one, when I am so much in need of it myself. Edith, your fate is in your own hands, in a short time it will be so no longer. Fly with me !-'Tis true, I cannot offer you either the rank or fortune of Lord de Courtenaye-no coronet will deck your brow; but still, the blood of the heiress of the Lords of Strankally would not be disgraced by an alliance with the last of the Ardens. Edith, I now entreat you not to hesitate another moment, or our happiness is lost for ever!"

Arden, much as I love, nay idolize thee, I cannot leave my father's house under thy protection. How could I bear to see thee lie bleeding at my feet, killed by De Courtenaye! How could I bear to hear him cry, Edith, you are the cause of Arden's death !' How could I bear to hear my father call down curses on one who had so far forgotten every sense of propriety and duty, as to fly from her father's walls with almost a stranger! No, Arden, much as I love thee, I could not bring down all these trials on my head."

"Edith, call you this love, that can be frighted by some foolish fancy of the brain? It may be love, but of a far different sort to what you have hitherto professed for me. Oh, Edith! let me recall my words! my brain is nearly turned with the excess of my grief! Pardon me!" "Arden, from my heart I forgive you; but never, hereafter, doubt a woman's love, for nothing can be more pure or ardent than that I bear you."

A servant here interrupted their conversation, and they both proceeded to the appointed place. A far different scene was passing below. In a small room, which the glare of a wood-fire seemed to illumine, sat the Earl of Strankally and Lord de Courtenaye; the latter seemed much excited, and exclaimed-"Do you wish to deceive me? I tell you she loves him-ay, and with her whole heart! Cannot I see her cheek flush, and her eyes light up with fire, when he addresses her? Far different is her behaviour towards me; always cold and distant. Oh, Edith thou little knowest how dear thou art to me. Arden, base fiend! to rob me of that prize for which I would have ventured every thing. I loved thee once, but now that love is turned to hate, more deep, more desperate, than human frame can conceive."

He stopped, and pressed his forehead

O-VOL. VIII, FEBRUARY.

with his hands: his passion gave him the appearance of one bereft of reason. Lord Strankally, trembling with fear, replied,

"De Courtenaye, thou art surely mad. My Edith loves thee. To-morrow thou wilt claim her as thy bride. Let us hie to the banqueting hall, and there she shall sing to thee. I will send for her."

On entering the hall they discovered Edith and Arden in close converse. A contraction of the brow and a slight compression of the upper lip was all that could be observed in De Courtenaye's countenance, as, in a hurried manner, he saluted Edith's hand.

"Come, Edith-mine," said he, "the banquet only waits thy fair presence; deign to grace the festive board, and I shall be happy."

Saying this he led her to the table. Long they sat, and deep De Courtenaye drunk at last Edith rose and said"Father, I would retire; give me thy blessing, that I may rest in peace.”

"Nay, lovely Edith, stay till we have drunk thy health."

"Then be it so, De Courtenaye; but pray be speedy, for I would fain retire."

"Bring hither the goblets, boy!" saying this, De Courtenaye filled four of them with wine; but in the last he, unobserved by all, save by the too fearful Edith, poured a small powder, at the same time giving strict injunctions to present the last to Sir Robert Arden; but Edith, quickly rising, snatched it, and, before De Courtenaye could stop her, drained it to the dregs. A cry of horror burst from his lips.

"Aye, de Courtenaye, thou mayst well shriek in horror! Father, listen to me; it may be for the last time. That man you would have wedded your only child to is a murderer! In his hand is now the paper which held the poison I have drunk. With his own hand he mixed it at your board; he would have poisoned Sir Robert Arden, his own cousin! De Courtenaye, crimes like thine can never go unpunished; retribution will come sooner or later."

She stopped, and gasped for breath; her features grew pale, and in a few minutes the poison had taken its effect: Edith was no more! Suddenly a shriek was heard, more piercing and shrill than words can describe-Sir Robert Arden had stabbed De Courtenaye to the heart!

nities of bettering your fortune; but what is then to become of my orphan little ones ?"

"I swear to you, my dear, my honoured father, by the love we mutually bore to my lamented mother, and by all my anguish in this dreadful hour, that I will never abandon them, and they shall ever be the objects of my personal care," said Lucas Stanmore, with streaming eyes. "May then the blessing of that God, in whose presence I shall shortly stand, be upon you, son of my hopes and love!" Then signing for the water he had so lately refused, he drank a deep draught of the refreshing element, and bowing his face on his son's bosom, he expired without a sigh. Sir Lucas Stanmore continued to sustain the lifeless form of his beloved father in his arms, feeling, yet dreading to certify the awful truth, till the colonel's head falling heavily back over his supporting arm, showed him the mournful change which had taken place, in those dear and familiar features, noble even in death.

