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would not believe it-yet could she doubt it? Could she gainsay the evidence of her own senses? -could she shake off the gloomy forebodings that oppressed her?-could she?-No! no,-it was truth!--and she was desolate and hopeless.

And yet what could it matter? He never

loved her he never could love her-she never had expected it; but, oh! the agony of her next thought she must no longer love him!-it would be sin to love him now. It was not enough to know he would never care for her: now, she must lose her only happiness-she must not even think of him. Not think of him?-of what then could she think?—

"He was her life,

The ocean to the river of her thoughts,
Which terminated all."

Overcome with a sense of utter loneliness-she had no friend to weep with her, no father to counsel, no mother to soothe-she turned for help to Him in whom she ever trusted, the Father of the fatherless. With clasped hands and bended knees, she prayed that this deep sorrow might be spared her. Passion gave way to Christian resignation, she meekly said, "Thy will be done;" and rose consoled and strengthened.

And after a while, hope, the constant friend of

love, again, though but partially, returned. She chided herself for thus sorrowing for a, perhaps, idle tale. She strove again to be happy, but in vain. Bitter thoughts haunted her; sleeping or waking she could not banish them. Yet her love was, if possible, stronger than before. Her deep sorrow, her hopeless humility, her almost heartbroken despair, only made her cling with more intense affection to the dear idol of her ardent heart.

CHAPTER II.

To guard our freedom and our glories raise-
Given to the world to spread religion's sway,
And pour o'er many a land the mental day.

MICKLE.

EDWARD STEPHENSON repaired to his friend's rooms at the appointed hour. Lord Hewiston, Harry Lewis, and many others of the familiar companions of Arbridge, were there assembled. They formed a gay and animated group. Free rom the trammels and restraints of society, they thought what they pleased, and they said what they thought. Their political opinions were various, but that mattered little; their minds were cultivated, and their hearts were good, and such are ever tolerant. The conversation varied

"From grave to gay, from lively to severe,"

glancing over all topics, illustrating or adorning all. The jest was hardly pronounced ere it was

understood, and applauded to the very echo. Had we the power, we would gladly note down that "table talk;" the "feast of reason and the flow of soul," seasoned with the lively epigram, the gay retort,-fitful eloquence or spontaneous wit. But we attempt not to catch the glad sunbeams, or the bright shower of the laughing cascade, or the light foam that dances on the billows; and so we attempt not this. Leaving the gay revellers to rejoice undisturbed, we will heed only one part of their discourse, more suited to our sober pen.

Among this gay and youthful company was one whose age and temperament seemed ill in accordance with the rest. From his peculiar opinions, Mr. Andrew Copan had obtained the pleasing title of the cynic, or grumbler; and, certes, no mighty monarch ever merited the surname of " great" so well as he his rather doubtful cognomen. Continually finding fault, he railed at every one and every thing, yet was there generally some truth in his remarks, for what human thing is perfect? We shall find something to blame, even in the wisest and the best, haply, also, we shall find something to praise in the very worst; but Mr. Andrew Copan never thought of that. There is a dark side to all things, and in that dark side he delighted. Yet, notwithstanding this disposition,

he was a general favourite, and often joined the gay companions of Charles Arbridge. At times they laughed at, at times they argued with him. They sometimes silenced, but they never convinced. However, this morning his complaints and animadversions were 66 put down" by common consent; and his "occupation gone," he sipped his wine in silence, while the lively discourse went on around him. Thus he remained till, the morning papers arriving, arguments dropped and laughter ceased,-all feelings being absorbed in that of interest, and he found at once a theme suited for his remarks, and opportunity to enunciate them.

Turning towards his host, in somewhat contemptuous tones he inquired, what papers he took? or whether he took them all?

"Yes, all-every one," was the reply. "I like to see the various opinions."

"That is just like you, Arbridge; you are always in extremes," observed Harry Lewis."For my part, I consider one enough,-I am satisfied with the Chronicle; I see the others (if I want them) at the Club."

"I think we get the Post and Herald," said Lord Hewiston, "the Earl is very fond of the Herald, but I don't care much for either, or, indeed, for any of them."

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