band, affectionately kissing her. "I have no such fearful apprehensions; and, even in such an alternative, would act as I do now, conscientiously believing there would be more virtue in so doing than in condemning one so pure and good to suffering and misery, which the truth, however softened, must produce."

The day before the eventful Thursday Mr. Leslie observed to his daughter, as he was going out after breakfast, "Your mother is so much better, my dear girl. You will go with me to Lady Ida's ball, will you not?"

“I cannot, dear papa.”

"But I am sure your mother would prefer having only Minie for a companion for a few hours than that you should lose so great a pleasure."

"I know she would, papa. Mine is quite a feminine reason, so pray do not laugh at me. I have no proper dress, and I could not be so disrespectful to Lady Ida as to appear plainly attired."

"But, my dear child, why have you not a dress?"

"Because I was too premature in my preparations, and so am punished for my vanity. I knew of this ball a full fortnight before the invitations were given, and to be quite ready I destroyed a dress, that might in an extremity have done, to make use of the beautiful lace which was on it for another. That other I have not had time to make, and so you see, dear papa, I am compelled to stay at home."

"But why not get it made, my Florence? Surely you do not imagine I could grudge you such an indulgence."

"No, papa. If I had thought so perhaps I would have been tempted to think only of myself; but I knew I had but to ask and have, and so it was easy not to ask. And then, the first fortnight I really did not think at all about it; and I was still much too anxious when I saw mamma getting better. I own I did wish it were possible to have my dress ready, but then I knew I could not make it without neglecting Minie and Walter, and perhaps even mamma; and I would not expose myself to such a temptation. No, dear papa, I shall be much happier at home on Thursday night than going to St. John's, with the recollection of so many duties unperformed."

Did you

"I quite believe you, my sweet child; but still I grieve you did not come to me. never think of such a thing?"

I

"Oh yes, more than once; but how could teaze you with such a trifle when you were so anxious about mamma; and I know Walter's being from home increases your expenses very materially; and you look so careworn sometimes. Why, the ball were not worth the pain it would have been for you to fancy your Florence regardless of these things."

"You are careful of every one, everything but yourself, my child. Would I had thought of this before, for I cannot bear you should lose such a pleasure. Is it too late now?"

"Quite, quite too late, papa; so do not be so cruel as to turn tempter," replied Florence, smiling and throwing her arms round his neck to

kiss him; then bounding from the room to conceal that, in spite of all her assurances, in spite of even the still small voice of conscience sounding again and again "You have done your duty, be happy Florence;" still, child as she was in feeling, in enjoyment (perhaps we should not say child, for youth is far more susceptible of the pleasure of Life than childhood), Florence was disappointed, and very painfully.

When under the first excitement of conquering inclination, that duty should triumph, there is an infused strength even in trifles such as these; but there never yet was any such self-conquest which was wholly joy, as some good but cold-hearted people declare. There is generally a revulsion of feeling, occasioning a doubt as to whether or not we need have acted as we have done; and then, as all excitement overstrains the nervous system, the blood flows less equally, and affects us mentally, so that depression and dissatisfaction for a while too often follow even a duty done. And so it was with our young heroine; she felt all she had told her father, but now the tormenting thought would come, that perhaps she could have attended to her duties and gone to the ball also; and that she had made a sacrifice, and rejoiced in her strength to do so, when there was really no necessity for it. She was weary too; for her mother's illness, and her own multiplied duties, had prevented her customary daily walks and mental recreation; and her head ached-that gnawing, nervous pain, so difficult to bear because it is not bad enough to complain of, or do anything to relieve. And so our poor Florence was weak enough, when quite alone, to indulge in a hearty fit of tears; but this was not of long continuance; she very soon conquered what she felt was selfish folly, and hastened down to their little study to attend to her sister's impatient call, and superintend her morning lessons.

