JEANNETTE saw the next morning that she looked dreadfully ill,—that her eyes were sunk, and her face was pale as marble; she took therefore some care in dressing, in order, if possible, to avoid the remarks of her father and Matilda. But the traces of mental suffering can never be concealed, -the anxiety of true affection can never be eluded. And Jeannette's predetermined firmness was all but overcome, when her kind father pressed her to his heart, and said it was a grief to him to see her look so far from well. Still, she took her place at the breakfast-table, and endeavoured to eat; and when she found she could not swallow, even pretended to do so. To all her father's tender inquiries she answered, "I shall be better by-and-by ;" but her self-command deserted her at once when she met Matilda's eyes full of tears resting upon her, and saw her instantly avert them, as if in fear of her. Her long-repressed grief now burst forth.

"My beloved child!" said Mr. Langham to her, and they all arose. No explanation was asked or given; she was permitted the full relief that tears could yield. This was not much, but it was something, and to find her weakness treated as mere bodily indisposition was perhaps more.

Her father led her to an open window; Matilda, in the mean time, arranged a sofa near it for her reception. She did not oppose their entreaties that she would endeavour to sleep, although she faintly smiled at the expression. But her strength was now so entirely exhausted, that without endeavour, contrary to her own expectation, she fell into deep and peaceful slumber.

It is not always the influence alone of sleep that is good for the unhappy blessings are sometimes showered on us during

our hours of repose; and eyes that have closed in sorrow (though this is rare) may waken to joy.

While Jeannette was sleeping, a note was delivered to Matilda in these terms," For Miss Jeannette Langham, Ma'am, from Mr. Bathurst, who himself is waiting for an

Matilda's curiosity was vividly excited-she paused an instant, and hesitated what to do, but at length wrote on a slip of paper,--" Jeannette is now asleep unless your communication be of deep importance, I do not wish to wake her. "M. L."

An answer to these few lines was soon brought to her. "Dear, kind Miss Langham!-Send me back my note; but when your sister wakens, tell her this-that Lindsay Bathurst is waiting in her father's house--(as with your permission I mean to do)-till he can repeat to her with his own lips, that the letter she meant should reach him in Italy, only came to his hands last night. And oh! tell her too, my dear Miss Langham, that the same happy or miserable man, according as she shall choose to make him the one or the other, before he knew of that letter, loved with an undivided soul, and only wished to expiate his errors towards her by a full avowal of them."

Matilda must have been more or less than woman, having so much confided to her, not to wish to know more. She longed for Jeannette to waken with as much anxiety as she had desired she should sleep. Lindsay Bathurst was still more impatient: he came to the door of the breakfast-room, and implored so eagerly to be admitted, that Matilda permitted him to enter.

Jeannette's sleep was so deep and still, her breathing so imperceptible, that Lindsay Bathurst, while gazing on her, grew alarmed. In a low, deep whisper, he said to Matilda, "Will she ever wake again?" But, low and deep as was its tone, it disturbed her. It may be that no other voice, in the same degree, would have produced the same effect. She started, and sighed heavily with that deep sense of wonderment and pain, which all have felt who have suffered. It is as if the anguish of the mind had accumulated during the repose of the body, and gained in intensity what it had lost in duration. Matilda had expected this, and was aware that

the first pang could not be spared her. Lindsay Bathurst still knelt by the side of Jeannette; and on hearing her sigh, he lowered his head to the level of the couch on which she lay. Matilda had thus an opportunity of apprising her, first, that she had had a witness of her slumbers besides herself; and next, that Lindsay Bathurst was near her.

Jeannette's pale face became scarlet as she repeated the name in incredulity. But when she beheld him,—when she felt her hands clasped fervently in his, the tremor of her frame, the tumult of her mind, were excessive. She raised her clear transparent eyes, that seemed at that moment to reveal all her inward feelings, upwards and around her; and when she could speak, said "Where am I?--Where am I? -What does this mean?" All was soon explained, that is to say, as much as Lindsay Bathurst could explain. And Jeannette, as she listened with a rapture amounting to agony, remarked not that his explanation did not extend to those "circumstances beyond his own control" mentioned by him in his letter as the obstacles that had separated him from her. It was not till many months had elapsed that Jeannette reverted to this fact. The singularity of not having remarked it, appeared then to her like destiny. It would have been a wiser and truer inference to have regarded it as the necessary consequence of the blindness and unreasonableness of passion. But to return the theme on which Lindsay Bathurst dwelt with the most pleasure, when left alone with Jeannette,-the one thought to which he clung the most fondly, was, the unspeakable value he set upon her affections. "Nothing, Jeannette, was ever so dear to a human heart as you have been to mine!"

