She ceased. He had no time to thank her, for at this moment Sir Patrick stumbled into the room.

The three were

"Sir Patrick O'Reilly!" they both exclaimed. In an instant Charles was on his feet. embarrassed. Florimel was alarmed to find her old persecutor thus intruding on her presence; Sir Patrick was amazed at seeing his prudish flame, who had rejected all his advances, thus admitting a lover to a tête-à-tête. Charles Wyntoun had certain jealous misgivings.

"Who are you, sir?" he furiously exclaimed.

"Who am I? I'm myself, at your service. Having thus satisfied your reasonable curiosity on that point, I'd like to know who you may be. You take such an interest in me, that I feel already like a relation to you-say a brother!"

"This assurance, sir, is intolerable. What do you here?" "If you come to that, what may you be doing here?"

Master Wyntoun saw there was but one course open, and drew his sword.

"Defend yourself, sir!"

"Is it defend you said? Nothing can better express my sentiments."

"Charles! Charles!" exclaimed Florimel, "what would you?" Avenge myself," he replied bitterly.

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"Let us step into the garden," suggested Sir Patrick.

"Sir, I avenge insults on the spot.'

Impossible here."

"You shall see!

Wyntoun advanced on him. Sir Patrick's scruples vanished before the rapier's point, and he drew.

Florimel screamed, and sank almost lifeless into a chair. Оп recovering her senses a minute afterwards, she was alone.

Alone but the horrible clink of swords, and the hurried scuffle of feet in the adjoining room, cut sharply on her sense, filling her soul with terror. The combat seemed to her to endure ages.

The noise ceased. She half rose from her chair-racked with

suspense-all her senses painfully acute. A groan is heard.

Heavens! if it should be her lover that has fallen!

She has not strength to move. Her tongue cleaves to the roof of her mouth she is paralysed by horror. Her lover rushes in with his sword drawn. Florimel sinks upon her knees, and, amidst a flood of tears, proffers an inaudible thanksgiving to the Providence that has spared him.

Charles is pale and haggard. He approaches her with a devilish sneer, curling his lip, and stands motionless beside her whilst she prays. When she had ceased, he says:

"He needs your prayers.

"Who?” she answered, almost bewildered.

Charles pointed with his sword to the room he had just left, and said, "He, who lies there; the victim of your falsehood!

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Oh, God! oh, God! is he dead? she sobbed.

Ay, dead! Weep for him; and curse me, who slew him! Charles, Charles-I cannot hear aright-you do not-no, no, no-you cannot suspect. But yet your words-that icy coldness, and that look of hate. Tell me what do you suspect?" "Nothing. I am convinced-'

"Convinced of what?"

He laughed sardonically.

"For Heaven's sake, Charles, do not wrong me with suspicions which are infamous-be plain with me.

"So young-so lovely-yet so false!" he exclaimed, as if speaking to himself.

"Do you

"Even so.

think Sir Patrick was-was my lover?"

Have you effrontery enough to deny it?" "Oh, great Heaven support me! Charles believes me false ! she shrieked, as she buried her face in her hands, and sobbed aloud. Wyntoun sheathed his sword, and laughed in derision.

A violent knocking at the door, with commands to open, startled them both.

"There is my father," whispered Florimel; "if he sees you here, he will kill us both."

"I care not. Life is worthless now."

Oh, Charles, pity-pity!"

"You had none on me! My heart was to be broken with

out.

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Open! open ! or I force the door," shouted Sir John Ruffhead, without.

"You will not brave his fury? said Florimel.

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Why not?" he replied.

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Open, I say! Another instant and I crush the door! "Will you let my name be bandied about in every slanderous mouth? Charles-take me from here; save me

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Open!" shouted Sir John.

"Save me! Open!"

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"It will soon be too late —"

Charles hesitated for another moment, and then bidding her follow, in a sombre tone he opened the window, took out a rope ladder with which he had provided himself, and began to fasten it.

The door was about to be burst open. The ladder was fixedFlorimel descended-Charles followed, and closed the window, just as the door gave way with a crash, and Sir John, followed by several servants bearing lights and drawn swords, rushed into the

room.

It was empty.

"Did not the noise proceed from this room?" asked Sir John. "It did."

"Search-quick. Where is my daughter? Search!" Presently two servants returned, bearing in Sir Patrick, wounded.

