that time to the present. How rapidly do things degenerate! Each succeeding age is pronounced by its oldest, and therefore its most experienced, cotemporary to be far inferior to the last; all the old men agree that no times were so good as those they knew in boyhood. And they are right; for then the heart of each was warm, his senses keen, open to every delight; then he lived in an age of love and pleasure, to which, as he grew in years, he became more and more insensible. Thus, in the natural temper of man, will he explain his own impaired powers of observing, by an impaired state of the things to be observed; his own lessened power of receiving pleasure, he will unconsciously attribute to the world's new apathy; and, because his own feelings are less warm, he bewails the decay of his country's warm-hearted generosity and old nobility of spirit. These feelings, masked by others, work imperceptibly in the human heart; and to these we owe the constant repetition of that absurd, improbable, nay, impossible, fable of the degeneracy of the present times. How far the conduct of Alice towards the departed Philip in his bachelor days proved, by its contrariety to that of Kate Westrill, the degenerate state of man, or rather womankind, we will not profess to determine, lest our decision should be opposed to that of a venerable and experienced lady; an opposition which Edward scrupled not openly to express.

Anxious, if possible, to relieve himself at any cost from the painful doubt he felt as to Kate Westrill's safety, Heringford determined to seek through the village to ascertain if her shelter was in Ellerton. But search was vain; and yet, in each cottage that he entered, he found that which served to root his love more firmly. Among the poorer families he found constant proof of Kate's kind disposition. Those whose better circumstances placed them above other aid acknowledged, with fond gratitude, the benefit of Kate's advice, Kate's friendship, Kate's sympathy in distress. Girls loved Kate Westrill for that she was mild and unassuming, shared in their feelings, and assisted in their little schemes; joined, too, so gaily and so gracefully in all the village sports. Old men loved her; for she treated them with respect, listened to their oft-told stories with attentive ear, and heard not their advisings with contempt. From all ranks in the village and from every age—from the prattler she had sported with, to the venerable man whose failing step she had supported-was poured into Edward's ear one general note of praise. Some, with tears, told of benefits conferred; others spoke with affection of her mirth and kindness: some had

tales to relate of her childhood; others, anecdotes of her youth: none could tell whither she had fled.

With his love confirmed, and his troubles increased, Edward Heringford returned to London.

CHAPTER THE THIRTY-SECOND.

ESTHER AVENGED.

EVENING had already thrown its shade over the village, when Edward started upon his journey. His mind was too much troubled to admit delay: he knew too well the road he was to travel, to feel alarm at the thought of journeying in the dark; there was little chance of his missing the way: other dangers were not thought of. It was a cold, chilly night; the wind moaned among the trees; light clouds flew across the sky; there was no sound or sight of living creature to encounter him as he rode rapidly onward. Now and then a cottage was visible through the obscurity, planted close to the road side; then, perhaps, a dog would bark; and the deep tones of the roused animal, as the disturbers proceeded on their way, became less and less distinct, until they were lost in the wailing of the wind, and solitude again prevailed. With regular and rapid stroke the horse's hoofs beat upon the frosthardened road: the wood, beyond Joe Bensal's cottage, echoed back the sound that disturbed its brute tenants in their rest. The wood was passed; the open road attained; the journey speedily continued. By the time they reached Iseldon the dawn had broken, and a few shops were in readiness for the day's traffic. Edward stopped to rest and refresh his horse; then continued his journey; passed over the city moat and under the gate, through street and lane, to London Bridge, dashed across it, and stood at Bruton's door. Dismounting, he led his horse to the stables, and entered the house, having seen his night's companion carefully provided for. Ascending to the room usually inhabited, Edward found Mat Maybird alone, seated at the table before an abundant breakfast. A huge joint of beef and a flagon of ale were at his elbow; loaves, pies, and pasties, capons, scattered over the table, gave testimony of inroads past, present, and to come.

"Thou'rt most welcome," said Mat, rising when he saw Edward, and greeting him heartily, "welcome within the bounds of

my jurisdiction. As there is breakfast here sufficient for two, I am not sorry to have thee share it with me."

"Where is Bruton ?" asked Edward, after acknowledging Mat's welcome.

"Bruton?" replied Mat; "for the present, Edward, I am Bruton. Our friend is out of town, and hath left to me the care of his household. I make myself comfortable, as you see." Mat pointed to the breakfast table.

"There is no appearance of discomfort here, certainly,” said Edward, laughing.

"No," replied Mat. "I often-but I have not finished breakfast: we waste time in talking. Sit down, Edward-eat ;-thou hast travelled on a frosty night-art ravenously hungry, eat, Here is a venison pasty; I have tasted it myself," (it was half demolished,) "and can assure thee I found it excellent: the poultry I have also tasted; and can recommend the beef I am at present engaged upon. Take a draught of this ale,-by Jove, I have emptied the flagon! It shall be re-filled. Sit, Edward; hungry traveller, sit and eat."

Heringford wanted no pressing to refresh himself after a night's ride; and Mat Maybird was soon contented. More ale was ordered and brought; when Mat renewed his hostilities, by a spirited attack upon the beef, that made it shrink before the knife of the insatiable destroyer.

