mained for several years, but in the interval had scarcely known a moment's tranquillity.

Mrs Mapleloft was descended from a highly honorable English family. Having in her youth been sent home to be educated, she then imbibed political notions, than which nothing could be more ultra, nothing more loyal. The King, God bless him,' was her daily toast; the Queen, God bless her," was her constant prayer. These sentiments gave her conduct a decided tone, and often in the warmth of her zeal, she pressed her doctrines upon Charlotte, and required her unqualified acceptance of them, also. Her niece was by no means a politician. Although attached to her native country, and possessing discrimination enough to see where the justice of the controversy lay; she was much too young to decide upon the points raised by casuists in favor of the Lord's anointed.' Her heart had probably decided for her, and the recollection of Cavan Beaufort, a young and accomplished chief of cavalry, who had been but too agreeable in former days, occupied, we must admit, every avenue to her judgment. Charlotte was certainly possessed of every grace that can adorn a woman, and spirit to give zest to every grace. Her figure and air, her features and com

plexion were esteemed faultless; but we pass over the usual description of a heroine. The peculiar circumstances which impressed Cavan Beaufort with a superiority which love always admits in its cherished object, may have had some effect even upon him. Suffice it to say that a mutual attachment had grown up between them, which the prospect of a separation only made more violent. When she bade adieu to her highland home,' and turned her steps towards New York, Capt Beaufort obtained the happy privilege of escorting her to the British lines, with a detachment ordered out for that service. Through the hills they rode together side by side, at times excited almost to madness, by the consciousness of the fatal necessity which tore them asunder. The fortune of war, the protracting of the struggle, and the uncertainty of life, all stood out from the mental canvas. And, worse than all, even the confiding Cavan could not look coolly on the possibility that Charlotte might find some more exalted, some more brilliant object than himself, possessing stronger claims to her regard. He could not forget that some of the elite of the English nobility, were with the army at New York, and most unluckily for himself, he ventured at the moment of parting, just as they were reaching the

British outposts, to suggest his maddening doubts to the beautiful and unsuspecting creature beside him. It is well expressed by the poet, who would pourtray the eagerness of unjustly suspected love,

6

'Doubt that the stars are fire,

Doubt that the sun doth move,
Doubt truth to be a liar,

But never doubt my love.'

The application of the sentiment was with Charlotte Eustace. Her face clouded like an April morning, a sad expression passed over her features.

Capt Beaufort, said she, have I, have I deserved this? If my conduct thus far has produced neither confidence in your own desert, nor in my affection, let us spare ourselves the sorrow of future misunderstanding.' And with the manner of one deeply and unexpectedly offended, she turned her head away, and gave a tighter rein to the horse on which she was riding. Is it possible, Charlotte, that you can say this, and at such a moment, replied the young soldier; now, when we are about parting to meet we know not when.'

'If Mr Beaufort is himself so unjust,' said the lady, ' and at such a moment, all I could say, would not

convince him. The recollection of the past, might have at least checked his ungenerous suspicions of one who has loved, if not too wisely, yet too well.' And here a tear started from that eye, which had shone but a moment before with undissembled affection. Dearest, dearest Charlotte,' cried the repentant Cavan, 'forgive me, I entreat you, pity the love which knows no bounds to its zeal, no discretion in its temper. Forgive me, speak, I conjure you, say I am forgiven; for in a moment more we shall be at the British outposts, and it will be too late, perhaps, forever.'

There is something in the character of woman quite peculiar and indefinable. Even in her most relenting moments, when she receives our homage with her sweetest smiles, and gives the delightful assurance that she listens with pleasure to the raphsodies that love alone indites, she never forgets to assert the rights of her sex, nor show her resentment at the imputation of injustice.

Miss Eustace, with all the spirit and high bearing of conscious dignity, and the truth of a 'soul that's sincere,' nevertheless could not brook suspicion even from Cavan Beaufort. She felt that she had loved, and the insinuation that she could forget, seemed in

the last degree unjust. And thus at the critical moment, when it would have been so much better to have parted with renewed affection, when obstacles, in a few moments more were to interpose, which might not again in years be surmounted, the youthful pair were getting into the most unfortunate relations, and actually giving way to feelings mutually unjust to each other. And what was worse, in this state of mind they were unhappily compelled to part, for the cavalcade, which was in advance of them, had that moment halted at the foot of a hill, within a short distance of a sentinel, and the trumpet of an amateur musician of cavalry who had volunteered to go down with the detachment, was sounding its shrill tantara into the inmost soul of the British picquet.

There was something picturesque in the scene, short as it was. The artist who could have stationed himself at the right of the road, would have found a subject worthy of his attention. Wouvermans himself, would not have disdained the opportunity, particularly as there was a white horse in the fore ground. The highway skirted a hill of tolerably easy descent, at the foot of which ran a small stream, where large rocks lay intercepting its course. The foliage was in its gayest hue. An early spring had