opinion, that it is her duty to lay the fact before her friend, and will write to her immediately on the subject."

Here ended Delaward's tale to me, and here must end my voluminous epistle to you. Is it not worthy of a French novel? Poor Lady Annandale! into what hands has she fallen!

Ever yours,

NOTTINGHAM.

THE COUNTESS OF ANNANDALE TO THE

COUNTESS OF DELAWARD.

Grosvenor Square, April.

YOUR letter really alarmed me, my dear Mary; and I have asked myself, more than once, what mine could have contained to have called forth such anxiety, not about my feel

ings (and they most required it), but my conduct, which, I trust, will ever be blameless. I do not, and feel I never can, love Lord Annandale; but does this fact indicate that I shall be an unkind or an unfaithful wife? I trust not. If you knew him, you would entertain no fears for his happiness, whatever you might for mine. As long as he sees me well looking, well dressed, and well received, he will be satisfied: a clouded brow, a paler cheek, or a stifled sigh, are not things to alarm him, or even to be remarked. He thinks there are only two species of women,the romantic, who are the young, and who, knowing nothing of real life, indulge in the illusions of imagination, sigh for an ideal happiness, and shrink from the positive one within their reach; and the unromantic, who are not the very young, and, having lost all the illusions of life, are content with the

homely and unimaginative enjoyments it can

bestow.

He concludes that I shall arrive at this last state in due time; and, en attendant, thinks that it is not unbecoming to see a very young woman pale and pensive. He does not know that, before youth has learned to discriminate, the heart sometimes becomes suddenly matured, and supplies the fatal knowledge which is usually the growth of experience. It seems to me as if I had jumped from childhood to maturity at one step; but that step has been over a precipice, in which my happiness has been ingulfed. It is not, it surely cannot be, a spirit of envy that actuates me; but ever since I have seen your home, and witnessed how you are loved, my very soul has pined and ached with a consciousness of the want of a similar blessing. Were I so loved, and by

one I could respect, I think I could be happy, even though I felt not that fond, that lively tenderness, which I have seen sparkle in your eyes, and tremble on your lips, when your husband has approached. It is a sad thing to look at happiness only through another's eyes. It seems to me as if the being loved, cherished, and respected, by a good and honourable man, would be sufficient for happiness: one who mingled you with all his thoughts of this world, and all his hopes of the next; who left you with regret, and returned with delight; to whom you could reveal every sentiment, every feeling, as to a second self; one whose experience was to be your guide, and whose firmness, your protection. You and Lord Delaward give me the idea of two rational beings, united to divide the cares and share the blessings of life; while Lord Annandale and I remind me of two persons forming a

party of pleasure, into which as much amusement as possible is to be crowded, and who have no other ties, or aim, or end.

The evening we came to town, he proposed taking me to the opera: I declined, because I was fatigued, and wished to pass the first evening of my séjour in a house of my own, quietly at home. I explained these feelings; he assented, and left the room to see to the comfort of my establishment in my own apartment, as I concluded: but no such thing. After an hour's absence he returned, dressed for the evening, wondered that I had not ordered tea, and said he was going for an hour to the opera, and then to the club; saying which, he kissed my hand, and hurried off, leaving me no less surprised than mortified at being thus deserted. Does not this first triste evening in my new abode seem ominous? I will endeavour not to entertain the apprehension.