He then laid all that remained of his father reverently on the turf. Just at this moment the cloud burst that had so long hung over them, and the rain began to fall in large and heavy drops. With that vain care, of which erring mortality cannot divest itself for the unsuffering dead, Sir Lucas raised the body of his father from the spot where he died, placed it in the overhanging shelter of a sandy bank, and covered it with his cloak. He thought not of himself, he attempted not to avoid the fury of the coming storm. He remembered not his own wounds and exhaustion: he was conscious of nothing but the intensity of his sorrow. How long he might have remained in that melancholy abstraction is uncertain, but the approach of a party of fugitives roused him from the stupor of grief." Ah, Lucas, I see how it is with you!" said the young Lord Widdrington, whose crape scarf and sable plumes testified his own recent loss; for the stout baron his father had fallen in the skirmish, which immediately preceded this disastrous action. "Flee! flee! my brave friend, this is no time for the indulgence of sorrow, which can avail the valiant Sir John Stanmore nothing. We are hotly pursued by the victorious roundheads. Mount! mount! and ride with us, without another moment's delay!" Slowly and sadly Sir Lucas Stanmore rose from the ground; he uncovered the face of his

departed father, and gazed mournfully on it, while he took from the yet warm bosom the portrait of the deceased Lady Stanmore. He sighed heavily as he contemplated for a moment the lovely features of his mother. "You seem to smile more sweetly than usual, though in the horrors of an hour like this." His tears fell fast on the crystal which covered the inanimate resemblance. "Ah! my mother," continued he, as he secured the miniature in his bosom, "you are happily unconscious of the anguish of your son, and I am spared the agony of telling you a tale which would have broken your heart to have heard." He then imprinted a farewell kiss on the marbled brow of his father; mounted his mettled steed, and rode off at furious career, not trusting himself to cast one look behind. The dawning light found him at Oaklands, the family mansion of which he was now the sole master. The old domestics crowded round him, as he flung himself from his steed at the gate; but they saw the cloud on his brow, and asked no questions. Indeed, his lonely return, the disorder and sanguine stains of his dress, and the foamwreaths on his horse's sides, told but too plainly the tale of the defeat and death of their revered master. "Now Heaven preserve us; but you return with a heavy countenance, my child!" said old Bridget Graystone, his nurse; "I almost dread to ask you what tidings from Bolton-le

Moors.'

"All is lost, Bridget," said Sir Lucas, dashing the tears from his eyes as he spoke.

"And your brave father, our noble master, how fares he?"

"As well as many gallant gentlemen who lay cold in their blood last night on that fatal plain," returned the young baronet. There was a general exclamation of grief among the household at these words; and Sir Lucas Stanmore avoided all farther questions by rushing past the servants, and entering the oak parlour, where he found his young sisters. "Dear, dear brother!" said they, springing into his arms, "have you returned at last, and without our father. We sat up late last night in hopes of seeing you both."

He folded them to his bosom in silence, for he could not speak. "Well but, dear Lucas, did you see the king, and did you win the battle ?"

"Do tell us what a battle is like!"

was slain by the rebels at Bolton-leMoors."

"Why then did you not kill the falsehearted rebels who slew our dear father!" asked Blanche, passionately: while Helen, who was just old enough to comprehend their mutual calamity, buried her face in his bosom, and mingled her tears with his; and Sir Lucas, tenderly uniting the young orphans in a fraternal embrace, vowed afresh never to leave them, but to watch over them, and be a father and protector to them both.

It was in vain that Sir Lucas Stanmore gave orders to the few servants who yet remained at Oaklands, to go to the field of battle in search of the body of their master. Panic-stricken by the fate of their comrades who had accompanied Sir John Stanmore to the battle, they refused to approach that fatal spot. Maddened by their cowardice and obstinacy, Sir Lucas determined to overcome the pain and exhaustion which overpowered him, and lead them himself to the performance of this necessary act of duty: but it was a vain effort, he fell from his horse while endeavouring to mount, and was carried back to his bed in a state of anguish of mind that passes description. During the whole day there was a vehement struggle between his mental powers and his bodily sufferings, which ended in the complete victory of the latter; and night found him, though oppressed with fever, occasioned by neglect of his wounds, yet torpid and heavy with excessive fatigue. A delirious stupor, which much resembled sleep, soon stole over him, but brought no relief to his sufferings. On the morning of the fourth day, his ardent spirit at length overcame bodily illness, and regardless of the warning, admonitions, and entreaties of his nurse, he rose at break of day. "This is no time for lying supinely on a bed of sickness," said he, impatiently replying to the supplicating looks of Bridget Graystone, who ventured to follow him to the stables, recommending the propriety of further rest-"this is no time for being stretched in slothful indolence. Does not the revered form of my father lie unburied

at Bolton-le-Moors. Evening shall see me revisit that fatal plain."

Sir Lucas found that he had not a single servant left to saddle his horse, or to attend him on his journey. Seized with a panic, they had all fled, and he was forced to proceed alone, on his melancholy errand. As he rode to the place of his destination, he could not help observing the hurry and confusion in which the whole country was involved. The fatal battle of Worcester had been fought, and indescribable terror and alarm pervaded the most remote corners of the island. Many people cast inquiring glances at Sir Lucas, who, riding slowly and recklessly, passed on through town and village, heeding not the tumult with which he was at times surrounded, and seeming to care little what should next befall him. The sun was setting when he gained the little broomy dell where he had left his noble father reposing in the arms of death. At the first glance, a pang shot through his heart, he thought the body had been removed-a second convinced him of his error; the dark outline of the figure was just discernible in the same sheltered nook in which he had left it; but the long and willow herbs, which had been crushed and trampled down, had now risen up, and bent and waved round the body, as if desirous of sheltering the place of the warrior's repose. Sir Lucas, with a beating heart, drew the cloak from the face of his father, having an undefined dread of seeing those beloved features strangely altered, or disfigured. It was precisely at that moment when death puts on for a short