Mr. Good's being affronted, there was not the least chance of that he had never known him affronted but once in his life. ¦ and that was by Parker of Hexley. He would not mind asking for the gig, plump, if he thought it could be spared. The thing was, that old Kippis required now to be seen every day, and the Grove lay in an opposite direction to the Pleasance. However, if Rosy was not tied to any particular time, and did not care whether she went late or early, he would see what could be done.

Mr. Huntley came in just as the tea things had been removed. He was anxious to know whether Rosina had tried his music. After a little persuasion, the piano was opened: and duett and song succeeded each other till the collection was exhausted. Huntley was delighted with the manner in which Rosina accompanied him, and she, in spite of the little contre-temps in the morning, was only too well pleased with his praise. Mrs. Wellford pursued or laid down her needlework, listened to the singers, and talked to Matthew by turns. Matthew, who began to believe that Huntley was to be his brother-in-law,-whether guitar-playing were a manly accomplishment or no,-mechanically snipped to pieces a remnant of ribbon which Rosina had intended for a bonnet string, and drew heads of dogs and horses on the cover of her scrap book. This album had heretofore been devoted to extracts from ancient and modern authors, snatches of poetry, historical summaries, traits of village character, and such remarks on books, scenery, flowers, and natural history as might engage the mind of an innocent and inquiring girl of sixteen or Some lines scrawled in Sam Good's round text on the last Valentine's Day, first broke the uniformity of the evenly written pages: they began with,

seventeen.

"Come, rove with me, Rosina,

The trees were never greener-"

a falsehood which nothing but the difficulty of finding a rhyme could have excused. From this era, the scrap-book assumed a different character. Idleness had caused it to be laid aside till Huntley had become domesticated in the family; and to Sam Good's valentine verses succeeded some closely written pages on colouring and perspective; the result of Huntley's verbal instructions. To these were annexed some stanzas by Herrick, written down by Huntley from memory; and here, Matthew remarked, the scrap-book opened of its

own accord. Several contributions from Lewis Pennington followed; all affecting to be general, though bearing some indirect allusion to Rosina: for instance, Carew's old song beginning with "He that loves a rosie cheek; " the same poet's Lover's Complaint—”

"Now all things smile, only my love doth lower;"

and two or three rather pointed passages from Madame de Genlis. Matthew saw their application and shut the book with an angry sigh. Hannah, unusually idle, sat by the piano-forte, her cheek resting on her hand, and her mind lulled into that passive enjoyment of the present, and absence of regret for the past or anxiety for the future, which the Turks dearly purchase by the use of their favourite but dangerous drug. Huntley was perhaps inspired by her softly smiling eyes,

"Mild as the moonbeams which on fountains tremble."

His voice had certainly never owned more fascinating tones. Rosina sighed with regret when the evening terminated. Her suspicions had been completely forgotten: unfortunately for her present tranquillity, they were soon to be re-awakened.

the

Lady Worral had not been seen or heard of for several days. Mrs. Wellford, fearful she had had a relapse, wished one or both of her daughters to call on the old lady. As Hannah was finishing some fine work for Rosina, she offered either to accompany her or work for her in her absence; latter of which, on account of her approaching visit to Mrs. Shivers, Rosina preferred. It was a pleasant walk to Lady Worral's, and she arrived at the house without any adventure. Her ladyship was rather rheumatic, but by no means seriously indisposed, and very glad to have some one to listen to the detail of her complaints. When she had exhausted the subjeet of her growing infirmities, her ladyship began to inquire for the news of the village; and on finding that Lewis Pennington had left Summerfield, she rated Rosina so soundly for letting him, as she termed it, slip through her fingers, that Rosina was very glad to take leave. Instead of returning by the shadeless, newly-gravelled carriage road, she took a narrow path leading through a small. copse, which terminated in a gate in the park palings. Dis

P*

tressed by the bluntness of Lady Worral's language, she gravely walked on, her eyes fixed on the ground, till she was startled by the quick slamming of the little gate. She looked up, expecting to see some one approaching, but the gate was before her, and nobody to be seen. It was evident, therefore, that some one had preceded her, who might possibly have been sitting on a wooden bench at no great distance from the gate. As Rosina passed it, she saw what seemed a letter lying on the ground; and taking it up, she looked for the direction, to discover to whom she might return it. To her no small surprise, it proved to be a drawing of Hannah's, folded up in a portable shape, the reverse side closely covered with writing. How a drawing of Hannah's could possibly come into such a situation, Rosina could not divine: it was one of her best attempts at copying from nature, and merely consisted of a coloured group of violets. Rosina turned the paper, and seeing some verses headed "The Violet," began to read them, supposing her sister had been struck with their appropriateness, and had copied them from some book. The writing was so cramped in order to get several stanzas into a little space, that it might be that of Hannah or any one else. How great was her surprise when she read as follows!

"Where shall I match my fair one's eyes?

