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at Oxford he had narrowly escaped a heavy collegiate censure for his daring avowal of infidel opinions. With wonderful tact, however, he now accommodated himself to the feelings of those whom it was his object to conciliate. He professed a deep respect for religion; with great candor, however, he acknowledged that it had hitherto occupied but little of his attention. He assumed the attitude of an inquirer, and, if things must be called by their right names, he played the part of the hypocrite most admirably. On Mrs. Irving he completely imposed on her daughter partially.

Ellen and Charles had never interchanged a word on the subject of their mutual attachment, and yet, in the inmost recesses of their souls, each had long regarded the other as the object of a conscious love. To Ellen's pure mind this feeling carried with it all the sanctity of an engagement; and, although she could not plead this in reply to her uncle's persuasions to encourage the addresses of Mr. Leeson, to her own heart it was in itself a sufficient reason why she should refuse them.

Not that she needed this motive to determine her. With that intuitive perception of character which often seems an instinct of the female heart, she felt that there was an undefinable something about him which she could not like, and, with all his winning manners, and even his appearance of regard for religion, she distrusted him. She felt, or fancied, her dislike was an unreasonable one, and, therefore, an unjust one; and, therefore, she tried to overcome it, but in vain ; there are untaught and unreasoning antipathies of the heart, which are under the guidance of something higher than either reason or experience.

Charles, however, could not see what was passing in her mind. It was natural that he should feel a jealousy of the addresses of one who had over him so much advantage in external circumstances - in all that men regard as calculated to bribe the female heart into regard. Born of a family far higher than his circumstances, Charles had all that sensitiveness of pride which such a position is calculated to nurture. He dreaded the character of an adventurer above all things. Had Ellen been destitute of fortune he would long since have plighted to her, in words, those vows of constancy and love which he had registered in his heart.

Upon such a disposition, the sensitiveness of which was aggravated by a morbid nervousness of temperament, the result of sleepless midnight hours, and intense application to study, the presence of a rival like Mr. Leeson produced effects almost amounting to madness. He fancied that Ellen encouraged his addresses, perhaps because he thought it most probable that any woman in her circum

stances would do so. His pride could not bear the thought that ever he had offered the homage of his heart where it had been rejected. He determined to appear indifferent

he rejoiced that never had a distinct avowal of his affection passed his lips. He resolved to make Ellen believe that any past attentions had not been serious upon his part; he wished her to believe that he had trifled with her affections, so false is the passion which men call pride; he had rather that she should have a just cause for reproach, than an unjust cause of triumph.

And he almost succeeded in conveying to her the impression he desired, and he made her miserable; his visits gradually became fewer and fewer at the cottage, until even his aunt remarked to him that he was neglectful of his friends. Occupation, and the necessity of intense study, furnished him with an excuse.

In the mean time her uncle, and even her mother, urged upon her the propriety of receiving the attentions of Mr. Leeson, which were so marked as no longer to be capable of being misunderstood. Mrs. Irving had been imposed on by the artfulness of his hypocrisy; she believed that he was such a man as her father would have chosen for Ellen; and, while she was not altogether dazzled by the worldly advantages of the match, so as to overlook higher considerations, she certainly did feel proud of seeing her daughter occupy that exalted station which she knew she was qualified to adorn.

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Poor Ellen was greatly perplexed feared that Charles, if he had ever loved her, no longer regarded her with feelings of affection. She could find no rational grounds for her dislike, or rather distrust of Mr. Leeson; but she felt that she could not love him. Had she been a girl of less high principles, she would not long have hesitated; but she shrunk from solemnly pledging, at the altar of her God, the tender of feelings which her heart told her she could not fulfil.

She told her feelings to her mother; Mrs. Irving was not altogether capable of understanding their depth. "My child," she said,

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if your heart tells you that it will not go with the vows you make, let nothing ever tempt you to make them; but Ellen, my dear, do not be led away by the notions of a romantic attachment which young people so often believe should be the foundation of marriage. Esteem is the real source of the only love that will last; it is almost in itself the love that a wife owes to her husband. Do not, Ellen dear, refuse a man whom you esteem, because you do not feel that wild, girlish sentiment which perhaps your education has not fitted you to form; but consult your own heart, and pray to God to guide you to what is right."

