to him, and hinting at the reward to which they were entitled, which O'Neill promised should not be forgot

ten.

It was an hour or two past noon, when O'Neill, after a repast of potatoes, and milk, and eggs, in Sullivan's cabin, was joyfully preparing to turn back towards the village he had left in the morning, when the danger occurred to him of travelling along so lone ly a road with so much money in his pocket, and he asked Sullivan whether he thought it would be quite safe.

"Sure you needn't go over the mountain at all," said Sullivan. "If you keep along the glen, it isn't more than a quarter of a mile longer, and it'll bring you out on the high road.

"Yes," said O'Neill, "but is the glen less dangerous than the mountain?"

"There's not one in the glen would lay a finger on you, more than on his own brother," said Sullivan emphatically, "if you only tell them who you are, and most o' them will know it without tellin'."

"I cannot tell why it is, Sullivan," said O'Neill," that you speak of me and my family so kindly, and seem to think your neighbours would do the same. I know my father has some mountain property in this quarter, but I had hardly thought he was known here."

"Indeed, but he is, sir," said Sullivan," and I'll tell you how; it's about ten years ago, when you were a young boy, that an uncle of mine, an ould man with a large family, that

lives on your father's piece of mountain, had a quarrel with a great gentleman who came to shoot on the ground, and trampled down his little garden, that he went into after the birds. Well, sir, it was only the next year that the ground was out of lase, and the gentleman bore such a spite to my poor ould uncle, that he wanted to bid over him, to take the ground from him, and offered to build a shootin' lodge upon it; but your father, like a raal gentleman, wouldn't desert the poor man, but renewed his lase, and the ould man lives there still, with his childer settled about him, instead of bein' driven off, an' scattered about the wide world. May God bless your father for it, an' his son that comes afther him."

"Thank you, Sullivan, thank you," said O'Neill; and, with tears in his eyes, he shook hands with him at parting, though, had he reflected for a moment, he might have recollected that the man was at the time a fugitive from the vengeance of the laws which he had violated.

Thank Heaven, one does not always reflect.

O'Neill that evening restored to the Englishman his money and peace of mind, and succeeded in convincing him that he had not been robbed.

By means of his father's interest, he succeeded also in getting Sullivan out of his trouble, and became a frequent visitor to the wild district where he lived; and at this day, the influence of O'Neill in the glen is second only to that of the priest, and much great- . er than that of the law.

A FEW days after Doctor Hartop's memorable after-dinner communication, Lady Octavia signified to Vernon her intention of calling that morning at Sea Vale Cottage, which condescending attention on her part had been hitherto delayed by his report of Miss Aboyne's increased indisposition, and her inability to receive visits. That cause of exclusion having ceased to exist, however, he could no longer decline for Millicent the proffered courtesy. His own private reasons for wishing it could be altogether avoided he did not perhaps analyse very curiously; or rather he assured himself, that solely for Millicent's sake, who would in truth gladly have dispensed with the visit, he was thus considerately reluctant.

But now Lady Octavia was predetermined; she would go that morning --she would go directly-and Mr Vernon must escort and introduce her. And before he had well got through two or three not very neatly-turned sentences expressive of his sense of her Ladyship's kindness, and so on, he found himself with his noble and lovely charge at the entrance of Millicent's little cottage. In another minute, Nora (who, to Vernon's horror and dismay, presented herself with a brown coarse wrapper, tucked up sleeves, and blue coddled arms evidently fresh from the suds) had thrown open the door of the small parlour where Millicent was sitting at work; and Vernon's ruffled feelings were not smoothed to complacency by his quick nervous glance at the nature of her occupation, which was that of dividing, and folding with neat arrangement, certain lengths and squares of coarse dark household napery. Colouring and confusedly, without raising his eyes to the countenances of either of the fair ladies, he hurried through the ceremony of introduction; but the calm sweet tone of Millicent's voice encouraged him to look up, and when the natural grace and lady-like self-possession with which she received her beautiful visitor, relieved him in part from the uncomfortable feel