But Florence was not to be steadily employed that day; Lady Ida came to inquire after Mrs. Leslie as usual, to introduce her particular friend Lady Mary Villiers to the pretty cottage and its interesting inmates, and to carry off Florence for a drive. The pure fresh air, the beautiful country, the freedom from care, and above all the intellectual rest and enjoyment springing from the society of refined and accomplished minds; all did the young girl good, and caused her to converse with her natural liveliness and animation.

"You are right, Ida; Miss Leslie is worthy of your interest; even I allow it," said Lady Mary, when Florence left them; "but I am sorry you have made her love you; widely separated as you must be in so short a time."

"I am not going to remain in Italy for ever, Mary; so why should not my interest in Florence continue?"

"Because I have no faith in an interest such as this continuing through time and separation. It is not absence which severs friends, but changes in heart, and mind, and position. You cannot return to England as you leave it; you will have new ties, new interests, which must weaken former ones."

"You believe, then, that absence is really what

some poet, I think, called it, the grave of love?'", "No; but that it is very often the grave of sympathy—not with those whose spheres of action and position are the same, as ours are; but fancy you and Florence both in London a few years hence -with interests, duties, occupations, each as distinct as one planet from another. What can you be to her but a source of yearning and of pain?" "I cannot tell you at this moment, Mary, but time will show. You know I have many strange fancies, and one is that women do not do half as much as they might do for each other; they are too often influenced by such petty jealousies, detraction, envy-things I abhor. I may still be Florence's friend, even in London, and widely severed in position, as you say we shall be. Now do not look so solemnly incredulous; all things are possible if we would but think so, and exert some degree of energy in bringing them about."

CHAP. VIII.

The eventful night at length arrived. Mr. Leslie, who had received an invitation from Lord Melford to dine with some other gentlemen at St. John's, went; but all his intended enjoyment was clouded because Florence could not join him. Mrs. Leslie was yet more grieved, reproaching herself for never having thought what Florence might need; forgetting, now that she was almost as well as usual, all the deeply anxious thoughts which had engrossed her, when she anticipated death-anxiety, not for herself, for her trust was fixed on the Rock of ages. But she was a wife and mother; she knew her husband's causes of anxiety almost better than he did himself; and there was one care, peculiarly her own, which rendered the idea of death one of intense suffering; for Minie and Walter it was simply the thought of separation; but for Florence, the most incongruous, the most mysterious emotions were concentrated in one feeling of anxious anguish, which none but her God could penetrate and soothe.

With such reflections, united to intense bodily pain and prostrating weakness, it was no matter of wonder that Lady Ida's ball and the necessary arrangements for Florence should have entirely escaped her memory till it was too late for the evil to be remedied. The disappointment itself she knew was of no real consequence; but Mrs. Leslie was not one of those harshly-nurtured spirits who trample on the sweet flowers of youthful life without one remorseful pang; she knew how soon, how very soon the lovely buds fade of themselves; and she trembled lest harsher duties should demand in Florence the crushing of youth and all its dreams years before their time. And so full of regret was her caressing manner that evening that Florence, even had she felt any remaining depression, would have effectually concealed it; but the sweet reward of duty was once more her own, and, animated and gay, she speedily proved that the sacrifice was absolutely nothing when compared to her mother's comfort and enjoyment.

It was the first evening Mrs. Leslie had left her

chamber, and resumed her couch in the sittingroom, an event inexpressibly cheering to Florence, who always declared the house was desolate when her mother was up-stairs. Once more the sweet carol of Minie's voice enlivened the evening hours; song after song poured forth from the child's lips, with a sweetness, a richness, a purity absolutely thrilling. It was eight o'clock when they closed the pianoforte, and Florence, petitioning a longer vigil for Minie, opened Miss Austin's entertaining "Mansfield Park," and began, at her mother's wish, to read it aloud.

