from the lady's recollection; for on the very first sight of Anna, she took to her amazingly, and determined to draw her out and to patronize her. "I believe I must decline the honour altogether." "Why, what is the matter? Perhaps you think I should be jealous. The last thing on earth I should think of; for, between ourselves, Sir Frederick is now so much engaged with public affairs, that he cares no more for beauty than I do for business." "Indeed!" said Anna, with well acted astonishment. With her warmest feelings excited, she requested an introduction to Anna's painting room; and looking with every appearance of delight upon the American scene, in which the most ordinary combination of prussian blue and raw sienna, gave a very imperfect idea of the distant heavens, she turned to the fair artist, and asked if she did not feeling-room (ask not why!), placed in the best happy in her sky. "Oh! extremely happy," was Anna's inward response; but she had not ime to make a more audible reply, for the lady ran on with the greatest volubility, not contenting herself with generalizing about tone and colouring, but venturing fearlessly upon the sympathies and antipathies of colour; handling, foreshortening, and bringing out; until Anna, bewildered with astonishment, began to wonder whether her illustrious visiter really knew a great deal, or nothing at all, about the matter. "Ha! you paint portraits, too!" exclaimed the lady, looking up to a likeness of William Clare, painted by his daughter. "Charming study!--What a dear old man!-quite patriarchal with his white locks! What would I not give for a portrait of Sir Frede- | rick!" she continued, in a more emphatic `and earnest tone; at the same time laying her white hand upon Anna's arm, who felt no inclination to withdraw her own, since it suffered nothing by the comparison. There was a looking-glass in that paint possible situation; and in this mirror, were at this time reflected the figures of the two ladies, in clear and striking contrast. The temptation was irresistible. One glance was all that Anna ventured; but that glance was sufficient to bring the glow of womanly triumph into her face, heightening the beauty which she would not at this moment have exchanged for a diadem; for Lady Langley was a little, hard-featured woman, with dull grey eyes, and a complexion with which all the colours of the rainbow, either singly or collectively, must eternally antipathise. The different reflections which the telltale mirror had excited, followed each other much more rapidly than they could possibly be described; and all the while the eloquent lady went on. "Did you ever see Sir Frederick? He is, I assure you, the best subject in the world for a picture. His hair is not so dark as yours. Why, bless me! (her eyes dilating to their utmost width) you are exactly like "Is it possible? could I prevail with a picture I found soon after we married, you ?" "I never paint gentlemen." "Ah! you mean young gentlemen; you would not mind an old married man, like Sir Frederick ?" "I never go from home to paint any one." "Indeed! that's very cruel; but perhaps, if Sir Frederick could be prevailed upon to come to you; and yet, I don't know, it is al most impossible now to catch him for two minutes." hid behind a trunk. I did not observe it while you looked so pale, but now it's very odd, I never saw a greater likeness in my life. I remember asking Sir Frederick about that picture, and he told me some story about its being painted by an Italian artist." "I should like to see it," said Anna, with well affected curiosity, as soon as she had recovered her self-possession. "You shall, if I can find it; but that is hardly probable, for I believe it was put away in one of those large haunted rooms, at the top of the house, where no one dares to go alone. But I'll go myself, and send it to you. It certainly has more colour than you have now, and looks-I will not say younger, but happier. However, you shall see it yourself:" and so saying, the busy lady wished them a good morning, and hurried home. "A good natured little woman," said Anna, as soon as she and Mary were left to themselves. "Sir Frederick had a fine taste for beauty." broken canvas, which never had been thought worthy of a frame. It was the same picture which had once been seized as a prize, and borne away in triumph, now rescued by the haud of idle curiosity, from the darkest lumber-room in the great mansion of him who had gazed upon it with eager admiration. Auna looked at her poor slighted portrait for a long time, and then exclaimed, “Lady Langley, you have richly repaid me! When I saw you in the mirror I felt a moment's triumph; now yours is the triumph, and mine the humiliation. You are not conscious of "Hush, hush, Anna; take care what you what you have done; but I thank you from "Yes, I assure you it was so; and now, Mary, what do you say, shall I dress myself 'all in a green mantel,' as ladies do in story books, "And hie me to Sir Frederick's Hall, And ask the menials great and small, "I think I can trust you." "Trust me, Mary! you may indeed trust me. For all the wealth this lady possesses, and her rank, if she could bestow it upon me, I would not place myself in such a situation. In the course of a few hours a parcel was brought to Anna, which she took into her painting room, and unfolded alone, with the door barred, her chair placed beside the fire, and her feet resting upon the fender. It was indeed her own picture: too like herself: for it was much the worse for the time which had passed since it was painted. "You have been ill treated too," said she, she looked at the dusty edges, and the my heart; and so saying, she laid the picture on the fire, and was quietly watching the smoke and flames curl over it in fantastic wreaths, when, suddenly recollecting that it might be enquired for, she folded it again in its cover, and never looked at it from that time; nor is there any