it drove away over the bridge, and then I went
into the drawing-room, got my work-basket, and
established myself on the lawn, with a sense of
intense relief at being free of him. His manner
during this last visit had got insensibly to be
more earnest than it used to be; not content
with the many hours which we naturally passed
in each other's company, he would make
occasions for being alone with me, which used to
annoy me; he would go out fishing with
William, and then forget some essential bit of
tackle, and come back again to the house to
fetch it; or agree to meet him at some particular
spot, see him well started, and then pretend
a headache to stay at home with me; and what
enraged me more than all the rest was, that
once or twice, in a sort of indirect covert way,
he hinted that William's want of perception
proceeded from his not having a proper
appreciation of me, and from the indifference and
apathy of age. He could not see that it was
the guilelessness of the creature, who thought
no evil, because he was incapable of it himself.
To all of this I could oppose nothing, because
he managed so cleverly, that I could not come
to an explanation with him without seeming to
assume that he had feelings for me to which he
had taken care to give no open expression. It
was a state of things that had worried me, and
made his visit odious to me, and I felt thoroughly
glad that he was gone. I put my hand into my
basket, drew out my work, when lo! between
the folds of it, I found a letter lying, neither
more nor less than the most passionate of
farewells from our departed guest. I did not know
what to do; I did not like to conceal it from
William, and still, I could not bear to tell him
of it; it made me entirely unhappy and ill at
ease: however, the man was going abroad
almost immediately, we should not meet again
for ages, and I made up my mind not to mention
it. Of course I did not dream of answering
him, and as he now took to writing invariably
to William, instead of to me, as he had used
occasionally to do, I thought my silence had
been understood, and that his addressing me no
more was a sign of grace.

We were expecting a large shooting party on
the first of September; and on the twenty-eighth
of August William was obliged to run up to
London for a few hours upon business. When
he came back, I teased him as usual for news,
and asked him if he had seen any of our friends
in town. I was perfectly aghast when he told
me that the very first person he had met in St.
James's-street was the hero of my story, whom
I had already fancied well upon his travels;
and still more so, when William added, "He
seems altogether undecided about going abroad,
so I told him he had better come down here for
the first."

I didn't close my eyes all night, and got up
the next morning in twenty different minds as
to what it would be best for me to do. I could
not bear to have him here again with that
idiotic love-letter fresh in both our memories,
and yet I hated to tell William what, in the
singleness of his heart, it was so far from him to
suspect, and so I went thinking and thinking
the matter over, while I made my rounds in the
rooms prepared for our guests, to see that all
was comfortable, and to leave in their portfolios
and envelope-cases the necessary materials for
writing. At last I came to the little room
which he had always occupied, and the moment
I got into it, I felt so suddenly suffocated by
the idea of seeing him again with that odious
common secret between us, that I made up my
mind that as soon as I had deposited my little
store of paper in his portfolio, I would run and
find William at once, and not have anything
hidden from him a single moment longer. I
hastily seized the blotting-book— it accidentally
fell from my hand, and out of it dropped upon
the floor an open sheet of note paper, which
evidently had been forgotten in it. It was
addressed to a French lady, whose name was
Irma, and began with, "Chère vie de ma vie"—
and this, mind you, was only letter A of the
performance— it went quite as far as Z, and
further too, before it had done! It was in his
handwriting, signed with his Christian name
(only), and announced his arrival in town for
the very next day; so that he must have
written it much about the same time that he
was inditing that exquisite effusion, the remembrance
of which had just given me such a very
uncomfortable night's unrest. My Gordian-knot
was cut! I had a hearty laugh all by myself,
and then I enclosed him his two notes, merely
writing, "With Mrs. Brande's best compliments"
in the envelope; and on the thirty-first,
just as I was going in to breakfast, I met dear
old William with a letter in his hand, looking
the very picture of disappointment: his friend
had finally made up his mind, and had started
for Paris the night before.

This, dear Edward, has been the only approach
to a romance in the whole of my life, and the
only concealment I ever had from my husband.
I don't think I am made for great sensations;
it may be a proof of inferior organisation— I
sometimes think it is— meanwhile, in all humility
I thank God for it; for it is perhaps in
virtue of this very defect, that I am quite the
happiest woman of my acquaintance.

Your affectionate Cousin,

HARTY BRANDE.

CHAPTER II.

MRS. WILLIAM BRANDE was a real lover of
music; and she liked best the very best, which
is a rare quality in those who pretend the
most to be devoted to art. She lived almost
entirely in the country, but contrived every
now and then to take a run to London, when
some particularly tempting advertisement lured
her up to Exeter or St. James's Hall. Her
husband did not care to lose a day's hunting by
accompanying her on these innocent little
gaieties of hers: but she was never at a loss
for a playfellow. She was sweet-tempered,
natural, pleasant, and kindly, and at seven