tivity reigned throughout the cottage. Every room was swept and garnished; branches of oak and ash filled the ample hearths; while masses of wild flowers, framed in moss, bloomed in wicker baskets, placed on the window-sills. The sombre hangings in the room appropriated to Florence in the Maiden's Tower, were relieved by wreaths of flowers, and garlands of evergreens. A table was set in the banqueting-hall for twelve persons. The means and appliances of splendour were wanting; but glass and china of dazzling purity, and gay vases filled with flowers, gave an air of elegant simplicity to the feast, which redeemed the absence of plate and costly ornament. Mary, on hospitable thoughts intent, bustled here, there, and everywhere, ably seconded by Mrs. Jones and her daughter Lucy, who had obligingly offered their services for the day.

Florence spent so much time over her toilette, on this eventful morning, that she was hors de combat, as far as utility was concerned.

We must devote a word of explanation to our heroine's unwonted finery. A few weeks before, Mr. Dudley, moved by the plea advanced by Mary, that her young mistress had not a dress fit to be seen (in female parlance, nothing in the height of the fashion), had ordered a few dresses from Mademoiselle Latour. He half regretted having lent a willing ear to the heartfelt eloquence of his womankind, when he observed the importance Florence attached to his compliance. He watched her with Mephistopheles-like cynicism, when she received the coveted treasures. Like a wise man, he did not suffer the occasion to pass without an attempt to "improve it." He desired Florence to make a German translation of a short but pithy essay upon "Feminine Vanity;" in which the writer illustrated the caustic definition of the ancient philosopher, that woman is an "animal fond of dress," with a fund of historical allusion, a felicity of expression, sadly thrown away upon Florence.

Can a bride forget her ornaments, or a maid her attire?

We hasten to explain the cause of the unwonted stir at Emrys Castle. Mr. Dudley had acceded, with considerable reluctance, to the personal request of Lord Wentworth, that he would cultivate the acquaintance of Colonel Seymour, of Seymour's Court, who had recently come to reside at his seat in the neighbourhood.

The two gentlemen had not met up to the time we resume our tale; but visits had been exchanged. Lord Wentworth was staying at the court at this time; and it was finally arranged that a party should be made to visit Mr. Dudley, and lunch al fresco in the castle. The Earl would avail himself of this opportunity, and introduce the families to each other.

We will transport our readers, sans cérémonie, to the group assembled round the breakfast-table at Seymour's Court, on the morning of the projected excursion. It was a family party, with the exception of Lord Wentworth and Mr. Greville Beaumont, the accepted lover of the fair, the very fair, Augusta Seymour.

The latter gentleman, however, is far too important a person (in his own eyes, as well as those of others), to be passed over par parenthèse. True, he was an emptyheaded coxcomb: sans brain, sans heart, sans ideas, sans everything; nevertheless, the voice of flattery had sounded in his ears from infancy, for he was the possessor of a princely fortune. His admirers (their name was legion, for they were many) dazzled by the golden bait, mistook his flippancy for wit, his vanity for dignity, his ostentation for generosity.

Mr. Greville Beaumont, satisfied with the position a good name and a noble fortune secured him in the ranks of fashion, floated gently down the stream, envied by many; and, strange to say, beloved by some of the softer sex. His features were well-cut, purely Grecian; but his countenance was guiltless of all expression, save that of ineffable conceit.

After exciting false hopes in the fairest belles of many

a London season, (mythology, fable, and history alike prove that a golden shower can gain the heart or hand of the fairest of the fair), Mr. Greville Beaumont condescended to throw the handkerchief to the beautiful Augusta, the eldest daughter of Colonel and Lady Caroline Seymour. In the eyes of the fashionable world the lovely and accomplished daughter (cela va sans dire) of the gallant Colonel and the Lady Caroline Seymour, was a most fortunate woman. Was she sufficiently grateful for her unprecedented good-luck? Colonel Seymour, his wife and eldest daughter completed the party.