reason to suppose that it was ever thought of again, within the proud walls of Langley Hall. CHAPTER XVI. WHEN the first difficulty of returning to her wonted pursuits was over, Anna applied herself to them with as much diligence as ever; and in this manner the summer passed away cheerfully and contentedly, with all the household of Andrew Miller; but most of all, with Mary, for she saw that her friend was returning to her former, nay, to her better self; and this had long been the first wish of her faithful heart. Lady Langley called often, and really took a good deal of pains to cultivate an intimate acquaintance with "the lovely artist," as she called her; but Anna had the loud warning of experience still sounding in her ear, and in this instance there was little temptation to risk a second trial of her strength; for, added to her great repugnance to go to the Hall, or to meet Sir Frederick in any way, she felt so little interest in his lady, as sometimes to meet her civilities with coldness, almost bordering on contempt. And thus, in proportion as Anna endeavoured to turn away her eyes from the dazzling superfluities of polished life, she acquired the power of perceiving and admiring much that had before escaped her notice, in her own humble walk; and with this power came also a degree of charity and general benevolence, which made it by no means a difficult task to listen, with respectful attention, to Andrew's long stories; and perhaps Mary never was happier than when she saw her husband and her friend talking and smiling together on terms of cordial familiarity. Music and painting were to Anna almost a necessary relaxation after the dust and the drudgery of the school-room; and often, when the clock had struck the welcome hour of twelve, she would take her guitar into the garden, and seat herself in an arbour which Andrew had made almost impervious to the weather, solely for her safety and accommodation. For years she had been in the habit of composing ballads of that humble description, which, to one chance of being thought rather pretty, risk twenty of being pronounced very poor; and now, unconscious of a listener, she amused herself with singing the following words :— MARY LEE; A BALLAD. "I'D go to the world's end for thee, Sweet Mary Lee! I'd pluck the flowers of Araby, And bring them home to thee! I never loved before, Sweet Mary Lee; And I'll never love another Though I break my heart for thee. I listen to the nightingale, Because she sings like thee; Oh! I'd go to the world's end for thee, Shew me the summer flower, And kept them while it pass'd: One who has never lent her ear, So shalt thou find a wiser Her love it was not given, Unsought by thee; She hears thy voice of kindness yet, Look on her cheek so deadly pale, Oh! it was soon to leave her She never told to any, What thy falsehood made her feel; She bore her griefs in secret, But her wounds they would not heal. And now a lonely maiden At evening you may see, Oh! pale is now her fair cheek, And hast thou quite forgotten All she was to thee, Hast thou not a kind thought For Poor Mary Lee? Thou'rt sitting in thy bright bower Weave them well, and gently, Lest they rend away; Oh! it is not flowers that can bind, Weave them well and fondly, And fair let them be; But will she ever love thee, Anna had finished the last verse, and was just humming it over in a kind of reverie, when she was startled by the crackling of the garden fence, and two beautiful setters rushed past the entrance of the arbour; nor was this all-the shadow of a tall figure fell upon the walk-it was Sir Frederick himself! He had been out shooting; and while about Andrew Miller's fields, the sound of Anna's guitar had attracted him towards the spot where she was singing. The words he had heard before, and the air he well knew, and had often praised, when sweet sounds were not to him of such rare occurrence. He was naturally fond of music; and as Lady Langley neither played mechanically, nor, had any music in her soul, he felt the greater pleasure in hearing unexpectedly this wellremembered ditty. Indeed, for a moment he forgot every thing else; and when he leapt over the fence, it was from a sudden impulse of feeling, without any definite design, and in the same manner he addressed himself to the songstress with the familiarity of former days, saying, it was a long time since he had heard his old favorite ballad. It is not to be supposed that Anna could, all at once, command herself sufficiently to reply; or that her countenance betrayed no outward sign of inward emotion; for there did at first rush into her cheeks such deep and burning crimson, as gave to her dark eyes the sparkling brilliancy of their former beauty; but she soon recovered herself, and rising up with respectful dignity, asked after the health of Lady Langley. Sir Frederick said no more about the ballad; it was impossible to go on; both felt there was no common ground on which they could meet; every thing was too distant or too near. freshment, assured him that Mr. and Mrs. Miller were both at home, and would be most happy to offer him any thing their house afforded. But Sir Frederick declined taking advantage of their kindness, and gravely wishing her a good morning, whistled up his dogs, and walked away. Anna rushed into the house, and finding Mary alone, threw her arms around her neek, and playfully kissing her forehead, "There," said she, "I have borne it well! For once in your life, Mary, give me one word of unqualified praise, for I have been walking in the garden with Sir Frederick Langley, and never did the sainted mother of a convent carry herself more distant, or more erect." "Then I will say you are a good girl," replied her friend; "or rather, a wise and prudent woman." "So wise and prudent Mary, that if you were not married, we would establish a community of holy sisters, and I would be the lady abbess." The rigid moralist may probably be astonished that