"Oh! for Heaven's sake, leave me," she said, throwing her arms round Honoria's neck.

"You will write to me then, when you hear?" "Yes, every thing. I have ordered your carriage-Good night!"

It will not be supposed that Honoria was very capable of arranging her thoughts, after such a scene as this: but her whole soul, at once, and with a decision which she could not have reached by the most diligent self-questioning, rejected the imputation that Mrs. Hartenfield had fastened upon her. Eight months before, if she had been taxed as severely, it is probable that she would have detected in herself certain grateful feelings to Captain Marryatt, which, in a heart not very accurately parcelled out, might easily have been confused with more tender emotions; but during that time she had yielded to a fascination which, if not more absorbing than love, is at least more exclusive. Reverence for a woman who understood the secrets of her character, who was her superior in age, experience, and strength of mind, and whom she believed to be so in every gift, had, in a measure, destroyed her capacity for any other attachment. No regard she had ever entertained for Captain Marryatt could combat with such a sentiment; and she could conscientiously assure herself that the dialogue in Mrs. Harten

field's drawing-room had wrought in her heart more indignation than sympathy.

But though she was perfectly innocent of this charge, it tended to lessen the bitterness of selfaccusation respecting Eustace. The violent emotion of Mrs. Hartenfield, made more remarkable by her abstinence from all ordinary profession, and the courage with which she laid bare what she believed to be her friend's weakness, greatly increased Honoria's attachment to her, and for a time made every duty seem light in comparison with that of relieving her from false impressions and real sorrow. She reproached herself with having alluded to the subject, and she determined to repair her fault by every means in her power.

CHAPTER II.

"Wherein have you played the kaave with Fortune, that she should scratch you, who is herself a good lady?”

All's Well that ends Well.

FOR a few minutes after Rumbold's departure our hero sat perfectly motionless, trying, with little success, to think over the events of the last half-hour. Then it suddenly struck him that it would be very desirable to see Miss Duncan before the servant arrived. He went to the door; it was fastened. He called aloud to Fanny; but for some time he could get no answer; at length a sleepy voice said, "What do you want?"—" I want you to let me in."

"Oh no-no," said the other occupant, in a voice of bitter supplication, " do not, there's a dear child-do not."

"I can't," said Fanny, "else I would, to please you ;-but it is locked on the outside."

"On the outside?"

"Yes, we are shut in."

"Good heavens!" said Eustace; "he has taken the key!-Fanny!" he exclaimed, “take all the care you can of the young lady for an hour, and tell her that by that time there will be a chaise to carry her to your aunt Hartenfield's."

A faint sob from the Quakeress signified that she had heard the words, and did not know how much faith to place in them.

He had no time to give her any assurances, as a gentle ring at the bell announced the arrival of the footman.

The last twinkling of the lamp in the hall had now disappeared, so that Mr. Johnson was not aware to whom he was indebted for his admission. He came in with a slow stealthy step, and said, looking round him, "Is all right?" but staggered back half a dozen paces, when he heard a strange voice. "Mr. Rumbold has left a note for you," said Conway, without attending to his emotion. "You can either take it with you, or read it in the parlour, where there is a light." He walked into the room, sat down on the sofa, and began to read the Quarterly Review.

Mr. Johnson stood doubtfully in the passage for a minute, but at length availed himself of the offer, and followed Conway into the parlour, with

many apologies in the first style of liveried politeness for his intrusion, read through the note, then bowed, and withdrew.

Though our hero felt some slight curiosity to know how far Mr. Johnson was concerned in Rumbold's plot, he did not raise his eyes from the book to examine the man's countenance. He followed him, however, to the door, and, beckoning the watchman, said something about his rattle and a chaise, which he intended to be overheard. Mr. Johnson turned round to him with a smile of extreme respect and complaisance, uttered another apology, and walked quietly across the street.

Eustace returned into the room, and, having proved the impossibility of composing himself to meditation, endeavoured to interest himself in reading. As any one can do this if he will, even in the most agitating moments of his existence, he had actually lost all recollection of Miss Duncan, Rumbold, and himself, when he was roused by a tremendous knocking at the door. Immediately after, the watchman, as directed, sprung his rattle. He was less surprised at the assault, than at the formality of it; and it seemed just possible that some friend of Miss Duncan's might have discovered her hiding-place. He demanded the names of his besiegers. The answer was an assurance that, unless they were admitted immediately, the