hours of solitude, that the might reflect on the matter as she ought. On the evening of the next day I was summoned to a conference with my father in his library; he told me, that Camilla had convinced him he ought no longer to oppose my inclinations on her account. He had, he said, persevered in his opposition hitherto, in the persuasion that my union with another would endanger the happiness of his ward. Now he thought otherwise. She had so zealously exerted herself to remove his interdiction, as to have afforded demonstration that her former affection was subdued. And in truth, Sir William, did not my father reason accurately? I disbelieve the reality of that passion which can be active in its own disappointment. Love cannot thus elevate his votaries above the practice of ordinary mortals.”

"You are correct," replied I; "such elevation can proceed from no principle secondary to that on which you have de

scribed the actions of this lady to be founded. But," I added, somewhat disgusted with his worldly selfishness, “in what way am I to have the happiness of serving you, Mr. Hartley Aubertin ?"

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Candidly, thus," replied he. "My father having once given his consent to my union with Matilda, began to have doubts and suspicions, that Camilla had sacrificed her own happiness to mine. She sought solitude, and he continually interrupted it. Her assurances that she was perfectly satisfied, contented, resigned, (I forget the word) did not quite convince him. She requested permission to visit a distant friend, until the time of my bridal had passed. My father required her to remain as a test of the truth of her assertions, proffering to defer the period of my marriage at her pleasure. In short, Camilla saw that her task, as yet, was but half performed; if there was any struggle, I know not; but I can speak to the fact, that, in such case,

her victory was decisive and complete. She remains, and I am on the eve of becoming the husband of Matilda.

"On the part of Camilla, there have been no exhibitions of sorrow and suffering, which would have annoyed me as just so many tacit reproaches. Her usual avocations are pursued, and her calmness is uninterrupted. Characteristicallygrave, her present manners offer nothing new to observation. She is gentle, placid, and attentive to the happiness of all around her as usual.

"But, Sir William, although I antici pate my approaching union with Matilda, with all the rapture of the most ardent lover, on the whole, I have much cause for anxiety.

"If Camilla, despite of her external tranquillity, be indeed suffering, I know that my wedding-day and many subse quent days, must inflict poignant anguish. If left entirely to herself, or indeed to my kind, but perhaps injudicious parents,

how much of bitterness will she have to endure! You-you-Sir William, might, perhaps, confer on her an inestimable benefit, by drawing her attention to extraneous matters, by your conversationby in short, I am sure you understand me-you comprehend the delicacy of this affair?"

My answer satisfied him, and I with drew to my apartment. What right had Hartley Aubertin to confide to me-to

any one such a narrative? It is an act of the basest treachery in man to betray the secret of a female heart, that has lavished its tenderness on him. In this case, where so much of the sublimest attachment has been manifested, where the magnanimous love that, regardless of its own gratification, thinks only of promoting the happiness of its object, has shone in so fair a light, I cannot contemplate his communicativeness without disgust and indignation. Surely, Surely, surely, the name of such a woman as Camilla

Hastings appears to be even in his description, ought not to have been uttered but as the watchword of high and lofty thoughts. -How came light thus enamoured of darkness! How is it that the strongest and the best regulated minds, can thus bestow their noblest feelings on beings incapable of appreciating them or of returning them? How is it that a judgment profound and discriminating, an intellect piercing and intelligent on every other point, should, in this one, the most important of all, act with imbecility, or rather sleep in utter torpidity? It is one of those enigmas in which

"The burthen of the mystery,

In which the heavy and the weary weight:
Of all this unintelligible world,"

presses on the heart most insupportably. That a being so constituted as Camilla, should have wasted the sum of her love on one, not only "whose natural gifts were poor compared to hers," but who, from his own account, was altogether and