ings which Lady Octavia's courteous ease and amiable prévenance also contributed to dispel, he found himself in a few minutes conversing with his fair companions with tolerable composure. Still his restless eyes glanced ever and anon at the coarse unhemmed towels, and then at the direction of Lady Octavia's eyes-and from her to Millicent, and again from Millicent to the titled beauty. Beautiful indeed the latter was at all times, but strikingly so at that moment. Lady Octavia had too much good taste, and too much confidence in the unassisted effect of her own charms, ever to overload them with fashionable frippery. Her costume that morning was a plain white muslin robe, setting off to the best advantage the perfect symmetry of a figure, about which a large India shawl had been carelessly wrapped, and was now suffered to fall in picturesque drapery off one shoulder. A large straw hat, tied loosely with a broad green ribbon, also fell back as she seated herself, so as to leave nearly uncovered a bright profusion of auburn hair, beautifully disarranged by the fresh morning wind, which had also communicated a richer glow to the peach bloom of her young cheek, and a more sparkling vivacity to her laughing eyes. Vernon saw that Miss Aboyne's eyes were riveted admiringly on her lovely guest. His, but the moment before, had been drawing an involuntary comparison between the youthful beauty and his own sweet Millicent ; and if, on one hand, he was too forcibly struck with the contrast of the opening and the waning rose-of the sheltered blossom, and the storm-beat flower-he ob served also, with affectionate pride, that the interesting and intellectual loveliness of Miss Aboyne, her simple dignity and natural elegance, lost nothing by the closest comparison with the brilliant graces and perfect finish of the Lady Octavia.

With what extraordinary celerity will thoughts, deductions, conclu sions, and endless trains of ideas and images succeed each other on the ma❤

gic lantern of the mind! Vernon's mental mirror still reflected a confused and misty portraiture; that of the Lady Octavia presented far more definite and well-arranged conceptions. On her way to the cottage, she had been weighing interiorly the comparative amusement to be derived from patronizing Miss Aboyne, or breaking her heart-but her judgment rather inclined from the scale of patronage. In London, or in a full and fashion able neighbourhood, it might have been played off à merveille, with high credit to the protecting power; but what could be done in that way at Sea Vale? It would be more in character with that sweet seclusion to get up the other entertainment, which, with good management, might be wrought into a very pretty romance of real life, and last out the whole term of exile, leaving the catastrophe to follow-for Lady Octavia's feelings were modelled much after the drama tic taste of our Gallic neighbours, which interdicts murder on the stage. "However," resolved the candid schemer, "I will see this Miss Aboyne before I make up my mind." And the brief test of a few minutes' intercourse with the unsuspecting Millicent, sufficed to settle her Ladyship's plan of operations. She felt, almost at the first introduction, that Miss Aboyne would not be patronized -so set herself to work, with a clear conscience, on the other experiment.

"What a sweet cottage you live in, Miss Aboyne!" observed Lady Octavia, after a little desultory conversa tion, during which she had been ta king a critical survey through her glass of the little parlour and all within it. "What a sweet cottage!" she exclaimed, rising to complete her examination. "So neat and so small and pretty! Do you know, Mr Vernon,' turning to Horace, "I quite adore it, it puts me so in mind of dear Falkland; it's so like our poultry woman's cottage in the park!" Vernon coloured and fidgeted; but Millicent said, smilingly, that she was indeed partial to her little home, and gratified that its unpretending prettiness had excited a pleasing association in Lady Octavia's mind. "But do you really live here all alone, with only that old woman?" inquired her Ladyship, with a sweet expression of condoling interest, just sufficing to make

it doubtful whether her impertinence were intentional, or artlessly indiscreet. "How very odd !—that is, I mean, how very delightful !—and I dare say you have always something to do some useful work or other-so superior to fashionable, trifling occupations! Do, pray, go on with that you was about when we came in, my dear Miss Aboyne. I would not interrupt you for the world—and it would really amuse me; do go onit's delightful to see people so clever and notable. I should like to learn,' and running to the table, Lady Octavia drew a chair close to it, and set herself to as grave and curious an inspection of the coarse manufacture Millicent had been employed in, as if each towel had been an ancient manuscript, and every stitch a hieroglyphic or a Greek character. "Your Ladyship will scarcely find any thing in my homely work worthy the condescending attention you are pleased to bestow on it," quietly remarked Miss Aboyne, in whose character want of penetration was by no means the concomitant of simplicity, and whose sense of the ludicrous was keen enough to have excited a laugh at the solemn absurdity of her fair visitor's caprice, if good manners had not restricted to a smile the outward indication of her feelings.