any credit should be due to Anna, for having resisted the temptation of flirting with a married man; but let us pause a moment, to consider what flirtation is. Flirtation may be the idle frolic of an innocent girl; but it too frequently is a game deeply played by a designing and self-in Amongst the few advantages that women possess over the nobler sex, is an indescribable sort of tact, by which, in difficult circum-terested woman. It may be carried on at stances, they can apply themselves with every appearance of indifference, to common pursuits, or common topics of conversation; and thus by an external show of cheerfulness, and sometimes levity of demeanour, they of ten veil from the eye of the superficial observer, hidden fountains of deep and impassioned feeling. all ages, and by all classes of society, in all scenes, and circumstances of life: in the court, and the cottage; the crowded theatre, and the house of prayer: by the miss, and the matron; the flaunting belle, and the fanatical devotee, who casts up her clear eyes with the solemn asseveration that sne knows no sin. Deformity does not preclude the posIn this way Anna Clare was able to talk sibility of its existence, nor beauty divest i of to her companion as they walked towards the its hideous reality. Flirtation may raise or house, of the beauty of his dogs, and the depress the snowy eye-lid, and distort the scarcity of game, of the weather, the harvest, wrinkled cheek with smiles; add sweetness and as many other things as she could pos- to the melody of song, and soften the harsh sibly think of, before they reached the door. tones of discord; flutter in the ball-room in Here she stopped; and begging Sir Freder- its own unblushing character, and steal unick would walk in, and partake of some re-der the mask of friendship upon the private would have chosen this walk in preference to the other; first stooping down to gather a little sprig of forget-me-not, and placing it near her heart. The conversation might then have been led by delicate and ingenious management to former scenes, convey peace of domestic life, like the serpent when it coils its vile and venomous folds within a bower of roses. And for what great purpose does flirtation thus work its way as a pest upon society? Its sole object is to appropriate to itself, that which it has no power of returning; too frequently robbing the faith-ing the most touching allusions to sentiments ful and devoted heart of the rich treasure of its best affections, and offering in repayment the distorted animation of a jaded countenance, the blushes of mimic modesty, the forced flashes of a faded eye, and the hollow smiles that simper on a weary lip. Had Anna Clare been possessed with the demon of flirtation, she would have raised her eyes to those of Sir Frederick, with exactly the expression which she knew (and what woman with fine eyes does not know?) would have gone nearest to the source of long buried feeling. She would have sung that silly ballad again, perhaps with trembling and hesitation, but still she would have sung it, or have tried to sing it; and then towards the close of the performance, her eyes would have been cast down, and a tear might have stolen from beneath their long dark lashes, and her voice grown gradually more plaintive, until at last it died away in a kind of distant melody, leaving her quandam lover and herself in the most exquisite reverie imaginable; from which she would most probably, at last have started with a pretended effort at self-mastery; and then, as she rose to leave the arbour, and while Sir Frederick stooped for her guitar, she would have pointed to the blue ribbon, by which it was wont to be supported on her fair shoulder, saying, it was the same which he gave her when in Scotland, and that she cherished such memorials of past pleasure, as all that her existence had now to make it worth enduring: and then tears again, but not too many, lest her countenance should be disfigured. By this time they would have had the choice of two paths; the one leading directly to the house, and the other round by a melancholy walk, shaded with trees, and dark with evergreens. Without any appearance of design, she and feelings, cherished in vain, and mourned over in secret bitterness of soul. And thus by the time they had reached the door of Andrew Miller, they might both have been at so high a pitch of excitement, that Anna might have forgotten her friend, her poverty, and her pupils, and Sir Frederick might have paid the same compliment to his lady. And after all this, Anna might have laid her hand upon her heart, as thousands have done on similar occasions, and said that she meant no harm. She might, it is true, have done nothing, and said nothing, which, singly examined and considered, bore the stamp of evil; but what a farce, what a folly, is this self-exculpation; for by these secret movements from the side of virtue, of which no earthly judge can convict us, we place ourselves immediately on the side of vice; and to the early practice of this system of maneuvering, though apparently innocent, and too often pleasing in itself, how many have to look back with sorrow and regret from the gloomy close of a despised and friendless old age; it may be, from the miserable abode of folly, and wretchedness, and crime. The weight of culpability rests not upon any individual circumstance; it is the manner, it is the motive, it is the feeling by which every act and word is accompanied which constitutes the sin: and a deep and deadly sin it will be to many in the great day of account, when their secret thoughts are laid open. Oh! that women would be faithful to themselves! It makes the heart bleed to think that these high-souled beings, who stand forth in the hour of severe and dreadful trial, armed with a magnanimity that knows no fear; with enthusiasm that has no sordid alloy; with patience that would support a martyr; with generosity that a |