Not in the azure of the skies

The bird's-eye is a shade too pale,
So is the harebell of the vale:
Only the violet's darker dye

Can match the colour of her eye.

"Where shall I match her breath's perfume?
Not where the gorse and heather bloom-
Not in the hyacinth's sickly smell,

Not in the cowslip's scented bell:

Such heavenly fragrance may be met

Only in the violet.

"Where shall I match my fair one's mind?
No emblem of its charm I find

In the heat and vulgar glare
Of the gaudy bright parterre;
Should I seek her image yet,
'Tis still, 'tis still the violet!

"In fragrance, modesty, and hue,
Two sweet resemblers here I view.
But oh, fell thought! upon the dead
I've seen young violets scattered.
Cease, similes! Must Hannah's bloom,
Like theirs, be gathered for the tomb?"

Rosina stood aghast. The colour suddenly rose to her temples, and as suddenly faded away. The verses were Huntley's! He loved Hannah!

Sitting down on the bench, she remained with her eyes fixed on the tell-tale paper, till tears came to her relief. But they were quickly checked by indignation. Lewis had been right: Huntley had been playing a double part. How Rosina's heart swelled with anger, disdain, and shame, at the idea! He should find that he could deceive her no longer she would shew him that she completely saw through him, and that his insidious conduct excited no other emotion than the

most entire contempt. But, insidious? Had Mr. Huntley really deserved that epithet? Could she bring any particular speech or action of his to substantiate the charge? Many, many! was at first her answer to herself; but on rapidly running over the past, she knew not on what to fix her accusation, His crimes were as untangible as motes in sunbeams. His language had been that of common gallantry: looks and tones had been felt as meaning much, but had they been intended to mean as much as had been understood by them? Huntley seemed unable to address a woman except with empressement; Rosina had often been angry with him for throwing away sentiment on Phoebe Holland; and allowing for her own greater claims to youth and prettiness, perhaps his attentions to her had meant no more than to Phoebe. Mortifying, intolerable thought! Rosina sighed bitterly, and attempted to arrange her ideas, but they were in pitiable chaos. She read the verses over again. How came they there? Mr. Huntley must have been disturbed by her approaching footsteps, and have accidentally dropped them in his retreat. Could he have caught a glimpse of her white dress through the copsewood, and have mistaken her for Hannah? It was not unlikely, and in that case he might have intentionally left the verses in her way. The drawing must have been stolen: Hannah could never have given it. Rosina's eyes remained fixed on the paper. Lewis's warning again and again recurred to her memory. "Ah, Lewis!" thought she, "love made you jealous, but it also made you clear-sighted! Why would not I believe you?" Then as the thought returned that she was not loved by Huntley, tears swelled into her eyes; and she envied Hannah the possession of affections which she was sure she did not appreciate. "Happy girl!" thought she, "and yet what happiness can be too great for her? I can hardly think she has been blind to all that has

been going on; yet if she really is unaware how much I have been attached to Mr. Huntley, her feelings shall never be embittered by my confessions and complaints. I hope I have too much generosity, too much pride for that!"

She remained sitting in a kind of dream, unconscious of the lapse of time, till the striking of the village clock made her start. Then, heroically resolving to resign Huntley without a sigh, she hastily wiped her eyes, put the verses in her pocket, and pursued her walk home. It was the first great trial of Rosina's life.

By the time she had reached the garden-gate, she had acquired a feverish sort of command over her spirits, which she hoped would enable her to behold the most evident proofs of Huntley's fickle affection without betraying any emotion. Hannah was in the parlour when she entered it, turning over the leaves of some books with apparent interest.

66

'Oh, Rosina," said she, "here are the Italian books which Mr. Huntley offered to lend you. He sent to town for them the same evening, and has just brought them himself. Was it not kind?"

Very kind," said Rosina abruptly, without even looking at them, "but it does not much signify. My fancy for learning Italian has gone off."

"How very changeable of you, when the poor man has taken so much trouble to please you!"

"He take trouble to please me?" repeated Rosina, whose indignation was rapidly obtaining the mastery of her prudence; "I am not the only person who is"-changeable, she was going to add, but checking herself in time, she ran up-stairs that she might not lose her self-command.

On her return she found the parlour empty, and with a sigh she examined the books. There were a dictionary, a grammar, and an Italian Reader,' something the worse for wear, interspersed, not with schoolboy scribblings, but with sensible notes in Mr. Huntley's handwriting, forming very good stepping-stones for any one, who, like himself, attempted to struggle through the difficulties of the language without a master. There were also two small volumes of Metastasio, elegantly bound, on the fly leaves of which was inscribed the name of Emmeline Huntley,' in a delicate Italian hand. Rosina stood with her eyes fixed on the name, till tears fell on the page. She hastily wiped them away; then drawing the verses from her pocket, she smoothed them and placed them in the port-folio of their rightful owner, leaving them to