"Hold, Sir Charles, in mercy! The subject is far too painful to my feelings to be unnecessarily dwelt upon. But the urgency and pertinacity of your suit to my daughter would almost lead me to imagine that the only alternative to the overwhelming ruin which the immediate payment of these sums of money advanced by you would assuredly occasion consists in the assurance from my lips that your suit to my younger daughter will meet with a favourable reception. Do you wish me to understand as much?"

The keen eye of the baronet was intently fixed on the speaker's face, reading every line, weighing every word: he opened his lips to reply, hesitated a moment, looked down, contracting his swarthy brows the while, as though in deep thought; then rising, and assuming a grave and decided look, he bowed in silence.

Lady de Lacy rose likewise-her lips compressed-the flush of indignation on her cheek, the flash of offended pride in her dark eye—and rang the bell.

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May I be permitted to wait on your ladyship on the morning of Monday next?" demanded Sir Charles, in a soft, insinuating tone. "And if you permit me, I will bring my lawyer, to satisfy your Mr. Walker on any little point that may be called in question."

"The time is short; but so be it, Sir Charles Burrel!" returned her ladyship; and Sir Charles bowed very low, and left the room.

CHAP. III.

But let us follow the sisters. How like creatures of the young dreaming imagination they glide down the grassy avenue of the old garden, the stately form, raven hair, and proud carriage of the elder, so beautifully contrasted with the exquisitely graceful figure, rich brown hair, hazel eyes, and delicately chiselled features of Isabel! They make a very halo of light and beauty around them; and Isabel, her arm passed round her sister's waist, her face upturned; the chastely delicate brow; the impassioned eye, seeking consolation, pity, in the dark flashing one of her sister!

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Oh, Marian!" she exclaimed. "Is it indeed the reality, or some frightful dream? Am I indeed called upon to make this dreadful sacrifice? Is there no help? Marian, dear Marian, tell me-advise me!" and she laid her young head on Marian's bosom, and wept bitterly.

Heaven aid me under this dreadful trial; for I know not where to turn! I cannot-cannot do it! It is too fearful! Ah, Marian, I have at times had such bright, such lovely dreams of the future! If I have ever thought on love, it was as of something so high, so pure-and the object of that love -"

"A hero, torn from the romance of your fairy brain, my poor little sis; and you would have fed him on flowers and bright dew-drops-have led him by purling brooks, through shady groves, and have taught him the songs of the birdsnot so dearest? But in the winter time, what then, my poor Isabel?"

“Ah! Marian, you are laughing at me. But it matters not; my fairy dreams are indeed vanished, and for ever-vanished before the dawn of the cold reality of life!"

"Not so, my Isabel; we will not quite despair yet. It may please God yet to dispel the dark clouds that obscure our future; and forget not, dear, that He can do it. And of this also be assured, that I will not stand tamely by, and see you offered up a sacrifice to the cold-blooded selfishness of that man! Our mother must not, cannot exact it. Better give up all-house, home, lands, and exclaim with the heroic Francis, All is lost but honour!' than receive happiness at so costly a price-the annihilation of it in your young and innocent heart."

"And yet you would make the sacrifice, Marian! And I-yes, I must indeed pray to God for strength to be enabled to make it too."

Heavily, and in silence, passed the once pleasant meal, in the dining-room of the Old Manor House. In the evening the ladies were again assembled in the drawing-room. Lady de Lacy busied herself in the perusal of various papers, bearing reference to the dark ruin, that hung like a thunder-cloud above their devoted heads. Marian and Isabel were seated in the cushioned recess of one of the old gothic casements, which overlooked the garden. And what a glorious scene was revealed through it to the delighted eye of the gazer! After resting on the old garden-with its stately walks, terraces, and parterres of gorgeous flowers-it wandered beyond it, over glowing fields, hanging woods, smiling cottages, and verdant meads, through which last a little sparkling rivulet wound its sinuous course. It was the autumn-not as yet yellow, and wrinkled with age,-not seared, and nipped by rain or frost, but mellow, glorious autumn! bright in ripe corn-fields, rich in blushing fruits. The song of the merry reapers, blended with the creak of the loaded wain, came wafted from the sunny distance pleasantly on the ear. The earth seemed bathed in gladness, but it imparted none to the mournful hearts of the sisters. In them joy was indeed faded to the yellow leaf. How sadly their young eyes wandered over each dear and much-loved spot.