"Ah! now I know what this is-I remember all about it," triumphantly exclaimed Lady Octavia, looking up from the object of her examination, on which, however, one rosy palm remained emphatically outspread. "This is hackaback, or shackaback, or some such thing

the same sort of stuffmamma gives for pinafores to our school at Falkland. I wish I was half so clever and industrious as you are, Miss Aboyne, but I am afraid Mr Vernon could tell you I am a sad trifling creature."

"Miss Aboyne's general avocations differ less from your Ladyship's than those she has selected for this morn ing's amusement," said Vernon, with an ill-concealed irritability that tingled to his very finger-ends; and nervously starting from his chair, he went towards Millicent's music-stand, and partly to prove his petulant assertion, as well as to withdraw Lady Octavia's attention from the hated worktable, he requested her to look over some manuscript Italian music which he hurriedly extracted from the pile.

His request drew forth an exclamation of surprise from her Ladyship, as, approaching the music stand, and taking the offered sheet, she cried, "Italian!-you sing Italian, then, Miss Aboyne? I suppose Mr Vernon has been your teacher." Millicent look ed towards Horace with arch meaning in her eyes; but taking the reply to himself, and speaking with generous warmth, and a countenance glowing with grateful acknowledgment, he said, "No, indeed !-your Ladyship does me too much honour; I am in debted to Miss Aboyne, and to one who was equally beloved and respected by her and by myself, for all my knowledge of Italian-for every acquisition I most value-for more than Í ever can repay." There was a general pause. Lady Octavia wished she could have retracted a question which had excited feelings of a very different nature from those she designed to insinuate, and had drawn from Vernon so spirited an avowal of them. But the slight inadvertence led, at least, to one satisfactory conclusion.

Vernon's honourable warmth and affectionate allusion to her beloved father, touched the spring of deepest emotion' in Millicent's bosom, and subverted in a moment the outwork of calm self-possession, which had maintained itself so successfully, and, in truth, so easily, against the oblique aim of Lady Octavia's puny missiles; and the deep flush that now mantled her before-colourless cheek, and the tears that swam in her dovelike eyes, were evidence unquestionable that Miss Aboyne had a heart, and one not altogether organized of" impenetrable stuff."

To do Lady Octavia Falkland justice, however, she did not meditate actual murder, on or off the stage, or any thing, indeed, but a little harmless temporary sport with the happiness of the two persons so long and solemnly contracted. She merely designed to assert the omnipotence of her own charms, by convincing Miss Aboyne that she had it in her power to make Vernon faithless to his early vows; and, with regard to Vernon himself, she only intended to give him a clear insight of the disadvantages which must attend his union with Miss Aboyne, and a despairing glimpse of the superlative felicity in store for the fortunate mortal who should awa

ken an interest in her own fair bosom. With guarded caution, also, she charitably inclined to indulge him with an experimental taste of la belle passion, such as it might be between sympathetic souls of a superior order; and then, having so far generously enlightened him as to the capabilities of his own heart, to leave him and his be trothed to complete their stupid union in their own dull way, and be " happy as possible ever afterwards."

as

Millicent did not again see Vernon till late in the morning which succeeded that of Lady Octavia's visit; but she received him then with looks that beamed a welcome even more affectionate than that with which they were ever wont to greet him. His warm tribute to her dear father's memory, so spontaneously uttered the preceding day in reply to Lady Octavia's uncivil observation, had been balm to her heart, and her grateful feelings were ready to overflow at his appearance. But he approached and greeted her with an unusual degree of coldness and constraint, and there was a cloud upon his brow, and an abstractedness in his manner, that quickly and effectually repressed the expression of a sensibility too tender and profound not to be keenly susceptible of the slightest repulse.

For some time few words passed between them. Vernon seated himself beside Millicent at the table where she was finishing some pencil sketches, and usefully employed himself in cutting up her pencils into shavings, and her Indian-rubber into minute fractions. At last-" Milly," said he, abruptly, "what can induce you to waste your time about such abominable work as you were employed in when Lady Octavia called yesterday?

and to have it all spread out in your sitting-room too!-such vile, hideous litter!"

