and anger, and unhappiness which the
knowledge of such a dread discovery would
inevitably produce, both in her father's mind and
in those of George's own parents. They were
all of the most strictly orthodox and
unswerving faith in the historic truth of their
religion, and in the sacred authority of the
tenets of their own church.

After George's return to London, the
serious and even sad air which nothing could
prevent falling over the features of Ellen,
soon excited the anxiety of both her father and
of the Widdringtons; to whom the same
perceptions and feelings became as quickly and
invariably common as if communicated by a
mesmeric sympathy. Enquiries, wonders, and
letters followed with so much activity, that
the fatal secret could not long remain one.
The old people on both sides were struck
dumb with dismay. Old Mr. Mowbray sent
for George down, and every means which
parental affection and authority could desire
to drive this heresy from his mind were
exerted, but in vain. All that George pleaded
for was that they should give him time to
reconsider his opinions, and to satisfy himself
further on what concerned himself especially.
But this was what Mr. Mowbray could form
no conception of. He was so hereditarily
rooted on his own religious faith, that he
could not conceive of any one entertaining a
doubt on any part of it, without a feeling of
indignation and horror. He, therefore,
reminded George of all he had done, and all he
proposed to do, and expressed his deep
chagrin to find that it had been all wasted on
a young man who had displayed such weakness.
He concluded by declaring that until
George abandoned his absurd and wicked
fancies, he should withhold his friendship and
assistance.

George Widdrington issued from the old
familiar doors of the Grange in a state of
indescribable misery. Ruin or a contemptible
hypocrisy were before him. We
shall not attempt to describe the horrors
of the night which succeeded this cruel interview.
When he entered his own home, his
parents and brother sat in a dejected silence.
No word was said, and he went up to his
room, and flung himself in a stupor of grief on
his bed. But with the rising sun he stood
on the door-stone of his native cottage, with
a small valise in his hand, and with the air of
a traveller. It was a splendid morning. The
dew lay thick on the grass, glittering in the
sun, like myriads of diamonds, but everything
except the birds, was profoundly still. The
landscape itself, and the dwellings of men in
it, yet seemed to sleep. The house slept, as
it were, with all its inhabitants, for it was an
hour when even the early dwellers in the
country were not yet astir.

As the young man stood there for a
moment, years of bright summers passed over
his heart. All that was happy, and beautiful,
and tender, came up as from a sacred fountain
in his soul. The spirit of the past, with
all its heavenly sweetness and affection, well
nigh conquered him. He cast one quick look
into the future, where all his household gods
lay shattered around him, and the dreary
solitude of it appalled him. He paused—
almost yielded; but some new idea shot
across him, and he bounded down the slope
and disappeared, pursued by the trenchant
thought that perhaps he should never see the
beloved ones he thus left, any more.

We shall not dwell on the gloomy
period of affliction to all parties which
followed. George reflected in consternation
and deepest wretchedness in his chambers,
on his position and prospects. His brilliant
hopes were suddenly destroyed. To pursue
his legal career was impossible. True, he
could procure an engagement in a lawyer's
office, but his proud spirit revolted at the
retrograde movement; and, in the depth of
his dejection, a new vision suddenly presented
itself. The wonderful tidings of the
gold fields of Australia had just burst on the
public. He would go!

He acted instantly on the impulse. There
was a pleasure in retiring for a while from
the domestic storm, in action and change of
scene. He sold his books and his few effects,
and found himself master of twenty pounds.
His finances dictated his position, and though
inwardly shrinking from it, he dared it. He
took an intermediate passage, hoping that
he should meet at the distant port no one
who knew him. Once more he wrote letters
to his parents and to Ellen, overflowing with
all the tenderness that he felt, protesting the
pain which he felt, in the pain which he knew
that he must have given. Before he set sail,
he received answers equally full of sorrow
and affection. Ellen, in the tone of her old
attachment, approved of his resolution to
make this voyage, and most tenderly united
in his hope that its result might be everyway
auspicious. There was balm in this, though
he knew the tendency of the hope expressed.

The ship was on its way, and George
Widdrington found himself in a new world,
and among strange associates. There were
about two hundred passengers in the second
class, and when he went below to his berth,
he stood confounded at the scene before him.
However he might have resolved to suppress
his feelings, he could not see his quarters for
the next three or four months without a
feeling of disgust and repulsion.

In a long apartment, divided off into small
stalls, as it were in a market—stalls of some
seven feet long by three or four feet wide,
and in which there was just room for a half-
yard wide mattress—he made one of a rude
crowd with whom he had no sympathy, nor
for the language and spirit of many of them,
even toleration. The very lowest purlieus
of Whitechapel and Ratcliffe Highway
seemed to have furnished a liberal quota of
the thing; and the squalling of children and