A lady had entered, and was seated by their mother's side, in, apparently, earnest conversation. Miss Cumberford was one of those delightful, chirping, bird-like old maids, who would have been rather spoiled, perhaps, than

otherwise, by marriage; and who escape its ties as if on purpose to hold up a bright example to the world in general, and to old bachelors and maids in particular, how much of pure, quiet happiness, and unselfish usefulness, may exist in a state of what is called single blessedness: her life was an ever-returning summer day of unceasing sunny kindness and good humour; and if now and then a little tiny leaven of evil did escape her lips in the shape of scandal, it was but the little ragged, vagabond cloudlet, that will scamper across the heaven of the sweetest day. Much, and evidently interesting communication flowed from her lips, on the attentive ear of her ladyship. Suddenly turning round, she addressed the sisters in a more cheerful, chirping tone. "Fine news for you, young ladies! for us all, indeed. The heir's arrived; the heir to the Old Priory, you know! I saw a carriage and four turn Birchwood Corner at full speed, and so I cut across Farmer Mason's corn-field, where they are all as busy as the bees, thinking to intercept it at Burton Cliff; but it was too quick for me, so I had my scramble for nothing-not quite for nothing though, for I filled my basket with hazel-nuts, for poor old Matty's son, who, like what-do-ye-call-him's starling, can't get out.' Do you know, I thought it was the heir! I sent Janet to make inquiries the instant I arrived home; and sure enough my surmise was right-the carriage entered the Priory gates."

This news seemed to fall unheeded on the ears of Isabel; but Marian's face brightened into a smile as she replied, "Well, my dear Madam, and what is he like? Is he young or old? single or married? handsome or ugly?"

"Ha! that's just what I want to find out myself, my dear Miss Marian. I dare say, though, I shall find it out before night; though the Old Priory is as difficult of access as an enchanted castle. There are but two or three superannuated old servants, and they bar and bolt with as much caution and care as if they expected a siege. There is one comfort, however we are sure of seeing him at church tomorrow-unless, indeed, he turn out a rigid Catholic, like old St. Barbe, and that would be a sad thing. I wonder which of the cld gentleman's numerous nephews it can be! Janet says, that Jenkins, the postman, told her that he is the son of a man of business; if so, you know, he must be vulgar-at least, not very genteel. Sad reversion of the order of things! The romantic Priory, and the good old name of St. Barbe, to go to a man of business. Jenkins says, too, that his name-his former name, you know-was Tomkins, or some horrid name like that. One cannot expect any great things from a name of that sort, you know. Does your ladyship attend church to-morrow?"

"Most assuredly, my dear Miss Cumberford. Not, indeed, to feast my eyes on your interesting heir, but to kneel in humble and fervent prayer to God; few have more need of divine consolation and assistance than ourselves, at this unfortunate crisis !"

When Miss Cumberford rose to depart, her ladyship said, "Remember Monday morning, my dear Miss Cumberford!"

"Be sure that I shall be with you most punctually, dear Lady de Lacy. All your friends ought indeed to rally firmly round at this distressing period. Ah me! we sadly want the days of chivalry back again-don't we, my dear Miss Isabel-the bright sword, and the strong arm to wield it. The lawyer is the only redresser of grievances now-a-days, the more's the pity. This horrid Sir Charles, what are we to do with him? We want a warlike Douglas to bell the cat, don't we, Miss Marian?"

CHAP. IV.

It was a pleasant thing to stand in that old church-yard on a fine Sunday morning; when the sunbeam and the breeze played over that old time-worn, ivy-clad house of God; when the solitary, yet sweet-toned bell, spread its mournful, swelling note, from out its verdant, venerable canopy, calling the humble to approach and pray. How clean, neat, and respectable, the villagers entered the church-yard, through the old gate, breaking off into little knots and groups around the rudely carved porch, awaiting, as was their wont, the arrival of two respected old families, under whose mild reign they had lived from youth upwards, with a feeling of cheerful and humble dependence.

On this morning there were two novel and opposing causes, which produced the more than usual muster and proportionate excitement. The one, that very natural curiosity, to gaze on the new comer, as the heir of Darnwood Priory was called; the other a heartfelt and regretful sorrow for the misfortunes which had fallen on the deeply respected family of De Lacy, which were no secret to the humble villagers. This feeling they felt anxious to display, by a reverence more marked and expressive than usual.

