had been given to another. Long did I struggle between duty and inclination, but at last love completed his triumph over honour; I resolved to marry Florence Cecil, and to abandon poor Ellen.

From this moment I never knew peace, except when in Florence Cecil's company; there, indeed, I forgot everything but love,-there, I existed in an intoxication of delight; but when away from her, the wound I had inflicted on Ellen was ever before my eyes. I execrated myself as a wretcha dishonoured villain. My breast was a hell within me, compared to which I thought all other hells would be beds of roses; and yet all this I was content to suffer, so that I might be loved by Florence.

I had now entirely deserted the Noels. I never went near the house, nor did I ever see Ellen; and I began to hope that she had forgotten me. I soothed my remorse, by reflecting that she had never exhibited much passion for me, and that, the first shock being over, the distress which I believed I had occasioned only existed, perhaps, in my own heated imagination.

Encouraged by these reflections, I pressed Florence to name a day for our marriage. A delicious blush overspread her happy face, as she named that day month,-the day on which she attained majority, and became the uncontrolled mistress of her actions. I heard her in silence; in truth, I was deeply affected, for, by a strange and melancholy coincidence, the day she proposed was the day which poor Ellen had formerly fixed for our marriage. From that moment a vague presentiment came over my mind of some evil I knew not what, but it seemed to me that that day was destined, in some way or other, to be fatal to me.

A few days after this, I was engaged to dine at a gentleman's house a few miles distant from town. Arriving there too soon, I resolved to while away the time, by rambling among the adjacent pleasuregrounds. It was a bright and beautiful day in June; the lilacs which embowered the walks had put forth their gayest blossoms,-the golden flowers of the laburnum were drooping in rich clusters ⚫ from their green branches, and the perfume of a thousand flowers was wafted gently on by the sleepy breeze. As I sauntered along, sadly musing on the past, I beheld Ellen walking quietly a little way before me. We came upon each other so abruptly, that it was impossible to avoid each other.

Poor Ellen! how dejected did she look, and how sadly was she altered from what she was, when, like a bright vision, she first crossed my path in her mother's house! then she was all life and smiles, and as lovely as a seraph; now, her eyes were dim, but their sweet expression still remained, and the delicate colour which used to flit about her cheeks had given place to a care-looking and melancholy paleness.

When she perceived me, her cheeks for a moment were faintly flushed, and she hurriedly turned aside her head; recovering herself, however, she accosted me with the air of one who was too proud to show that she had ever been offended. But though there was no pique exhibited in her behaviour, I could see that insulted love, and womanly pride, and tenderness of heart, were all struggling for the mastery in her agitated bosom. For a time, embarrassed by our feelings and situation, we walked together in silence, or, what conversation we did attempt only showed how incapable

we were of supporting it. I felt my bosom warming to the poor girl. I could have wept to see how sadly misery had altered her whom I once loved, and I was filled with remorse when I thought that that misery had been caused by me. After a

struggle, I could assume indifference no longer and, turning to her, I said, with an agonised heart, Ellen, you have been very ill; you are so pale, so sadly changed, since "I could not finish the sentence I had so inadvertently begun.

Since what?" said she, turning steadily round, with a reproachful yet sorrowful look, "since what, Gerald ?"

"Since I was a villain, Ellen, a base, dishonoured wretch, detested by myself as I am by thee."

She said nothing, but a tear which filled her eye was a more affecting commentary than the most eloquent words.

"But you are revenged, Ellen. Oh, I carry in my breast a fiend which goads me to madness. Ellen, Ellen, the curse of a broken vow is upon me, and here or hereafter I can never again expect to be at rest!"

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As I thus spoke, Ellen turned even more pale than before; and looking timidly at me, she said, Gerald, if my forgiveness can make you happy, take it, you have long had it. Though my hopes, (and here her words faltered,) though my hopes have been withered, yet I could never feel resentment against one whom I confess I once loved. 'Tis no matter what now becomes of me, but if hereafter you should ever think of Ellen, think kindly."

As she spoke these last words, the tears began to flow down her pale cheeks. Feeble, and exhausted by her agitation, she in vain tried to support the firmness she had at first assumed. She

sobbed, and sighed with such bitter grief, that I thought her little heart would have burst; mine, too, was near the breaking. I forgot Florence; I forgot the whole world except Ellen, and my first love rushed upon me with overpowering violence. I renewed my vows to her; I told her, that, looking on the past as a troubled dream, we would yet be happy; and I painted the future happiness we might enjoy in the most impassioned and glowing language. As I spoke, her eye brightened, and her whole face was overspread with a blush.

"Answer me one question," and she seemed almost breathless,-"answer me one question: Are you not engaged to another ?"

She looked at me as if her life depended on my words. I could not speak, but she read my answer in my face, and slowly and mournfully withdrew her gaze. The hope which had lighted up her eyes was extinguished; the revulsion of her feelings was too strong for her weak frame, and, clasping her hands across her bosom, she fell senseless at my feet. For a moment I felt stupified, but, instantly recovering, I flew to her, and raised her in my arms;-I kissed her blanched lips, I pressed her to my heart, and gladly would I have purchased her life at the ransom of my own. At that moment I saw Florence standing beside us ;-how she happened to be there I know not, but there she stood, and my distress was complete. I said nothing; but, laying Ellen gently down, I went off to procure assistance.

--

When I returned, neither Florence nor Ellen was to be seen. Ellen must have recovered so as to leave the place with her friend. As for me, I was weighed down by that fatality which seemed

B

to hang about me; I could stay no longer; so, calling my horse, I instantly galloped home.

I must now be brief in what remains of my story. The passion I had shown for Ellen was but the outrageous violence of pity. It passed away with the occasion which had excited my feelings, and my love for Florence revived with all its former strength. But, alas! the presentiments of misery which had long hung over my mind were now to be realised, and Ellen was indeed avenged for my weakness and perfidy. She had told Florence the story of her woes; and that high-minded girl, disdaining a connexion with one who had so injured her friend, tore me from her heart-for I believe she did love me-and cast me off for ever. I submitted in silence; it was vain to strive against fate, and, with a sorrowful heart, I bade her an eternal farewell.

Her brother, however, was not so easily to be satisfied. He saw my engagement to his sister broken off without any apparent reason-Florence, through pity to me, had concealed the cause of our separation-and he naturally concluded-for man is generally the aggressor-that I had been trifling with the affections of his sister, and the honour of his family. I might easily have avoided a duel, but I cared not for life; I was tired of this world, and I believed I could not be more miserable in a future. The moment we were to fire I threw my pistol from me, and I remember nothing farther till I found myself lying in a bed in this little cottage from which I write. I had been wounded, but I believe not desperately; severely enough, however, to prevent me being conveyed to my own home.

Here, then, on a lonesome sick-bed, have I had time to meditate on my past life. My chamber is