"And for that very reason, my child, I have wished you to find some friend, whose affection and personal character might sometimes give you more cheerful matters of meditation, and a happy change of scene. You are only too prone to think and feel, and might become morbidly sensitive before either of us had imagined the danger. I know, too, that there is an age when the young require more than their natural relatives whom to respect and love; they fancy it no credit to be loved merely in their domestic circle; they need an interchange of sentiment and pursuit, and all their innocent recreations and graver duties acquire double zest from being shared by another. Sympathy is the magic charm of life; and a friend will both give it and feel it, and never shrink from speaking truth, however painful, kindly indeed, but faithfully, and will infuse and receive strength by the mutual confidence of high and religious principle. Trust me, there are such friends, my Florence, friends that will cling to each other through weal and through woe, who will never permit coldness or distrust to creep in, and dull their truth; aye, and who will stand by, protecting and comforting, should sorrow or even sin be the lot of the one, and that of the other be happiness complete."

Mrs. Leslie ceased, her voice becoming almost inaudible from emotion or exhaustion. Florence imagined the latter cause, for there was a deep flush on her mother's usually pallid cheek which alarmed and pained her, and throwing her arms round her neck she begged her not to talk too much, dearly as she loved to hear her, adding somewhat mourn fully, "You have indeed pictured true friendship, mother, and that which I yearn for; Lady Ida may be all this to me, but I am too lowly in station and in merit to be such to her; though I do feel I could go to the world's end to make her happier than she is. Oh, mother, if you did but know her as I do."

"Without that pleasure, my dear child, I have seen enough of her to know that, were her rank less high, I could not wish a dearer, truer friend for Florence. A character like yours, almost too clinging, too affectionate, needs the support of firmness and self-control, qualities I have never seen possessed in a more powerful degree than by Lady Ida. But remember, my Florence, it is not only the disparity of rank which must eventually separate you. Lady Ida is about to leave England to reside in Italy for an indefinite time."

"And with my whole heart I wish she could set off directly, lonely as I should feel," exclaimed Florence eagerly.

"No doubt you do; for there never was any selfishness in true affection, be it friendship or love. Yet still I wish there had been no occasion for this self-renunciation, and that your first friendship had not been with one from whom you will so soon be called upon to part."

"But I would not lose the pleasure of the present to escape the pain of the future. You know, dear mother, I always say I feel that pleasure and pain are twins; I never feel one without the other, and I should be a poor miserable being, without a particle of spirit or animation, if I were to give up

the joy of the one feeling for fear of the suffering of the other."

There was an indefinable expression of sadness on the countenance of Mrs. Leslie as her mild eye rested on the beaming features of her child. It was an expression which others might often have remarked, but when observed by Florence she believed it natural to those beloved features, marking perhaps greater suffering of body than usual, and in consequence calling forth increased tenderness on her part.

"It is too late to wish the present pleasure recalled, my child; continue to love Lady Ida, only remember there must be a cloud in your horizon of joy, that this intimacy cannot last, even if she return to England. Your respective stations cannot permit the confidence of perfect friendship, and my Florence has too much of her mother's pride to seek to be a humble friend."

"I could never be such to Lady Ida," replied Florence, "for she would cease to love me, or at least to feel the same interest in me, if I were. No, mother, no; I am not ashamed to stand in a lower grade than hers. I shall never become one of those despicable characters who, attempting to rise above, sink lower than their natural station, and thus expose themselves to laughter and contempt.

CHAP. II.

The family, of whom the animated speaker of the preceding chapter formed so engaging a part, consisted of Mr. and Mrs. Leslie and their three children. They had resided for several years in the lovely little village of Babbicombe, situated on the south coast of Devonshire. Occasional visits had indeed been made to the metropolis, and other parts of England; but their home was Devonshire, and there had the affections of Florence taken root, with all the enthusiasm of her nature. London she abhorred; she fancied its denizens were cold and heartless, and her mind had not yet received the magic touch which could awaken it to those treasures of art and science which the emporium of England's glory so richly contains. As yet, the music of the birds and streams, and the deeper base and varied tones of Ocean, were sweeter harmonies than the rarest talent of the capital. The opening flowers, the diversified scene of hill and dale, the groups of village children, of sturdy peasants and rustic girls, amid the fields and orchards, presented to her fancy lovelier pictures and more perfect forms than the finest galleries of art.