They had been thus employed about half-anhour, when a carriage drove up to the gate, and a respectable old dame who had been Minie's nurse, and continued the humble friend of the family, bustled into the apartment, with a comical look of pleasant intelligence, which excited the curiosity, not only of the two girls but of Mrs. Leslie herself. No answer to the varied queries, however, would nurse Wilmot vouchsafe, but she deliberately drew forth a note and presented it to Florence, who, with an exclamation of astonishment, tore it open and read as follows:

"Your father tells me, my dear Florence, that your mother is quite well enough for you to leave her to-night, and I have therefore sent my carriage for you, and must insist on your donning bonnet and shawl, and coming just as you are. William has orders to bring you to the side entrance, where you know a private staircase leads to my rooms. Do not be frightened at the string of carriages which may throng the front door; your path will be quite invisible. Go directly into my dressingroom, where you will find Alice with all the necessaries for your toilette, and I will come for you when it is completed. I send your dear old nurse, Mrs. Wilmot, who will remain with your mother till to-morrow evening, that you may leave her without any apprehension, for of course you sleep at the hall. Now do not stay to hesitate; I will never forgive you if you disobey me.

"IDA."

"Necessaries for my toilet! What can she mean? I have not a single dress at St. John's," was the bewildered speech of Florence, as she concluded; and then, as the real truth seemed to flash upon her through Mrs. Leslie's fond, rejoicing look, she threw her arms round her mother's neck, and burst into tears. But the wild delight of Minie, who, clapping her hands and jumping about the room, insisted that Florence was very foolish to cry, and make her eyes red, when she ought only to be glad, and Mrs. Leslie's caressing sympathy, soon removed all trace of these incomprehensible tears; and hastily shawled and bonneted by the active care of Mrs. Wilmot, who gossiped all the time of the beautiful things she had seen at St. John's, where she had been since six o'clock, and the kind care of Alice, and the affability of Lady Ida, and how kindly she had spoken of Miss Florence, with an endless &c., Florence was soon ensconced in the carriage, and rolling rapidly to St. John's. It seemed a shorter ride than usual, for her thoughts were very busy,

and excessive timidity struggled with pleasure. | Alice, with provident kindness, had stationed herself ready to receive and conduct her with all speed to her lady's dressing-room.

True dignity was never yet attended by insolence or presumption. Alice had been an inmate of the late Lord Edgemere's family for above eightand-twenty years, and every year increased her devotion for the gentle being whose birth she had witnessed, and whom she had tended from her youth. All whom Lady Ida honoured with her regard became objects of interest to herself.

Florence was speedily attired in the graceful robe of India muslin, so transparent in its delicate texture as to display the pure white satin folds beneath; the tiny slippers to correspond; the deJicate white glove; and every article fitting so admirably, and made so simply, in such perfect accordance with her age and station, that Florence's peculiarly sensitive mind could only feel relieved. Her beautiful hair received a new grace and polish from the skilful hand of Alice; a single white camellia, with its drooping bud, plucked fresh for the occasion, gleamed like a star amid those jetty tresses so purely, so freshly beautiful, it seemed fit emblem of the gentle girl whom it adorned. A chain of beautiful workmanship, with its Sevigné and suspended Maltese cross, the centre of which, as the Sevigné, was simply yet elegantly set with valuable emeralds, was her only ornament; and even from this Florence sensitively shrunk, asking kindly if Lady Ida particularly wished her to wear it. She need not, Alice said, if she did not like; but, as it was intended as a keepsake from her lady to Miss Leslie, she thought Lady Ida would be disappointed if it were not worn; and, touching a spring in the cross as she spoke, a locket was disclosed, containing a braid of dark chesnut hair, with the letters F. L. from I. V. delicately engraved upon it. The eyes of Florence again glistened, but she made no further objection to having it secured round her throat, playfully answering Alice's unchecked admiration of her appearance by the assurance that it must be all her care, and Lady Ida's kindness, which had caused her to look well, that her own proper self had nothing to do with it whatever.

Unconsciously she remained standing opposite the large pier-glass when Alice had departed, thinking far more of the kindness she had received than of her own graceful figure and sweetly expressive face, of whose real charm she was in truth totally ignorant, for she knew she was not beautiful; and that she possessed intellect and sensibility enough to make a far plainer face attractive, was equally unknown.

