and then they

damn us! And with such

innocent faces all the while!- Oh, Heaven! cried Jennings, bitterly, as he dashed his clenched fist upon the arm of his chair, "to think that Mary—my Mary, should be one of them should treat me so! To think that I

who would give my goods, my limbs, ay, my life, to make her happy, that I should become a laughing-stock and a by-word! Fool, fool! to have given way to her insinuating craftiness, to have believed her tears genuine, to have returned her smile! the truth shall be sought."

But

He arose; spurned the chair from him with his foot, and then paced with rapid stride the flag-stones that formed the flooring of his cottage.

"And who would have suspected him!" resumed Jennings, clenching his fist and grinding his teeth in the bitterness of misery;

him! my friend! that noble, excellent gentleman-so generous, open, affable too, all the while! So fond of my children—my children! Heaven preserve my mind - I shall become mad! mad!" and the farmer struck

his forehead violently, as if to recall wandering reason back to her seat.

"But," continued he, more calmly, "tomorrow I shall learn more. Would that this long dark night were past! No sick man ever thirsted for daylight as I do in my misery."

Jennings continued pacing the apartment. All in the cottage was still as death, excepting the sound of his heavy tread upon the flagstones, and the sharp tick of the little clock that hung against the wall. But without, the storm had again commenced. The windows resounded with the violent shower, and the wind roared round the cottage.

"I promised to be cautious," said Jennings, after listening awhile to the storm; "I promised not to be rash, to meet him as a friend, until all was established. Nay," murmured he, with a gesture of scorn, "I believe I promised to forego revenge; on that condition only would he open my eyes, so long blind. Not revenge!" continued Jennings, through his closed teeth, "I will have re

venge, if it bring death in this world and misery in the next!

When Mary rose in the morning, which she did at earliest day-break, she found herself deserted. She called Ralph by name, but no answer was returned to cheer her. She quitted the room to seek her husband: he was not to be seen. He had already, whilst it was yet dark, departed from the cottage.

How difficult, after her short, but refreshing sleep, did Mary Jennings find it to realise anew the dreadful scenes of the preceding night, to which slumber had, for the time, deadened her memory! But, when the crowd of recollections arrayed themselves vividly before her, she fancied that her sensibility must have been hitherto sadly blunted; since all her former grief seemed but pointless and light, compared with the misery that now came upon her. The household duties of the morning were undertaken with a sore and heavy heart. The morning meal was prepared; but it was removed untouched by her, for Ralph did not come to partake of it. The

day dragged itself on in gloominess, and it was late at night before the young farmer entered the cottage, from which, Mary knew not why, happiness and comfort had suddenly fled, as if for ever.

CHAPTER III.

"Discernment, eloquence, and grace,
Proclaim him born to sway."

Cowper.

IF the night was an eventful one at the cottage of the young farmer Jennings, the following day proved not less eventful, although with details, happily, rather different, at the Haye, the Retreat, and the Abbey.

When Henry Molyneux shook hands with Lord Dumbledore, at the entrance to the village, and took leave of his lordship, with recommendations to close the windows and keep a smart pace, the servant of Mr. Auget had already arrived at the village inn, to drive his master's guest to the Haye on his return from Windersleigh Abbey. But his master's guest did not come; and the often replenished cup, passing round the circle of grooms,