"Now, Edward," said Mat, after a while, "what news from Ellerton? I have been most anxious to know, but I feared it was ill by thy speedy return, and would not inquire before breakfast, lest it should spoil mine appetite."

"The news," said Edward, "may be called good or bad, according to the manner in which we interpret it. Kate Westrill is lost to her persecutors and to me: she fled from Ellerton, as she said, to a more secure asylum; but I fear that was only to quiet the fears of the old priest, and that she has wandered friendless, without resources, upon the wide world, to perish in obscurity: the faithful Cicely with her. Kate! Kate! would that I but knew the truth! To hear that thou wert dead would be relief at least in this most fearful doubt!"

"We must hope that she has found a friend," said Mat Maybird.

"Ay, Mat!" replied Edward, "where should a humble orphan, persecuted and wretched, seek friends in this world among those that know her not? She is not in Ellerton. Say there are many

that would befriend her: I know there is charity on earth; there are many pure, good hearts, that can sympathize with sorrow ;Say there are hundreds-thousands-that would lend their aid with ready kindness, when they knew of the orphan's sufferings;is Kate Westrill one to seek pity of strangers? Can Kate beg relief of those who may refuse it? Will Kate Westrill tell to the world her own virtues, and claim commiseration for the sorrow of one who, in prosperity, distributed happiness and mirth around her? Can she can she do all this? Rather would her honest heart cease to beat rather would she-No, no. Kate is not one to beg friendship or assistance. She knows no one out of Ellerton-in Ellerton she is not. She must have wandered forth to escape the persecution of Spenton, hither and thither, in a world-wilderness to her she must have perished!"

Heringford, who had paced the room as he spoke, now threw himself upon a seat, and, burying his face within his hands, remained silent. Mat Maybird seated himself near him, and spoke in a gentle voice :—

"Abandon not thyself to despair," said he; "there is hope yet. Sweet little Kate is not destined to so hard a fate as thou hast pictured, Edward; it cannot be! While thou wert speaking, Edward, the memories of old were upon me. Think of Kate as she was when thou and I were villagers; think of her mild blue eye, that was lighted alike by love or mirth, or sympathy with distress; think of her dancing on the village green, thyself her partner; think of her singing at her own cottage door, when we would hide ourselves to hear her sweet, clear tones; think of her soft mirthful laugh, and of that sweet smile that brought happiness where'er it lighted think of all this, and tell me now, is it possible-is it consistent-that this innocent village favourite can have met so hard a fate? Answer me, Edward!"

:

Mat Maybird gently removed Heringford's hands from his face: his friend looked at him through fastly-falling tears.

"I do think," said he, "of old times; they are sadly, sadly changed!-but I will trust in Heaven!"

Let us change the scene.

From the hovel so often mentioned, the hut which Spenton called his own, a man emerged, tall, enveloped in a thick black cloak, his bonnet drawn over his face-it was Sir Richard Ellerton. With slow and irresolute step he walked through the lane into more open As men jostled past him he shrunk from their touch: if one looked at him he started timidly back, and endeavoured yet more

streets.

effectually to conceal his face. Sometimes he met one he had known in former times; then he would slink aside to escape observation: perhaps he was recognised; the other then quickened his pace, as though pollution hovered in his neighbourhood. He met one he had known in France; one that had been an associate in his crimes; one that had been his friend and confidant; he advanced to greet him the other dashed aside his proffered hand, and passed upon his way. Sir Richard again, with a sad smile, that united contempt and anguish, folded his cloak about him, and continued on his lonely walk.

In time, the houses became less numerous, the roads less frequented, as London was left behind. He arrived at a churchyard with an old church beside it; here he paused, looked around, and seeing no one near, opened the churchyard gate and entered. In one corner was a newly-filled grave-the grave of Esther. To this Sir Richard Ellerton advanced, and over it he stood in silence: the destroyer over the dust that concealed his unhappy victim. Strong emotions were at work within his breast. He rocked to and fro, as he stood with his feet fixed to the spot, his lips forcibly compressed, his brow bent, relaxed, and a tear at length fell upon the new-made heap of earth; a tear-the most acceptable sacrifice at the shrine of her he had injured. There was much of penitence in the feelings that gave rise to that drop: he would gladly have recalled the past. There was much of penitence, but also much of selfishness; for the feeling of humiliation was repugnant to his pride.

"She is gone!" said he; "she is gone, and I am desolate,-the last that loved me is departed." The tears fell fast, for he was deeply moved. When next he spoke, it was with reverence and awe:-"Now is the gloomy hour of retribution come !—to feeling, honour, Esther, I was dead;-now I have bowed her into the grave, now I love her. O God! thou hast prepared for me a fearful doom; that the love which met not life and faith should bind me to a corpse! -Esther! lost, ruined Esther! wert thou restored, thy Richard I would be; for thy sake I would leave the world; repent -repent!"

Sir Richard had not observed that he was not alone. Edward Heringford was standing by the grave, and gazed upon him with the deepest sympathy.

"Repent, then, now!" he said. "Sir Richard, thou repentestHere-"

"No, no," cried the other, in a rapid voice, "I have nothing on carth to live for but myself; thou hatest me: I know it-it must