66

Well, Florence, have I done for you as well as you could have done for yourself?" was the playful address which roused her from her reverie; and, springing forward, Florence could only exclaim, "Oh, Lady Ida, why are you so kind?"

"Why, dearest, because it is a real pleasure to think for those who never think of themselves; and just now, that my pleasures are so limited, you must not grudge me this. Now do not look at me half sorrowfully when I mean you to be the very happiest person in the ball-room to-night;

you are as awe-struck at my diamonds and satin robe, as you were when I first came down because I was an earl's daughter. You little simpleton; my rank may be somewhat higher, but what do I exact then-only obedience in all things even to the keeping and wearing that chain and cross for my sake, without any pride in that haughty little spirit rising up against it."

"Haughty! dear Lady Ida? Do not say so." "Indeed I will, for you know it to be truth; but come, for I must not be missed from the ballroom. Emily's last note told you, did it not? that the idea of tableaux was given up till another night, as being incompatible with my uncle's dinner and the ball; so you see you must play your part still, notwithstanding you thought to eschew it so nicely."

Re-assured, happy beyond all expression, even her timidity soothed by Lady Ida's caressing manner, Florence laughingly replied; and they proceeded to the splendidly lighted suite of rooms whence the alternate quadrille and waltz were most inspiritingly sounding. It was the surpassing loveliness, the peculiarly quiet air of real aristocratic dignity, the absence of all, even the faintest approach to affectation or display in Lady Ida, which had struck the eager heart of the young Florence with even more than usual respect, impressing her-as Ida's quick penetration had discovered, even at such a moment of pleasure-with the sorrowful conviction how widely they must be eventually separated by their respective stations.

CHAP. IX.

As Lady Ida and her companion entered the ante-chamber, into which the ball-room opened, a young man, or rather lad, for his open collar and round jacket permitted him no higher title, though an elegant figure and remarkably handsome face rendered him a general object of attraction, hastily pressed forward.

"Frank!" said Lady Ida, greatly surprised, why, where have you dropped from? I am really glad to see you, and to-night particularly."

"Your ladyship honours me," was the buoyant reply, with a very graceful bow. "I only arrived two hours ago, and found all the hotel in commotion and excitement, because of the Lady Ida Villiers's ball. I ventured, on the plea of old acquaintance, both with Lady Melford and yourself, to come without invitation. Am I excused?"

"Excused and welcome, Frank, as you well know. Where is your father?"

"In Paris still; but as it is the season of merry Easter in my grave quarters, I vowed I would turn truant, and visit my friends in England. After a struggle I gained my point, and finding most of my best friends in Devonshire, followed them, and here I am."

"And as you have come in a time of festivity, we shall all be doubly glad to see you. Florence, will you honour this friend of mine for the next quadrille? But I forget you do not know each other-Miss Leslie, Mr. Francis Howard. That is etiquette, is it not? Now be as agreeable as

you can be, Frank, in return for Miss Leslie's condescension."

The young man laughed gaily, seeming not at all ill pleased with the introduction, his eyes having lingered admiringly on Florence all the time he spoke to Lady Ida.

"Lady Melford?" whispered Florence. "Will it not be rude if I do not seek her first?"

"I will make your excuse. It will be easier for you to find a place in the quadrille than my aunt at present," was the reply. "Frank, bring Miss Leslie to me when your dance has been accomplished."

"How am I to find your ladyship?-by a treble file of cavaliers dévoués, sueing your hand for all the quadrilles of the evening?"

"No, you foolish boy. I am a staid, sober matron for this evening, not intending to dance at all."

"Not dance!" exclaimed young Howard and Florence in such genuine surprise as to excite Lady Ida's mirth.

“Not dance, my young friends. Now away with you both, for my will is like an ocean rock,

not to be shaken.'

