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came the report of a gun; and, finally, human voices were added to the tumult, for the whole of the squire's household were by this time aroused. Betty shrieked,-John swore,-while Dorothy the dairy-maid screamed out 'robbery' and 'murder!' as loud as she could bawl; even the very fowls were aroused from their roost; and never before was heard such an uproar at midnight, around the hall of Sutton-cumBottesford. "And this," said Godfrey, as the cry swelled, and his assailants drew nearer, "all comes through taking too much wine!" And he swore, as he still swung his pole-for the mastiff became emboldened when he heard those approaching with whose voices he was familiar, for both blue and silver' had leaped up at the alarm. Even the great fat coachman had rushed out amongst the rest, swearing and coughing, and, like the others, half-dressed. But the pencil of Phiz' has pictured them just as they were at the moment of the encounter. There is Benjamin with his pistol-for Benjamin was in the yeoman cavalry, and he had courage enough to touch a trigger. There also is Peter with the poker, his only covering his breeches and his shirt. Patty in her petticoat is near at hand; and Susan with only her skirt on is just going to faint, as she sees the features of the horrible murderer, who, with the large rail was coming to beat out all their brains, without giving them time to say their prayers. But the fat coachman caught her before she fell; and he looks a 'very Herod' at the villain. Then there are the 'blue-and-silver footmen,'-what the old dramatists called 'six-mile runners within the hour,' and they look much inclined to run off; even the cook has seized his rolling-pin, and is determined to defend his crust.

"Shoot him first, Benjamin !" cried the tender-hearted Patty; "then he can't hurt us so much; aim at the villain's vitals. Oh! Lord amercy, he'll murder us all! John Footman, you coward! will you see a woman murdered in cold blood!"

John never stepped so quickly at his master's bidding, as he did backward, when he beheld at one blow the ready-cocked pistol fly from Benjamin's hand, and saw the rail which Godfrey wielded, as it rung in the air, and came within a foot of his powdered head.

"Heave your rolling-pin at him, your cowardly cook !” exclaimed Patty, who had more courage than all the rest; "it may happen to knock his brains out, and keep him quiet a bit, till we take the villain prisoner. Oh! I wish George, the gamekeeper, was here with his

gun!"

“You are very kind, Miss Patty," said Godfrey, taking advantage

F

of the first pause which his own prowess had made in the uproar; "and if you treat every guest as kindly, who has dined with your master, they will not trouble you again."

"Lord! why it's only the poor poet after all," exclaimed Susan, suddenly recovering from her fainting fit; "and if we'd happened to have killed him we should never have heard the last of it. Deary me! what fools we all are, not to know him!"

By this time Squire Ingledew had joined the group, and Godfrey was now sober enough, and recounted all that our readers already know; briefly adding that he regretted what had happened, but that when he awoke he thought it best to return home, as he knew how uneasy the worthy clergyman would feel if he staid out all night, as he had never hitherto done so. The squire took his hand, shook it; begged of him to make no apology; sent off a servant instantly to the parsonage house, with his compliments, and Mr. Malvern would not return until morning; and before Godfrey had time to countermand the order, Emma Ingledew herself stood before him, and from her lips he needed but little persuasion to return to the hall.

Godfrey again recounted what had befallen him, how he awoke and knew not for some time where he was; how he was nigh being worried by the mastiff; and what a narrow escape he had from Benjamin's pistol; and how Patty had regretted that George the gamekeeper was not there with his gun. Emma listened to him, and at first turned pale; but Godfrey blended so much humour with the description of his perils as he proceeded, that at last she laughed outright, even until she showed the white rows of her pearly teeth. Her father laughed also; and for once in his life, his laughter was sincere; then he proposed a little brandy to keep out the cold: this Godfrey refused; and at two o'clock in the morning, Emma, slightly dressed, rang the bell for tea. She blushed as she seized the bell-rope, and saw her own fair form reflected in the large mirror-her beautiful hair in paper-the nightdress which she had hastily thrown on when she heard the alarm of danger; fo not until then did she remember how loose the lady was arrayed.' But never in Godfrey's eyes had she looked so lovely, as she laughed and chatted, thoughtless of what she said; now mixing her. father's brandy and water, then our hero's tea; and in her happy thoughtlessness lifting up the spoon to her sweet lips, and both tasting of the cup that does, and the cup that does not inebriate.'

Then a thought struck the dear innocent girl-the hangings were taken down in the best bed-room,-the only bed that was well-aired.