"One who was never pinked before," feebly answered Sir Patrick, covering his pain with his usual levity. "It's unpleasant, that fighting in the dark-you see nothing but the wounds you get-and-ugh!-beyond the insecurity of it-you are unable to sce a gentlemanly-smile-on the face of your adversary-which -seems to say-say "at your service-sir. Did you ever happen to fight in the dark-?"

"What do you here, sir?" said Sir John, enraged. "Bleed-I think," replied Sir Patrick.

"How came you here,-and for what?"

"I don't exactly remember-”

A servant came in, exclaiming "Sir John! Sir John! "Well, sir, what?

"Mistress Florimel has just run out of the garden with a gentleman, who knocked me down, and closed the gate on me.

"Ha! my daughter! my daughter! To horse! Pursue her ! Cut the villain to pieces!" Then turning to Sir Patrick, he said, "Sir, you shall answer this —'

Sir Patrick had fainted.

IV. FINESSE.

Master Hyacinth Dribble was a disgraced diplomatist, who, shut from the exciting intrigues of politics, consoled himself with those of private life; mixed up with everybody's concerns he generally contrived to make matters worse by the most resolute persistence in what he called finesse: which he said was the only lever of society; the only instrument worthy of an intellect

to use.

"By cultivating a habit of adroit finesse," he would say, "the mind becomes prepared for every emergency. I never write a letter, but I contrive to get it delivered by stratagem. I tell incredulous people the truth in order that they may not believe it; and credulous people falsehood, that they may. I pay my bills by stratagem; and borrow money on nice calculations of chances. Thus the mind becomes sharpened on the whetstone of ingenuity, breathing the very atmosphere of felicitous falsehood."

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Some one objecting that trivialities weaken the grasp of the mind, he replied: No, Sir; it is a maxim with me that attention should be kept alive on small matters; great ones force it. If the great alone are memorable, yet is it to trifles that they owe their birth. The glorious oak springs from the insignificant acorn; when it in its turn would fain produce, lo! an acorn is all the result. In life, sir, true philosophy directs itself to acorns." Hyacinth Dribble suppressed all enthusiasm, all sympathy, all feeling; that is the expression of them.

"Men," he would observe, "are pawns on the world's chessboard, and, to play the game and win, the diplomatist wants intellect, but not heart. I never shake hands with anybody; it would exhibit feeling; and feeling is ruinous. A politician who

exhibits sympathy is sure to be pestered or places and emoluments. If a man were to see me kiss my niece, he would thrust a petition into my hand, with so many rhetorical flourishes about my good nature and noble disposition, that I could not refuse him without appearing a hypocrite.'

Such was Hyacinth Dribble, uncle and almost a father to the Mistress Beatrice Sir Patrick O'Reilly loved. He had received from his friend Sir John Ruffhead a full account of the elopement of his daughter, with a request for advice and assistance. Delighted at being called upon for some exercise of his finesse,i was with extraordinary pleasure that he heard his niece, Beatrice, demand permission to offer her friend Florimel an asylum in his house for a few weeks; as she was secreting herself from the fury of her father till she could have an explanation with her lover. He accorded the permission at once; ordered her to write to Florimel without delay; and himself wrote to Sir John, telling him to come up to town, as he had the bird in his net.

V.-JEALOUSY.

The reader knows very well that Master Wyntoun was very absurd to suspect his Florimel ;-but Charles was not acquainted with all the circumstances; he could only reason from appearances: and they were decidedly against her. Like all minds in which a suspicion has been awakened, he coloured every circumstance with the yellow tint, and explaining them only according to one obstinate idea, amassed a tolerable amount of evidence.

In the first place he remembered to have heard it remarked how a gentleman whose name was believed to be Sir Patrick O'Reilly had followed Miss Ruffhead to church, in her promenades, and on other occasions, with signs of the most unmistakeable admiration.

In the second place: he remembered that Florimel's maid had been instructed to say that she could not admit him on the night in question, whereas she changed her resolution, and wrote to him herself to name the hour. What could this betoken, but that she had first appointed a meeting with Sir Patrick, and had therefore told her maid to put him (Charles) off till another time; and that having subsequently heard that Sir Patrick would not come that night, she had written to Charles accordingly.

These two facts (!) explained her astonishment and alarm on