Lady Ida stood a moment, silently watching the effect that Florence Leslie's unexpected appearance would produce; not a little pleased that the purse-proud Oakland family were standing so near as not only to have seen Florence's début, leaning familiarly on her arm, but to hear all that had passed, even her final command to young Howard to bring Florence to her after the dance.

"Did you hear that?" whispered Miss Maria to Miss Elizabeth. "Well to be sure!-titled ladies are easily pleased. Who could have thought of that poor proud Florence getting into such favour?"

"And look what a beautiful chain and cross she has," was Miss Elizabeth's reply. "I did not think her worth such a thing; but her dress, who ever heard of any one coming to such a ball as this in plain white muslin? But of course, poor thing, she could not afford any thing better!" And she looked with yet greater satisfaction on her own amber-coloured satin, flounced and furbelowed to the knee.

An irresistible smile stole to Lady Ida's lip as these whispered remarks reached her ear, half longing for them to know that it was her own much vaunted taste they were decrying; and, scarcely able to meet with her wonted courtesy the eager cringing speeches with which, as she passed them, they saluted her.

Some, however, there were who were really glad to see Florence, and amiable enough to forgive the favour she enjoyed; nay more, to remark how well she looked, and to witness without envy Emily Melford's joyous greeting, and to see the young men of the Hall approach with eagerly extended hand, and claim her successively as their partner; while others lost half the pleasure, the triumph of being invited by Lady Ida Villiers to a ball because Florence Leslie was there too, and evidently in high favour. Alas! for poor human nature.

"Will you come with me, Mr. Leslie? I have a lovely flower I want to show you," said Lady

Ida playfully, laying her hand on that gentleman's arm, as he stood talking with her uncle, and other gentlemen, at some distance from the dancers. "Willingly," he replied, observing, as h offered her his arm, that he thought the conserveatory lay in an opposite direction.

"So it does, my dear sir; but it is not your love of flowers I am going to gratify just now; unless you can find any charm in a white camellia wreathed in a fair maiden's hair! The flower I mean has just accepted Frederic's arm. Do you know her? Or shall I introduce you?"

"Florence!" exclaimed the delighted father, in a tone that gratified all Lady Ida's benevolent intentions most completely. "And looking_so well-so happy! What magic has your ladyship used?"

"Wait till I give you Florence back again: I intend to tell you nothing, now, nor will I permit her. It is enough you are satisfied that my power is more efficient than you thought. You may greet your father Florence, but that is all I permit now," she added gaily, as, escorted both by Frederic Melford and Frank Howard, Florence hastily approachod.

"Ida! what can you want with Miss Leslie ? If you are so determined not to dance, at least lay no prohibition on her; but here is Franktroublesome fellow-will not give her up to me till he has given her back to you; and she says she cannot till she has spoken with my mother."

"Well, I promise you I will not detain her long. Go, and pay your devoirs to some other lady, and come back for her after the next dance. There is a waltz, fortunately for you; so since Florence does not waltz, you can spare her."

"The next, then, remember, Miss Leslie ?" Florence laughingly assented.

"And after Melford and his brother, may I claim again?" asked young Howard earnestly. "I believe I am engaged.”

"The next, then ?"

Florence assented with a bright smile. Howard bowed and retreated.

"What! you will have such compassion on Frank's round jacket and open collar, as to honour him twice, when so many dress-coats are round you, Florence? You really are a novice. Emily would abuse your bad taste," laughingly observed Lady Ida.

"Oh, he is so agreeable; he knows so much about Paris and Italy-dear Italy! Besides, indeed, I scarcely think about my partners; dancing is so delightful in itself: though certainly, when they are so pleasant as Mr. Howard and your cousins, it is more delightful still."

"And so you forgive the round jacket?" "Because it is the only part of the boy about him."

"I admire your discrimination; he is much more worth talking to than many double his age. His father, Lord Glenvylle, is a strange, stern man, and I often pity Frank's domestic trials; but his gay spirit carries him through them all, and he is happy in spite of them."

Lady Melford received her most kindly, making many inquiries after her mother, which enabled