A shady walk led from the Manor House, through the park, to the gate of the churchyard; and well deserving of respect were theythat stately, high-bred mother-those lovely, aristocratic daughters! There beat not an humble bosom there that did not intuitively feel and respect the innate, high-born pride and selfrespect, which kept these ladies from bending meanly to the blast that would perhaps have crushed their own low-born feelings to the dust. Silent, but deeply respectful and sorrowful, was the obeisance that greeted the ladies as they passed through the church-yard to the house of prayer. Then, finding that the arrival of the heir of the St. Barbes was a thing of doubt, and fearing that the old bell would cease tolling, each doffed his Sunday hat, and stroking down the rebellious hair on the forehead, they entered in goodly order the house of God.

The service commenced; but so natural and infectious is the feeling of curiosity in a retired country village, that each and every time the

church-door was pushed open to admit some belated straggler, the eyes of nearly the whole congregation were directed there, as with one consent, in the forlorn hope of meeting the face and form of the much desired object of their curiosity. Many disappointments of course ensued, and hope began to fade into despair, when the worthy beadle, who had gone out with the ostensible purpose of bringing a refractory little boy to his senses, suddenly returned with hasty step, and face flushed with importance, and extending wide the church-door, ushered in a strange gentleman.

He was a tall well-made man, arrayed in very fashionable attire; a splendid gold chain enriched his satin waistcoat; a black ebony cane, with a richly embossed silver head, graced his hand. His face, though certainly not to be classed among the handsome, was yet far from ugly; and his age might have been guessed as at forty. On entering the church, he very coolly stopped, and raising his eye-glass, took a very deliberate view of the sacred edifice and of the worthy people congregated therein; then, with an easy nonchalance, not to be excelled, he followed the beadle up the aisle, and took his place in the long forsaken pew of the St. Barbes. When there, as if fully aware that curiosity was on tiptoe, and himself the very focus of its ardent eyes, he drew himself up to his full height, hemmed very loud, drew out a splendid pocket-handkerchief, and blew his nose with most imposing dignity; and after honouring the opposite pew, which held the De Lacy family, with a gaze of evident curiosity, not unmixed with admiration, he sat down. The climax was over, and a long suppressed breath was heard to evaporate from every pew: it is indeed said that the very clergyman himself, the worthy Dr. Plowdergast, made a dead stop on the entrance of the stranger; and that he did not altogether recover his presence of mind and self-possession till the bushy head of the heir of the St. Barbes had disappeared behind the green curtain of

his pew.

When the service was over, and the congregation dispersing, many and very conflicting opinions were tendered respecting the long expected stranger. Some thought that he did not quite come up to the idea previously formed of what he ought to be; whilst others, on the contrary, pronounced him a very fine gentleman indeed.

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'Well, young ladies!" exclaimed the worthy Miss Cumberford, on joining the De Lacy family in the park; "what do you think of the heir? Better than I expected, decidedly; but yet, not quite the thing. Rather too old. Not vulgar, though, by any means; and yet, not over handsome. He does not look much like a man of business; more of the military man about him, to my mind. He is no Catholic, however; that is one comfort-at least, I suppose so; or he would not have been at church, you know."

It is not necessary to enter into a detail of the various schemes and arrangements formed by Lady de Lacy and her lawyer, assisted by her

numerous and attached friends, to meet the coming storm, which seemed charged with inevitable destruction. Plan after plan was started, canvassed, and laid aside as impracticable: it was indeed impossible for them to shut their eyes on the stern truth, that they were under the lion's paw; that the large sums of money advanced by Sir Charles Burrel must be met, or the estate given up; and in that case, that Lady de Lacy and her two daughters would be under the painful necessity of retiring from the beautiful home of their ancestors to some small cottage, there to practise economy on the small pittance that might be saved from the wreck of their fine property. There seemed to be but one alternative, but one means of averting the evil; namely, the acceptance of Sir Charles Burrel's hand by Isabel de Lacy. This was strongly urged by many of the friends of the family, who although they could not but entertain some disgust at the indelicacy and precipitancy of Sir Charles's whole behaviour throughout the affair-which, however, they attributed in great measure to the violence of his love-yet could not think it constituted a sufficient reason for her declining it. There were times indeed when even Lady de Lacy herself favoured this cutting, as it were, of the Gordian knot; but at the same time, she was far too generous and high-minded to escape from the difficulties that beset her, at the price of her child's happiness.