The feelings and mysteries of her own loving heart and simple mind presented enough variety; she needed not change of society to develope her intuitive perception of character. Reading with avidity all that she could obtain-history, poetry, romance, all that could delineate nature according to the responses of her own heart--she needed no other recreation. The gentle councils of Mrs. Leslie preserved her from all that mawkish sentiment and undue prominence of romance which in some dispositions might have resulted from such

indiscriminate reading at an age so early. But Florence Leslie was no heroine, to take a volume of Byron or Moore, and wander alone amid the rocks, and fells, and woods of Babbicombe, and weep in secret, imagining herself to be some lovelorn damsel, and pining for all the fascinating heroes of whom she read. That she was often seen tripping lightly, on an early summer morning, or a cool fresh evening, down the hill, to a favourite cleft in a rock almost hidden by luxuriant brushwood which covered it, and within hearing of the sonorous voice of old Ocean, and seen too with a book in her hand, we pretend not to deny. But look not aghast, ye votaries of Byron and Moore, that volume was generally one of Felicia Hemans, or Mary Howitt; or, if of deeper lore, Wordsworth, Coleridge, the stirring scenes of Scott, or the domestic pictures of Edgeworth, Mitford, or Austin. Florence was not yet old enough, or perchance wise enough, to appreciate the true poetic beauties of Lord Byron's thrilling lays, or the sweeter, softer music of Moore. She was as yet only sensible of that which pleased her fancy and touched her heart; and therefore to these poets her gentle spirit echoed no reply.

But Florence was not so wedded to her books, and shrubs, and flowers, as to eschew those pleasures which might perhaps appear somewhat irrelevant to such a quiet life. No one loved a ball so well, no one was so lightly gay in all festivity and mirth. The morning hour might see her in tears over a favourite book, the evening find her the life and centre of a happy group of children, laughing, dancing, like the youngest there.

Such she was at the age of fifteen; seventeen years found this internal and external happiness somewhat clouded. She became more awake to outward things; to the consciousness of, and sympathy with, the sufferings of a mother whom she loved with no common love. For the last five years, Mrs. Leslie had been labouring under an incurable disease, which not only always debilitated her frame, producing a languor and depression under which many a mind would have sunk, but exposed her at intervals to the most excruciating suffering, which she would yet bear so uncomplainingly, so heroically, that very often the damp drops on her brow, or a fainting fit, would be the first sign that she was enduring pain. A sudden and violent disease would have alarmed, and thus excited the attention even of a child; but Mrs. Leslie's complaint had crept on so silently and unsuspectedly, her languor and weakness were so successfully combatted, that it was not strange that Florence should have failed to observe them at first, and that when she did so, the fact should have dashed her glowing visions with a saddening shade. She felt the pleasures of gaiety were alloyed, for she could never join in them with her mother.

True the yearning for something more to love was not strong enough to affect her happiness; for, when by Mrs. Leslie's side, listening to her loved councils, or caressing her young and joyous sister Mary (or Minie, as she was always called), she felt it not. It was only when taking a ramble too long for Minie, or joining in the pleasures of

evening society, for which Minie was too young, and which were for Mrs. Leslie too painful an exertion, that she was conscious she might be happier still.

There was an ardent longing in Florence Leslie's heart from her earliest years, which most people imagined but romantic folly engendered by indiscriminate reading, and a consequent love of adventure, but which (strange to say) always appeared to cause Mrs. Leslie some uneasiness. All that concerned Italy, from the dryest history, the deepest antiquarian research, to the lightest poem, were pored over with a pertinacity, a constancy, which no one but Mr. and Mrs. Leslie, perhaps, could comprehend. Rogers's poem she committed to memory page after page, simply for recreation; and she learned to draw, chiefly in order to copy every print of Italy, modern or ancient, which came before her.