The Colonel, a fine soldierly-looking man, may best be described as a sublime incarnation of pride, relieved by one besetting weakness, love of money. He was proud of his birth, his fortune, his fame (he was a gallant soldier), his wife, his children,-proud, in short, of everything that was his. A rigid disciplinarian, he ruled his household with a rod of iron; the breath of opposition never fanned his haughty spirit; all bent beneath his resistless rule. His beautiful, still beautiful wife,

"A form of wax, by him imprinted,"

readily fell into that attitude of adoration, woman's first, best charm in the eyes of man. The Colonel, in

her ladyship's eyes, was not the first of men only, but a species of demigod whom it was her blessed privilege to worship her guide and head, without whom her being was to no end.

Augusta, educated in this school of slavish obedience to the lords of the creation, entertained a profound contempt for the pliancy of her sex. She expressed no opinion, but she dared to think for herself; she meditated, and she came to some such conclusion as the following: "If I become the wife of Greville Beaumont, I must sink to his level. As the husband is, the wife is.' Experience proves it: women take the colour of their opinions, above all, religious opinions, from the men by whom they are surrounded. Mahomet averred that we have no

souls; Voltaire's creed was scarcely less derogatory to the dignity of our sex, than the doctrine of the false prophet. Chaque femme est de la religion de son amant.' My mother would sinner it or saint it;' turn Jew, Moslem, Romanist, to please my father. She would worship at any shrine for his sake. She reflects his ideas, principles, unconsciously, in every word she

utters.

'And the moon changes even as her mind.'

Augusta did not love her father, (Lady Caroline was the sole individual who indulged in that amiable weakness), but she feared him. She loved and pitied her mother, but she did not respect her. How could she respect the woman who saw her daughter the affianced bride of one man, when her heart was given to another, without holding out a hand to save, simply because it was the sovereign will and pleasure of her lord and master that such a marriage should take place?

Augusta had not yielded without a struggle; in despair of making any impression upon her father, she had appealed to her mother, but Lady Caroline, terrified and sorely perplexed at her daughter's passionate declaration, that she would perish rather than fulfil the contract, implored her, with sighs and tears, to obey her father's commands: poor Lady Caroline! she was well fitted to her petty part

“With a hoard of maxims preaching down a daughter's heart."

Augusta listened, with contemptuous indifference. She flew to her father. He was haughty and unbending, but her prayers and tears might induce him to relent. Idle delusion! The Colonel cut the matter short at once. He had accepted Greville Beaumont's proposals without hesitation; his daughter must receive him as her future husband. Driven to despair, Augusta faltered that her affections were no longer in her own power to bestow. "Pshaw, every man would be alike to her by the end

of the year! If she proved refractory, he would starve her into submission."

The Colonel was perfectly capable of carrying out the threat. Augusta had recourse to cunning-the arm of the weak. She temporized, she submitted; apparently, with a good grace. The world, Lord Wentworth included, admired and respected the Seymours. No one suspected the shoals and quicksands which lay beneath the smooth, polished surface. All glided over the ice in perfect safety. The Colonel treated his wife with deferential politeness, his daughter with stately gallantry, but he would not have hesitated to break the heart of the one, or the head of the other, had they presumed to thwart his will or cross his plans.

From this digression we return to the breakfast-table at Seymour's Court. The conversation turned upon the inhabitants of Emrys Castle. Lord Wentworth, in reply to a question of Colonel Seymour's, gave a sketch of Mr. Dudley's career. He touched lightly but eloquently upon the sacrifice Dudley had made to pay his uncle's debts, and dwelt with kindling admiration upon his unremitting exertions to secure an independence for his daughter. "I know Dudley, well," he added; drudgery, above all literary drudgery, paralyzes the powers of men of his sensitive temperament. But he has risen above mere temperament; he has conquered the errant will, chained down the rambling fancy, and for seven years has worked, resolutely worked, for hire. Too feeble to bear the toil

"Of going up and down another's stairs.'

he has proved strong as a giant in running the race, when independence crowns the goal."

"You describe a noble character, Wentworth !" cried the Colonel, who, the soul of honour himself (whatever that much-abused phrase may mean in its primary sense), was not incapable of admiring an honourable spirit in another.

"A charming character!" echoed Lady Caroline.