יי!

"Oh! may I every hour, dear Lindsay, become more and more precious to you,-more and more worthy of you "I could not," he said, "love you more, and live.” Matilda had made some communication to Mr. Langham, the preceding night, of her own conjectures on the events of the evening. She had therefore but to seek her father, and to say that Mr. Bathurst wished to see him, and this with a bright and cheerful countenance, for Mr. Langham to feel tolerably assured of the nature of the communication that was to be made to him. He asked numerous questions of Matilda of the course of this attachment, and little as she

actually knew, Matilda found answers to them all; the mind under some circumstances is so amusingly fertile, and withal so abundantly satisfied with its own suppositions. Mr. Langham accompanied Matilda to Mr. Bathurst.

Jeannette started up at the sight of her father, and was rushing forward to meet him, but a strong internal feeling rendered her immoveable.

Lindsay Bathurst advanced to meet Mr. Langham, and with a voice vibrating with emotion, begged of him to lend a favourable ear to his suit. Mr. Langham, at the moment the request was made to him, felt too fully the value of the treasure solicited, immediately to reply. He had entered the apartment with an intention of granting his consent, and without anticipating the pang it would cost him.

"If I trust you with my child, Mr. Bathurst, I trust you with what is dearer to me than life: but"--and he then approached Jeannette--" what says my girl?"

"My dear father!" were the only words she uttered. Mr. Langham clasped her for a few moments to his heart, then kissed her pale forehead as if he were parting from her for ever.

"Now then," he said in tones that were scarcely audible, "take her, take her from me!"

CHAPTER XLI.

-The holy vow

And ring of gold, no fond illusions now

Bind her as his.

ROGERS.

How awfully soon does every human heart, however deeply agitated by passion, or moved by passing events, return to its habitual modes of thought and feeling,--to its former hopes, and fears, and recollections! This is found to be the case, even when a strong and predominant affection survives the severe shock.

Jeannette, restored to herself by prospects of happiness that seemed to her unbounded, loving fondly, but too securely, to be wholly absorbed either by what she felt or what

she inspired, became again the kind, generous, amusing, and affectionate creature nature and education had combined to render her. Without prejudice to that exclusive adoration which she owned and felt for Lindsay Bathurst, she again became the doting admirer of Matilda, the playful pet and watchful attendant of her father. Again too she became the lively correspondent of Hamond, and the faithful rememberer of her mother. On the other hand, Lindsay Bathurst, after basking for a time in the sunshine of blissful illusions, fell back to some of his former fears and regrets. He found leisure, amid the favouring circumstances by which he was surrounded, to think of Mrs. Langham, and to deplore that "inky blot" in the escutcheon of Jeannette that could not be expunged.

Mr. Langham consigned to Hamond the task of asking his future brother-in-law whether or not he wished Jeannette to be informed of facts known to himself and others.

"Not for the wealth of worlds, Hamond, would I have her know them!"

The decision was precisely what Hamond wished it might be; but the manner of it offended him deeply. It was too eager,--too resolute,-too much in the manner of a man who had thought his worst of the subject on which he was consulted, and who was galled by the slightest remembrance of it. So, at least, Hamond imagined; and he suffered it to bring back all his former prejudice against Bathurst. He did not reflect that the arrow had found its point in his own susceptibility. He only felt its sharpness, and there was some temper in his voice and manner as he replied," Then, I trust, Bathurst, that what is so decidedly my poor sister's misfortune, will never with you become a taint of suspicion." "Never, Hamond! you cannot suppose it!" And he reddened deeply as he spoke, from the double conviction that the supposition was utterly unmerited, and that Hamond was not friendly to his union with his sister.

In the mean time, Jeannette hoped, from seeing them frequently together, that her brother's prejudices had wholly vanished, and she said to him one day, with so much fearless confidence," You love Lindsay Bathurst now, Hamond," that he answered readily

"Dearly, Jeannette-for your sake."

"And not for his own,-Oh Hamond!"