"What would I not give to have some claim on that lovely land?" she had said one day, when only twelve years old. "It is so foolish merely to love. Now, if I had by some strange chance been born there, I might love Italy as much as I pleased. By the way, papa, where was I born? I have asked mamma several times, and there seems a fatality attending her answer, for I do not know yet."

Mr. Leslie's face was shaded by his hand, and it was twilight, or Florence must have discovered that his countenance was slightly troubled; but he answered quietly, "If you so much wish to forswear poor old England as your birthplace, my dear child, you have my permission so to do. For, in truth, if to be born in a country makes you a child of the soil, you are Italian, having first seen the light, about twenty miles from the fair town whose name you bear."

"Italian really, truly, Italian! Oh! you dear, good father, to tell me so. Now I may love it as much as I please. Italy, dear, beautiful Italy! I am your own child! Mamma, naughty mamma!" she continued, bounding to Mrs. Leslie, as she entered the room, why did you never tell me I was Italian? I must go and tell Walter and nurse;" and away she flew, utterly unconscious of the agitation her words had produced in Mrs. Leslie, who, as the door closed behind her, sank on a chair by her husband's side, faintly exclaiming, "Edward, dearest Edward! what have you told her?"

66 Nothing, dearest, trust me, nothing that can in any way disturb her serenity or happiness, or excite the least suspicion in herself or others, inimical to her present or future peace. I did but tell her she was born in Italy, which, did she ever mingle with my family, she would find many to confirm; and you know it is but the truth, dearest wife.

Mrs. Leslie breathed more freely.

"I am very weak, and very foolish," she said, after a pause; "but the slightest reference to her birth utterly unnerves me. Dearest Edward, there come to me at times such horrible forebodings, as if we had scarcely done right to act as we have done; and, yet it was my own request, my first weighty boon, and not granted by you

feel any restraint before them; but she intuitively felt that all her high aspirations, her exalted feelings had better not be spoken, for they would not be understood; even Emily Melford, though but just eighteen, had not passed through the ordeal of fashionable training entirely unscathed; perhaps, too, nature was as much in fault as education, for she was naturally cold, though so independent both in thought and action, as often to startle Florence.

The first winter, St. John's had only been honoured by the presence of Lady Melford and her daughters, occasionally varied by visits from the Viscount, and the honourable Frederick and Alfred | Melford, true specimens of joke-loving, amusement-seeking young men of fashion, whose gaiety and good feeling excited the mirth and ready enjoyment of Florence, but nothing more. The second winter brought an addition to the family; Emily had alluded to a cousin, her mother's niece, the Lady Ida Villiers, eight years her senior, and spoken so rapturously of her exceeding grace and beauty, and richly gifted mind, that Florence thought these all-sufficient food for fancy; but the tale connected with Lady Ida was such as to interest much colder hearts than hers.

She had lost her father seven years previously; her mother some time before; and Lady Ida, the last of an ancient line, was left under the guardianship of Lord Melford, until the age of twenty-four, when full liberty became her own. The title of her father, the ancient earldom of Edgemere, had indeed gone to a distant branch, but his possessions, with little diminution, passed to his daughter, leaving her, in consequence, a wealthy heiress. She had certainly charms enough, both of person and mind, to remove all idea that she could be sought merely for fortune; but whatever the cause, the richest and proudest bowed before her, acknowledged her surpassing loveliness, and besought, in all the varieties of passion, the honour of her hand. But the heart of the Lady Ida Villiers had appeared to be as cold as ice; her majesty of demeanour had never descended to encouragement, in even the passing courtesy of the moment. All were rejected, some with winning kindness, some with contemptuous scorn, according as her quick and penetrative mind discovered the true feeling, or worldly-seeking pretence of her respective suitors. In vain her guardians expostulated, and Lord Melford, remembering he was an uncle also, took upon himself to threaten. The young lady was inexorable, and, at length, the truth was discovered. The heart, which had appeared impregnable, had, in fact, been carried by storm already; and Lady Ida scrupled neither to deny nor to conceal it, for its love was returned; she knew this in spite of the hopelessness with which it was accompanied. Edmund St. Maur was the youngest branch of the noble family whose name he bore. There was a chance of the barony becoming his, but a chance far too remote for speculation. Moreover, he and his widowed mother were poor; poor, at least, for the sphere in which their relationship to rank imperatively called them to move; and Edmund was of that delicate frame and constitution, which are too often attendant on studious habits and

