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193 other a mere child of two or three years old." 6 What’s that to me?" asked Monks. s They resided,’ said Mr. Brownlow, without seeming to hear the interruption, “in a part of the country to which your father, in his wanderings, had repaired, and where he had taken up his abode. Acquaintance, intimacy, friendship, fast followed each other. Your father was gifted as few men are—he had his sister’s soul and person. As the old officer knew him more and more, he grew to love him. I would that it had ended there. His daughter did the same.” The old gentleman paused. Monks was biting his lips, with his eyes fixed on the floor; seeing this he immediately resumed— c The end of a year found him contracted, solemnly contracted, to that daughter, the object of the first, true, ardent, only passion, of a guileless, untried ir ve a Your tale is of the longest,” observed Monks, moving restlessly in his chair. ‘It is a true tale of grief, and trial, and sorrow, young man,” returned Mr, Brownlow, s and such tales usually are. If it were one of unmixed joy and happiness, it would be very brief. At length one of those rich relations, to strengthen whose interest and importance your father had been sacrificed—as others are often, it is no uncommon case—died, and to repair the misery he had been instrumental in occasioning, left his panacea for all griefs —money. It was necessary that he should immediately repair to Rome, whither this man had sped for health, and where he had died, leaving his affairs in great confusion. He went, was seized with mortal illness there, was followed the moment the intelligence reached Paris by your mother, who carried you with her; he died the day after her arrival, leaving no will—no will—so that the whole property fell to her and you.” At this point of the recital, Monks held his breath and listened with a face of intense eagerness, though his eyes were not directed towards the speaker. As Mr. Brownlow paused he changed his position, with the air of one who has exrienced a sudden relief, and wiped his ot face and hands. “ Before he went abroad, as he passed through London on his way,” said Mr. Brownlow, slowly, and fixing his eyes upon the other's face, * he came to me." c] never heard of that,” interposed Monks, in a tone to appear incredulous, 17 Z, but savouring more of disagreeable surprise. | 6 He came to me, and left with me among other things a picture—a portrait painted by himself—a likeness of this poor girl—which he did not wish to leave behind, and could not carry forward in his hasty journey. He was worn by anxiety and remorse almost to a shadow, talked in a wild and distracted strain of ruin and dishonour worked by him, confided to me his intention to convert his whole property at any loss into money, and having settled on his wife and you a portion of his recent acquisition, to fly the country—I guessed too well he would not fly alone—and never see it more. Even from me, his old and early friend, whose strong attachment had taken root in the earth that covered one most dear to both, even from me he withheld any more particular confession, promising to write and tell me all, and after that to see me—once again for the last time on earth. Alas! that was the last time. I had no letter, and I never saw him more.” 6 [ went,” said Mr. Brownlow, after a short pause, “I went, when all was over, to the scene of his—I will not use the term the world would use, for harshness or favour are now alike to him—of his guilty love; resolved, if my fears were realized, that erring child should find one heart and home open to shelter and compassionate her. ‘The family had left that part a week before; they had called in such trifling debts as were outstanding, discharged them, and left the place by night. Why or whither, none could tell.” Monks drew his breath yet more freely, and looked round with a smile of triumph. “ When your brother,” said Mr. Brownlow, drawing nearer to the other’s chair, “when your brother—a feeble, ragged, neglected child—was cast in my way by a stronger hand than chance, and rescued by me from a life of vice and infamy—” c What!” cried Monks, starting. — . “ By me,” said Mr. Brownlow—* I told you I should interest you before long. I say by me—lI see that your cunning associate suppressed my name, although, for aught he knew, it would be quite strange to your ears. When he was rescued by me then, and lay recovering from sickness in my house, his strong resemblance to the picture I have spoken of struck me with astonishment. Even when I first saw him, in all his dirt and misery, there was a lingering expression in his face that came upon me like a glimpse of some old
