence of her childhood, Eleanor said, laughingly, "Oh, yes, dear Charlie!" the term which she had been accustomed to use in the time so vividly recalled to her memory-"Oh, yes, dear Charlie!"—and was going on, when Mrs. Howard started up suddenly, her face crimsoned with passion, and exclaimed:

"This is too bad! Miss Selby, are you not ashamed to address a married man in such terms of familiarity before his wife? And are not you ashamed, madam," addressing Mrs. Selby, "to encourage your daughter in such unwarrantable freedoms? Surely it is not too much to expect even Miss Selby to call my husband Captain Howard' in my presence. I am his wife, and will not suffer any one to make love to him before my face."

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Fanny, are you mad?" exclaimed Captain Howard.

"No, sir, neither mad nor blind; though had I been blind, perhaps I might have pleased you better. I can and do see what is going on; and even if I were blind, I could not avoid being made acquainted with it, unless deaf too. The whole town is ringing with your shameless conduct. They say that Mrs. Howard's sick room is deserted by her husband, and that all his time is spent with his mistress-Miss Eleanor Selby."

"Mamma!" gasped Eleanor, who was as pale as death, "let us go home."

"By Heaven! Fanny," cried Charles Howard, "this is too bad! I have borne with your temper almost ever since the day when I was so unfortunate as to marry you; but this I will not bear. Mrs. Selbymy dear Miss Selby, come with me. I deeply regret that through my means you have been exposed to such undeserved calumny from that insolent woman."

We blush to write it, but as Charles approached Mrs. Howard, to take his hat, which lay on a chair near her, she snatched up a glass of water that stood on the table, and flung it in his face! His features, which had been before flushed with anger, in an instant faded to a deathlike hue he hesitated a moment, and then, wiping the water from his face, offered an arm each to Mrs. Selby and Eleanor, and left the room in silence.

;

Not a word was spoken, until they reached the quiet little cottage, in which poor Charles had passed so many happy days; but then, giving way to his feelings, he even wept before those whom he regarded as his mother and sister. Nelly's tears flowed too; only Mrs. Selby retained any appearance of composure:

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I grieve at this, Charles," she said; "but I fear you must leave St.

Bennett's. Mrs. Howard must have heard some unpleasant remark, and for our sakes, you must leave; Eleanor's name must not be made the theme of scandal."

"And do not be angry with poor Mrs. Howard, Charles," said Eleanor; "she has been ill, is not well now, and then-she loves you."

"Loves me!" replied Charles. "That dream was soon over-she deceived me-bitterly deceived me. But I was in fault too. Oh, how I regret my precipitancy now! Had I but seen you-I believe you are right, Mrs. Selby-I must, for your sake, leave St. Bennett's; for your sake, I came, but it would seem as though I were doomed only to bring misery, where I would give the world to confer happiness. My mother-my darling sister, farewell! Pray for me, Nelly-I shall need your prayers.'

In another moment, the garden-gate had closed, and Charles Howard was gone.

Hours had sped by before Charles could summon sufficient composure and self-command to return to his wife. Shall we attempt to trace his musings? No-" The heart alone knoweth its own bitterness"-and, we fear, regret and sorrow on Eleanor's account mingled largely with his feelings of disgust and shame for his own wife-not unaccompanied by some thoughts-resisted but irrepressible-which caused more self-reproach than either.

"I have but myself to blame," he thought; "when my own little Nelly's beauty was destroyed, and by my hand too, I thought of her only as an object of pity and compassion. I have returned to find her glorious in her loveliness and her unsullied purity. She might have been taught to love me better than as a brother. Had she been maimed, and halt, and blind, she would still have been a treasure! But I must not think of that -for the sake of the unborn babe, I will be patient. I will leave St. Bennett's at once-to stay here now were torture."

When Charles reached his dwelling, he found Mrs. Howard still in the room where he had left her; and spoke to her calmly, but firmly, respecting her recent conduct. The first ebullition of passion over, she had herself felt ashamed of her behaviour; but pride would not allow her to confess this, and she listened to her husband in silence: at length, however, she said,

"Mrs. Carthew had been here telling me that your attentions to Miss Selby had attracted general remark, and I was vexed beyond endurance."

"And you suffered that mischievous woman to speak in this way of one whom, as you well know, I so much respect! Fanny! I must not say all I feel-but you must conquer your temper, or we must separate: I cannot, and will not endure such an indignity a second time from any Go to your room now, and send Mary Smith to me."

one.

There was that in Charles's eyes which would not be disobeyed, as Fanny, somewhat subdued, withdrew.

The remainder of the evening was spent by Captain Howard, with Mary Smith's assistance, in packing; and early next morning he went to take leave of Dr. Barfoot, Mr. Cooch, and some of his other friends. He paused for a moment to look at his former home-tears dimmed his sight, and he turned away.

In an hour after, Captain and Mrs. Howard were rolling along towards London.

NEW MONTHLY MAGAZINE.

THE WAR IN THE EAST.

It is impossible not to allow that the policy of Great Britain in the present crisis in the East, so far as it has yet gone, has been simple and straightforward. It has been directed by all possible efforts to obtain a peaceful arrangement of the differences that have arisen between the Sultan and his powerful neighbour, to oppose the aggrandisement of Russia, and to preserve the integrity of Turkey. Failing in peaceful measures to ensure these objects, England is prepared to go to war with the greatest military power in the world in concert with her chivalrous and warlike ally-France. This, however, not till every possible means of bringing about an adjustment shall have been exhausted; even to tranquilly permitting the occupation of the Danubian Provinces, or allowing the Russians and Turks to fight out the battle themselves, until some great catastrophe happening to the latter, or a triumphant march upon the Sultan's capital, shall actually force the allies to more energetic steps.

The reason of this policy is as simple as the policy itself; it is adopted because, were the Crimea occupied by British or French troops, Sebastapol taken by land, the Black Sea fleet destroyed, Odessa blockaded, and Russia placed in the last straits, should, indeed, probably any reverse occur to the Russian arms, Austria would come forward to the help of one to whom she is largely indebted for her own integrity. Russia crippled would be the signal for an uprise in Poland, which will involve the interference of Prussia, otherwise friendly disposed towards us and the cause of Turkey, in favour of Russia. Thus England and France would soon find themselves at hand with three of the most powerful states in Europe, the whole Germanic Confederation would be brought into the trouble, and a battle originally begun on the Bosphorus might be concluded on the Rhine. Any necessity imposed upon Austria to interfere in favour of Russia would involve insurrection in Hungary, to whom any disasters happening to either power are so many opportunities. Indeed, it would be difficult to say if the Hungarians are not prepared to rise at the first turn of fortune that should happen to Russian arms, for the results of the last war satisfied them that they could cope with the Austrians single-handed. Again, Austria engaged in subjugating Hungary in insurrection, the Lombards would seize the opportunity to assert their nationality. Thus Russia, Austria, and Prussia, would have, in case of a general war, enough on their hands without the threatening aspect of things in the East. It would also be difficult, in the actual state of things in Russia itself, to determine that the commerce and wellbeing of the vast populations which compose that empire, could be Dec.-VOL. XCIX. NO. CCCXCVI.

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