CHAPTER I. O Happiness! our being's end and aim— РОРЕ. THERE are few things which inspire such feelings of melancholy, and of the vanity and instability of all earthly enjoyments, as the sight of a deserted ball-room the morning after a fête. The smell of dust, oil, and withered flowers, the fragments of ribands, combs, or feathers, which may be generally seen on the floor, all speak powerfully to the imagina - tion of those whose minds are inclined to sad ness. When to the impression which all these objects produce is added the depression of spirits which is usually felt, even by those whose enjoyment of the preceding night may have been most keen, there is something peculiarly painful in the feeling. The ball at Baynton Hall had been one of the most splendid ever known in the county. It was given to celebrate the introduction of Helen Baynton to the world. She was a beautiful girl of eighteen, and sole heiress to the large possessions of her father, an old gentleman of singular habits and eccentric character, who had, for the last forty years, represented the county in parliament. Helen Baynton had for months looked forward to this ball as to the commencement of a new era, in which all the happiness of life was to begin. She now sat on a bench of the deserted saloon; three of the high spacious windows were closed, a single gleam of brilliant sunshine found its way through the fourth, which had just been opened, and illumined the figure of the young girl, causing her light brown hair to shine like gold. Her face was averted from the cheerful beam, and her eyes were fixed on a crushed rose-bud which lay near her feet on the floor. There was a listlessness in her attitude as she leaned forward, and an expression of melancholy on her countenance, peculiarly striking, from its contrast to features which seemed formed for the dwelling of buoyancy and mirth. Near the window stood a tall girl, whose style of beauty, though extremely different, was thought by many to surpass that of the heiress. The prospect without seemed to engross all her attention, and long were her dark eyes fixed on the spire of a distant church which rose up from the midst of a grove of elms. The reflections which this object seemed to excite in her mind, were of a more cheerful cast, than the thoughts that occupied her listless companion; yet the joy which illumined her countenance, appeared almost as much at vari ance with its usual thoughtful expression, as the sorrow which depressed the lively Helen. A smile played round her beautiful lips, and the blood mounted to her usually pale cheeks, till, as if half ashamed of the thoughts which had so powerfully excited her imagination, she suddenly turned round, and almost started when she beheld the melancholy expression which the attitude of Helen evinced. Suddenly the joy which had so lately illumined her own countenance disappeared as she approached the disconsolate girl, and was replaced by a look of kind commiseration, as she imprinted a gentle kiss on Helen's brow. "Dearest sister, what has happened? I am afraid you are dreadfully tired.” "Oh no, not in the least," said Helen, while, with an impatient gesture, she stooped to pick up the crushed rose-bud, and averted her head as if the sunbeams were disagreeable, but in reality to hide the tears which now glistened in her long eyelashes. "You are disappointed, dear Helen; the |