he conceived, when he saw his sister and Morton together in the drawing-room, was strengthened when he recollected the cold, confused manner in which his friend had spoken of Francisca. Morton had called once or twice at Grosvenor Place; and since their conversation, he fancied that Honoria had studiously avoided him. All these circumstances did not warrant him in concluding that his sister had fixed her attachment upon a person so unworthy of her; but they naturally awakened his fears, and made him thankful that he had defeated a project which might have brought them so frequently into each other's society. He did not leave London till his sister had promised (with, no symptoms of reluctance) to set out for Vyvyan Hall that same week.

CHAPTER II.

And art thou wise,

And learn'd, and skilful in accomplishments,

And all unknown till now?

MIDDLETON.

THIS promise Honoria was compelled to break; for, on the day fixed for their journey, Miss Vyvyan was attacked by an alarming indisposition. During her illness Honoria was obliged to exercise a singular kind of self-denial. Miss Vyvyan could not bear to receive attentions even from those she loved, and to whom, in a similar case, she would have shown the greatest. Her recovery was retarded if any one showed an interest in it; a temper which, paradoxical as it may seem, is not inconsistent with the most passionate inward desire for sympathy. I cannot explain the anomaly; but Honoria knew by experience, that it existed in her aunt's character, and she applied a dexterity

ten thousand times more subtle than that of all the diplomatists in Europe, because it was the dexterity of love and not of calculation, to meet it. She did not assume the office of nurse, nor perform any duties merely to display her affection; and yet, by various devices of womanly wit which seemed to cost no trouble and have no object, she made it evident to her aunt that she was constantly in her thoughts, and that it was not inclination which kept her from performing more active services. She was now alone-and the painful thoughts which had assailed her separately before, came upon her in battalions. The very day on which her anxieties for Eustace were relieved, was the day of her strange conversation with Captain Marryatt, and his still stranger departure. She did not actually identify him with the miserable being whom he described to her in that interview,-nay, she even determined that she would not identify them; but yet the description affected her very deeply. If he were not this person, what a depth of feeling, what a warmth of heart, must he possess, to enter so earnestly into the sorrows of another! and if he were, she did not venture upon the supposition till she had already given him credit for all the noble qualities implied in the opposite, and then how was it pos

sible to avoid feeling the most intense sympathy with such a sufferer? At another time she might possibly have remembered that there was danger in cherishing such feelings towards one for whom she already felt a regard more profound than gratitude. But he was gone; his words showed that they were never likely to meet again, or, if ever, not for a very long time. Why might not she pity and think of him, and wish that her tears and prayers might not be wholly unavailing?

Such thoughts had lasted some time, and had brought some still kinder and softer ones in their train, when she heard the first insinuation respecting his guilt. She rejected it with indignation and scorn. She would have done the same, probably, if the accused party had been any other man; but it awakened so many painful recollections of Francisca's sin, and Mrs. Hartenfield's malignity, that, in spite of her utter disbelief, it weighed heavily upon her spirits.

When Eustace fulfilled his promise to Francisca, he saw, from his sister's language and manner, that her feelings lay much deeper than she knew herself. But he believed, and he was right, that in proportion to their depth would be her vehemence in tearing them out. From that moment all her thoughts of Captain Marryatt were

mixed with disgust-disgust not the less sincere because it was directed more against herself than him. To hate another was not in her nature, but every kind feeling towards him which she had cherished, or which still lingered in her mind, she attributed to the bluntness of her moral perception. Her very sighs, when she thought how many noble and beautiful qualities she had discovered in his character, now all blighted and worthless, seemed to her like treason against Francisca ;-nay, what was stranger still in a person of her gentleness, she did not even allow a suspicion, that the story might be without foundation, to enter her mind.

Now however, in her loneliness, when she believed that she had smothered every spark of affection for him, the kindness of her nature returned. She began to ask herself whether the evidence did warrant her in holding so vile an opinion of one who had been kind, more than kind, to her brother. Whence did it arise? From Mr. Johnson, whose word was worth nothing, and Eustace, who did not even know whom he was accusing? Were such proofs sufficient to condemn the meanest creature on earth? No, she said joyfully, I will not believe it; I have no right to believe it. Justice, the royal law, and gratitude-for if he is not guilty, I may and must be grateful-all forbid

me.

Those weak thoughts of him I once had