reflective minds. The late Lord Edgmere had known the worth of both mother and son, and had cherished and encouraged the intimacy between them and his child. Whether he ever thought of danger arising from it, or really would not have objected to the union of Lady Ida with the poor but high-minded Edmund St. Maur, could never be ascertained, as he died before Ida herself was aware of the engaged state of her affections; and St. Maur, whatever might have been his private feelings, knew his position too well to think of their betrayal.

Lady Ida had not however, been a year an orphan, before the fading form and pallid cheek of Edmund startled her into perfect consciousness as to the state of her own heart; and with all the refinement and delicacy of a high and pure mind, she recalled all that had ever passed between them, all that she knew of his character, and felt that gold, despicable gold had caused this change. His too sensitive mind imagined fortune had for ever divided them, that he dared not aspire to her hand. She knew his pride, and felt that did she not advance more forward than was, perhaps, quite consistent with maidenly propriety, not only her own happiness, but his would be sacrificed for ever. Her first measures were sufficiently unsuccessful to rob her own cheek of its glow, her own form of its roundness; the more kind, the more gracious her manner, nay, the more she thought to draw him to her side, the more he shunned her.

"But how did she ever discover his sentiments? how ever conquer his pride?" was Florence Leslie's ardent exclamation, aware of the sequel, yet not imagining how these difficulties could be overcome; and Emily Melford, as eager to speak as her companion to listen, continued :

"Simply, because he chanced to have a mother, in whom he could confide a tale of love. It was easy for Lady Helen to penetrate Ida's secret, and the betrayal of Edmund's sentiments of course followed. Once assured that she was beloved, neither her own maiden modesty nor natural pride could be in aught impugned. All reserve was at an end; they understood each other, and never were three happier persons, I believe, than Ida and Edmund, and not least, Lady Helen."

"She must have been happy, for it was greatly her doing," observed Florence. "But why are they not married yet? why only engaged?"

"For a very weighty reason; Ida had to bear the brunt of all sorts of persecution-my honourable family at their head; every one who could claim the most distant relationship chose to declare she should not so throw herself away, that it was worse than folly; she was wedding herself not alone with poverty, but with death, for every one must see Edmund St. Maur had not five years more to live."

"How cruel!" indignantly exclaimed Florence. "Cruel, in truth; and not content with this, invectives nearly approaching to insult were thrown at her by all, not excepting my own family."

"Not Lady Melford ?-impossible!"

"No, not mamma; she had rather more regard for her sister's daughter, though she disapproved of the match quite as much as others. If the good

folks had ever misunderstood my cousin before, it | was impossible to misunderstand her then. She bore the storm firmly, and, in appearance, unconcernedly. Papa once went the length of saying, he would prohibit the marriage. She told him very calmly that she understood his legal authority ended when she was four-and-twenty, and she did not intend to marry till then. When the important day arrived, and, becoming her own mistress, there seemed no farther obstable to her happiness, St. Maur was suddenly taken seriously ill, as the medical men declared, from over excitement, and so many dangerous symptoms returned, that he was peremptorily desired to winter at Madeira and then to remain in Italy till his health was perfectly re-established. They assured Lady Helen and my cousin, that if he did this, no danger whatever need be apprehended; but, if he should remain in England, they could not answer for the consequences. Imagine poor Ida's anguish: even at this moment she would have united her fate with his, that she might be permitted to follow him, and be his nurse and his untiring attendant; but Edmund was far too unselfish, even in his love, to permit this sacrifice on her part; and Lady Helen, | much as she felt for her, seconded her son. All things were against poor Ida. The medical fraternity put a decided negative on her proposal; declaring that, in his present state, even the pain of separation would be better borne than the excitement of her presence. The opinion of Sir Charles Brashleigh at length made her yield; she consented to let her lover go without her, though she well knew what a period of anxiety and suffering his absence, and in this precarious state, would be to her. I never saw her so wholly and utterly overcome as she was the first week after his departure. She struggled against it till she was thrown on a bed of sickness, and I am certain she will neither look nor feel like herself till she shall rejoin him."

