drenched golden hair. It was pitiable to see her, and to hear her mournful wail. But when dinner was announced, she rose, and went in as usual, fearful lest Mr. Verney should ask questions about her and make sneering remarks. Then she went up to her room, and lay in the gathering twilight. I followed her.

"Oh, Grace, can't you do anything for me?" she cried, vehemently, as I entered. "Can't you write to him? Tell him how sorry I am; tell him I'll never vex him any more; beg him to come to me, to let me see him again, though only once. Ah! it seems as if years had passed since I saw his faceas if I had never been anything but miserable all my life. Is it months or weeks since that letter came ? and Mr. Verney told me I might marry whoever I liked, as if there were any one I could marry but Cecil. Oh, Cecil!

dear Cecil! darling Cecil! Cecil, come back to me and forgive me! Oh! will he never call me his Cathy again? and play with my hair, and talk to me. I never knew that I loved him till he had gonetill too late," she dwelt on the last words with sad emphasis, though I always felt different with him from any one else. He seemed to have power to create a soul within me that without him had no existence? Oh! what shall I do without him? Oh! what shall I do? Oh! if the past could come back, how differently I'd act!'

Cecil! Once my own

When night came, it was with great difficulty that I persuaded her to go to bed. She wanted to remain on the floor all night. I stayed with her, sitting beside her bed, till at last she sobbed herself to sleep.

CHAPTER XVII.

THE RING.

ALL next day, Catherine's grief continued, and she unceasingly wept and reproached herself, and wailed for the dead past that could come no more, breaking out every now and then into the mournful cry, the refrain of all her lamentations, "Oh, that I were dead!" as the utter uselessness of her sorrow seemed to flash across her mind. For she well knew that Cecil's determination to give was final.

her

up

I, also, knew it. If I had thought that his

VERNEY COURT: AN IRISH NOVEL. 253

love for her still existed, I might have written to him, letting him know her state. But it was clear, both from his letter and the knowledge I had of his character, that his love was at an end, that the sight of her falsehood and deceit had been its death-blow, though for years, perhaps for ever, "the marks of that which once had been" would remain, and he must deeply suffer; but marry her now, he never would; his pride had been aroused in all its strength.

My doubts as to whether Catherine had loved him were now over; it was evident that she had, though uncertain herself of the fact till she lost him. What she had said about his haying power to create a soul in her, had been scarcely too strong an expression. If she had surrendered herself to his influence, instead of always struggling against it, he would have so guided and developed her

nature, that it might be said he had given her a soul.

It is strange that intellectual men almost always bestow their love on beautiful, soulless Undines, instead of on women more their own equals, who could sympathise with them in their pursuits.

The third day, to my surprise, Catherine rose apparently in her usual spirits, and went out to meet Mr. Percival. This, however, did not make me think that her grief had not been sincere, or that she had really forgotten it already, for hers was a nature which could not long sustain the pressure of any emotion, more especially grief. If she had not been able to rise from it, she must have died or gone mad. And, besides, her great object had always been to get away from her father and Verney Court, and now her only chance of doing so was by marrying Mr. Percival.