The green-room, so called from the colour of its paper, had but been cleaned that day, and must be damp; the summer-room, next to her father's, had but just been painted; the one over the hall, the Upholsterers had not yet finished; and in every other room, something was not exactly in 'apple-pie order!' She rang the bell for her own favourite maid, whispered her outside the door to make her own bed afresh; she herself would sleep in the best bed-room. Godfrey Malvern must sleep in the very bed which she had but quitted the hour before.

And was there not, enquires our reader, something very wrong in this?-There might be-but she knew it not; she had no mother to guide her aright; no prim governess to starch her up to the stiff forms of the world; she was nature's own erring child; and no marvel if she often did such things as were at variance with those rigid conventional laws, which select society have drawn too tightly around us. Innocent in heart as a bird, she acted only upon the impulse of her own kind nature; and such dictates seldom guide us wrong, for there is still that internal monitor, which, although it shrinks not beneath the brand of the cold, grand, formal world, ignorant alike of its censure and its praise, still makes shift to keep within a circle as pure as that on which a thousand lips are ever breathing, and around which as many jealous eyes are ever keeping watch. And to what does all this over-strained courtesy lead?-to affectation:-it causes us to assume what we are not. How the abrupt entrance of even a friend, at times, paralyzes a family circle. And why is this the case? what need of all those apologies,-'If we had but known,' 'Do excuse the cloth,' 'I'm afraid you won't like this, that, and the other?' The friend sits in misery; the family wish the devil had him; and yet on both sides compliments are exchanged, and deception carried on.

She gave up her own bed to her father's guest, believing it to be the only one in which he could sleep comfortably. In a lower state of society, and with such feelings, she would have given up her plate, knife, fork, and solitary mutton-chop, if she had been compelled to make her own dinner of bread only. This may be carrying good nature too far; nevertheless it is just what she would have done. The beggar about to make a meal of the scraps he had picked up in the village, when he heard the moans of an older beggar than himself behind the hedge complaining of hunger, went and emptied his wallet at the feet of his aged companion, and acted the part of a christian and a gentleman, although the next hour saw him fasting, and again begging from door to door. It is the motive, not the manner, on which true charity, the basis of every

virtue, is founded: a boy sometimes gives a dog a crust with more of this genuine feeling in his bosom, than the proud man subscribes his guinea to some splendid charity. But these matters rest between man and his Maker; it is only now and then that they burst forth, and at some unguarded moment reveal themselves to the eyes of the world.

Turn we again to Godfrey Malvern. Our hero entered the lady's chamber, and looked at his attendant as if to enquire if there was not some mistake. The girl read his meaning in an instant, and she said, "It is my young mistress' room," and added with an arch smile, "but I hope you will not sleep the less soundly for that-so good night, sir." And a fitting nest it was for so fair a bird, all' saintly-white, like driven-snow.' There stood the mirror which had a thousand times reflected back her lovely image; there lay the little tortoise-shell combs, just as she had thrown them down, when she bound up her brown silken ringlets; her beads and brooch were there, and Godfrey took them up, and pressed them fondly to his lips. On the table was laid his own poems; a flower (one which he himself had gathered) marked the page where she last read; there also lay her unfinished drawing from one of his verses,-the laden ass; the shepherd lad driving his lambs; and above the hedge, the old carrier's tilted cart.Godfrey snatched up the pencil, and put in a few masterly touches, which gave a softness and a beauty to the distance; it was very wrong, but he did it without a thought. By the window stood a pot of wild flowers, the very same which he had helped her to gather during one of their walks. There also lay her guitar; her music; some of his own songs copied by herself; and on the back of one of these sheets, was a slight sketch of his own likeness;-the outline of the face was excellent. Godfrey felt he had done wrong; and although alone, blushed at the discoveries he had made. How changed were now his thoughts! He felt himself unworthy of her! What proofs were these! Her admiration of his talents was not affected; he saw that his veriest trifles were treasured by Emma Ingledew. He stood there a changed man; he felt the forlornness of his situation,-the humility of his position. What had he to offer her but a true heart, or, if even accepted, but to bind himself for ever as a slave to her father, -to a man whom he disliked, and yet he scarcely knew why? And what might be her father's conduct, if he once aspired to the hand of his daughter? He already heard the laugh,—the sneer! saw the proud man draw himself to his full height, and order him out of the room. No! he would rather die, than subject himself to such degradation! There was but one cure,

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