"My dear Horace!" mildly replied Millicent, looking up from her sketch with an expression of surprise, not unmingled with a more painful feeling-" my dear Horace! do you forget that, circumstanced as we are, my time is much more wasted in such an occupation as this, than it was in the homely task you found me enga ged in yesterday? You know, Horace," she added, half smiling as she bent again over her drawing, “ that Nora and I are very busy now provi

ding for our future household comforts? But I will allow, such work as mine was yesterday is not ornamental to a sitting-room; you shall not find the little parlour so disgraced again, dear Horace."

The sweetness of the answer was ir resistible; but though it made Vernon heartily ashamed of the weakness which laid him open to such paltry annoyance as that he had just made cause of complaint to Millicent, it could not immediately tranquillize his irritable mood, or charm him into forgetfulness of those tormenting thoughts and comparisons Lady Octavia had been too successful in exciting. Yet was he so sensible of their unworthiness, that he hated himself for the involuntary and unsuspected treason, and his heart smote him more sharply, when, a few minutes afterwards, Millicent spoke of Lady Octavia's beauty with such unaffected admiration, as testified, had such proof been wanting, how incapable was the genuine humility and nobleness of her nature of envious selfcomparison with the youthful loveliness of another. "I never saw such hair as Lady Octavia's!-such beautiful hair!" she observed, proceeding with her drawing and her eulogium. "But I have, Milly, and much more beautiful," asserted Vernon, edging his chair nearer to hers; and in a twinkling, before her inquiring look had met the tender meaning in his eyes, he had dexterously removed her close mourning cap, and plucked out the comb that fastened up a profusion of the finest hair in the world, black and glossy as the raven's wing, which, thus released from confine ment, fell in redundant masses over her neck and shoulders, waving downward almost to the ground as she sat, and, half shrouding her face and figure in its cloud-like beauty, invested with somewhat of celestial character the touching loveliness of a complexion pure and transparent, and almost colourless as alabaster, and eyes of the dark violet's own hue, ("the dim brooding violets of the dell,") now upraised to Vernon with an expression of innocent surprise and not offended feeling.

"What a sin it is to hide such hair as this, Milly!" continued her lover, lifting aside one of its heavy tresses from her now smiling and

blushing face, on which he gazed with a sudden and almost surprised conviction, that his own Millicent was a thousand times lovelier than Lady Octavia; and the evidently admiring fondness with which his looks were fixed upon her, did not lessen the suffusion of her cheek, though it quickly brought tears into her modest eyes, as they fell bashfully under their long black lashes. There is no such cosmetic as happiness; no such beautifier as the consciousness of pleasing, when we wish to please; and never was woman's heart indifferent to the gratification of being even personally pleasing to the object of her affections, whatever some superior-minded disagreeables may pretend to the con trary. Of late, some half-defined idea had possessed itself (she scarce knew how) of Millicent's humble heart, that though she was still dear to Horace, not only for her own sake, but for her father's, and the remembrance of "auld lang syne," she had no longer any personal attractions for him; and she HAD FELT the contrast between herself and Lady Octavia, though, in her simple integrity, drawing from it no conclusion more painful or uneasy than that Horace must feel it also. But that sudden action, those few words,-and, more than all, that look of his, conveyed blissful assurance that she was still beloved as in days gone by-still beheld with eyes as fondly partial. Vernon was quite right. His own Millicent was, at that moment, a thousand times more beautiful than the youthful and brilliant Lady Octavia.

It would extend this little history far beyond its prescribed limits, to con tinue a minute detail of those progressive circumstances which more immediately influenced the happiness and interests of Horace and Milkcent, during the remainder of Dr Hartop and Lady Octavia's sojourn at Sea Vale. The leading incidents must suffice to keep unbroken the thread of the narration. Miss Aboyne failed not (however disinclined) to return Lady Octavia Falkland's visit, within a few days after that honour had been conferred on her; neither did Lady Octavia fail, during their tête à tête in her luxurious boudoir, to call Millicent's attention to sundry objects, affording indubitable proof in the shape of copied music, verses, and