"And when will that be?" inquired Florence, her eyes swelling in tears; "how long have they been parted?"

"Nearly eighteen months, and it has been a period of intense anxiety to Ida. The accounts have become more and more favourable, but of course poor Ida cannot feel happy or secure, till she is by his side. Papa is so angry at her resistance to his authority, that he will not allow us to go to Italy, as we all wished to do; he fancies separation will do the work for him, and that they will forget each other. However, next spring or autumn, Lord Edgemere's family go to Rome, and Ida goes with them."

"Oh, what a blessed time to look forward to !" exclaimed Florence; who added, "but you say she has even encountered persecution from your own family-surely your sisters must have been her friends?"

"Surely not, my very simple girl. Georgiana imagined herself one of the greatest wits and scholars of the day; and that Ida, without the least effort, should surpass her, and fascinate not only the butterflies, but every man of genius and letters who approached her, was somewhat too mortifying to be borne meekly. No woman ever yet quietly

surrendered the reputation of superior talents to another woman, and, certainly not to a younger. Then Sophia once dreamed she was a beauty; and though three successive crowded seasons passed, and no reward of that beauty made its appearance in any thing like an offer of marriage, she chose to imagine Ida's faultless face and form a decided affront to her, and so disliked her accordingly." "How can you speak so of your sisters ?" inquired Florence, half laughingly, half reproachfully. "How can I very easily, for I hate such littlemindedness. My dear Florence, London is very different from the country. Sisters so often become rivals; there is so little time in the whirl of gaiety for words and acts of mutual kindness, that we should laugh at the idea of imagining them better than other people."

"Save me from London, then!" ejaculated Florence, so heartily, that her companion was yet more amused; but Florence continued-"How comes it, Emily, that you can afford to speak so enthusiastically of Lady Ida?"

"Simply, first, because I know I am no beauty; secondly, it is too much trouble to attempt rivalling her in talent or in wit; and, thirdly, she is eight years older than I am, and, before I make my début, she will have passed all ordeal, by taking unto herself a partner for better or worse, and so she cannot be my rival; so do not give me credit for any seeming amiability, for if I were a belle, and a would-be blue one, I should be just as envious as others."

CHAP. IV.

Lady Ida Villiers came, and Florence Leslie found every vision of fancy and anticipation more than realized. It was impossible for such an enthusiastic, affectionate being as herself to be in Lady Ida's company, to listen to her varied powers of conversation, which she had the rare faculty of adapting to every character with whom she mingled, still more to find herself, after the first few days, an object of notice, even of interest, without feeling every ardent affection, based on esteem, enlisted in her cause. She found, to her utmost astonishment, that her thoughts were read by her new companion before she had shaped them into words; her tastes drawn forth irresistibly to meet with sympathy and improvement; her simple pleasures, both in books and nature, appreciated, encouraged, and so delightfully directed higher than she had ever ventured alone, that every hour spent in Lady Ida's society was productive of pleasures which she had never even imagined before. Nor was it only by words that Lady Ida's character opened itself to the admiring and wondering gaze of Florence. She observed her daily conduct to those around her. Courteous and kind, to her aunt far more affectionate than either of her own daughters-no stranger could have ever imagined she was simply returning good for evil; even to her uncle she never failed in courtesy and gentleness, though his manner towards her was always cold and supercilious. The trials of her own heart, her own anxieties, never passed her