The greatest obstacle to this plan, however, arose in the breast of the young lady herself, who, nurtured in romance and high-wrought sensibility, recoiled in unconquerable aversion from a union with a man unsuited to her in years, and whose previous habits and whole demeanor were in so little harmony with her own. In this feeling she was supported and borne out by her elder sister, who, far less romantic, and infinitely more a woman of the world, would not herself have hesitated, perhaps, in accepting the proffered hand of the baronet; but she could not witness the silent agony, the heart-sickness, of that young and gentle creature, so exquisitely beautiful-revelling so buoyant in her bright, fairy dreams of the future

without feelings of the liveliest and most heartfelt pity. The gentle nature of Isabel seemed ever abashed before the stern, proud character of her mother; but perhaps, from that very reason, it clung more devotedly, more imploringly, to the more kindred, and infinitely softer one of her sister,

And how that sister loved her! Isabel was to her the very sweetest, loveliest of God's creatures; totally unfitted by her chaste simplicity and extreme sensibility for the rude contact of the every-day world, Marian well knew that her gentle nature would sink, crushed, annihilated-like a delicate flower-in the rough possession of a worldling, and he a sensualist and gambler.

Late on the Sunday evening, after the departure of the many friends who had crowded the drawing-room, Isabel, who had sat a pale

FESTUS.

There is a strange fascination in the name of Rome; in the fables of its early history; in its rigid virtues; in its first rude senators, "with half the wolf's blood curdling in their veins;" in the wealth and grandeur of the empire; in the fact that the great Apostle of the Gentiles more than once owed his life or his liberty to his Roman citizenship; in the strange influence exerted by the Papal government over Europe in the middle ages; in the treasures of art, of which she is now little more than the lovely sepulchre. In all these things there is a strange fascination.

Who does not remember the day when the new History, with its shining cover, was put into his hands, and he was bidden to take his place in the "Roman History class"? It was the only branch of study on which we thought Goldsmith agreeable for writing, and held Pinnock odious for "abridging."

There is something akin to the ingenuousness of youth in the noble simplicity of the early days of the Republic; the wildness of some of the stories is not staggering to the credulity of fanciful young people; and in spite of Niebuhr and Dr. Arnold, we cling to the belief of the pleasing but improbable tales that delighted our early days.

Our admiration of Rome gave rise, in our school days, to a strange mental contest as to how we could rejoice in the victory of the Empire over Britain, and yet preserve our independence and patriotism as descendants of the conquered people. It was a pleasing fact that Rome invented for us the allegorical and complimentary representation of Britannia which is still to be found on our pennies.

Miss Sedgwick says, "When you measure the extent of private possessions in old Rome, the gardens, circuses, and all the appliances of individual luxury within the walls of the city, you wonder where the million were lodged." Truly, they were herded together as—

"Woollen vassals, things created To buy and sell with groats, to show base hearts In congregations."

Luxurious as the rich undoubtedly were in the later ages even of the Republic, the poor led

a life of discomfort and discontent. Deprived, by the cunning division into centuries, of their political influence, ground down by the absurd and unjust laws respecting debts, they not only had grievances, but those grievances were, comparatively, without a chance of redress. The middle class was occupied meantime in obsequiously courting the favour of the great, at whose houses they attended morning after morning, to compliment their patron, hear the news, discuss politics, and to follow him to the senate, or wherever else he chose. So anxious were the clients to please their patrons, that Juvenal describes them as getting up at starlight, and not giving themselves time to tie their garters!* In return, the great opened to the use of the people the galleries or porticoes, which formed a principal feature in the Roman mansions; some of these were entirely walled from the weather, and lighted by windows of tale: the nobles went to an extravagant degree of expenditure in building such galleries or baths, to which libraries were or were not attached, according to the means and taste of the builder; and all this to amuse and keep quiet a people who might be troublesome if unemployed, by inquiring too closely into the privileges they had ceased to possess!

Dryden's translation of Juvenal gives the following vivid description of the inconveniences of life in Rome :

"Codrus had but one bed, so short to boot,

That his short wife's short legs hung dangling out;
His cupboard's head six earthen pitchers graced,
Beneath them was his trusty tankard placed.
And to support this noble plate, there lay
A bended chiron cast from honest clay;
His few Greek books a rotten chest contained,
Whose covers much of mouldiness complained;
Where mice and rats devoured poetic bread,
And with heroic verse luxuriously were fed.
'Tis true poor Codrus nothing had to boast,
And yet poor Codrus all that nothing lost;
Begged naked through the streets of wealthy Rome,
And found not one to feed or take him home.
But if the palace of Arturius burn,

* Lord Woodhouselee, "Universal History;" sub voce, Rome.