The mother affectionately kissed her child; | her hand, she looked over the sea, where the Ellen made no reply. She might have an- wind was sleeping along the waves. swered her mother's argument by analyzing her feelings towards Mr. Leeson, and questioning whether the distrust she felt for him was

She had sat for some time; the shadows of the clouds were getting darker on the waters, and the Kish light, shining distinctly on the black horizon around. Ellen was just thinking of returning home, when her attention was attracted by a female figure that had been apparently making its way along the rocks upon the sea-shore, and was moving up to the cultivated grounds about the cottage. The female stopped, and looked earnestly at the cottage, for a few minutes, not many yards from where Ellen sat; she had, therefore, concealed herself by the trellised paling that surrounded her, an opportunity of scanning the singular figure that presented itself.

The figure was tall, and, even amid the disfigurement of a large gray cloak that was wrapped around her, singularly handsome. The head was fastened round with a red band, and a profusion of the most luxuriant black hair streamed half way down the back,

consistent with esteem. But her own heart suggested a more sufficient reply; she had but to compare her sentiments towards him with those with which she still regarded her cousin, to know that she did not love him. In sadness and sorrow she went out alone to a favorite seat which overhung the sea. Clontarf is a little village on the sea-shore, at the distance of about two miles from Dublin. The magnificent bay spreads its broad waters before it; far across them, on the opposite side, rise the romantic hills of Killiney, and further still behind them, the Wicklow mountains repose upon the sky; the city itself lies to the westward, like a German metaphysician, almost always obscured in the dun atmosphere of its own smoke; a little to the north-east rises the Hill of Howth, and far away to the eastward you can discern noth-outside the cloak. Her feet and legs were ing but the blue and apparently boundless billows of the Irish channel; except, indeed, at eventide, when, like a solitary star on that wild waste of waters, you can see glimmering afar off, the lanthorn of the light-ship, a vessel which is moored on a sand-bank many miles out at sea; bearing, even on the bosom of the perilous element itself, the starlike signal of safety, or, to speak more correctly, of danger to the mariner, presenting this really romantic object, and performing these important services under the unromantic and unpretending designation of "the Kish Light.'

The residence to which Mrs. Irving had retired was situated on the sea-shore, some little way farther down than the village of Clontarf. The grounds, confined as they were, reached down to the beach. Just on some rocks which breasted the billows of the deep, a rustic seat had been constructed, so as to command a view of all the scenery of the bay. It was a favorite retreat of Ellen's; and, in her present frame of mind, there was something attractive in its sequestered situation.

It was almost the dusk of an autumn evening; the clouds hung heavily in the sky, and cast their dark shadows over the sea, along which the waves were running in troubled and irregular succession. The tide was near its height, and the spray was dashed high upon the rocks. One or two leaves from the trees, which grew down to the water's edge, were now and then whirled round and round in the eddies of the rude blast. Ellen wrapped her cloak close round her, as she walked rapidly along the gravel walk. There was a melancholy in the aspect of nature, suited to the state of her own mind. She sat down on the seat, and, leaning her head on

quite bare; the cloak was manifestly intended for a shorter figure, and so, indeed, it appeared was the red petticoat which appeared under it, for the legs were uncovered nearly to the knee, and the skin, which was of a delicate whiteness, appeared torn by brambles. Her back was partly turned towards Ellen, so that she could not see the face; but the form appeared to have her finger in her mouth, and to be gazing intently on the cottage, and muttering to herself. Ellen thought she distinguished her own name.

"Ay," cried the figure in a louder tone, "ay; little she knows about him; little little-littleThe rest of the sen

tence was lost in muttering.

The beating of Ellen's heart was so loud as almost to prevent her from listening; she caught by the trunk of the beech tree which was close to her.

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Little she knows; little-little;" again resumed the stranger, "maybe, little she cares that he has forsaken one, and made the light heart a sad one;" again she fell into the low muttering. Ellen could distinguish nothing but the word " Glenvale." A mist came over her eyes; she thought she should have fallen. Her mind instantly reverted to Charles: she knew not what to fear; a thousand thoughts were in that moment. Her agitation made her move so as to attract the notice of her mysterious visitant. She turned round with a glance of fire from eyes of the deepest black. There was an expression of wildness in the countenance. Ellen felt as if she had seen the features before. Indeed, even through its wildness, there was a beauty that made it not easy to have seen and have forgotten. She rushed, or

rather sprung, towards Ellen- "Ay, then, Miss Ellen, I'm glad - glad to see you; it is for you I'm looking; maybe, darlint, to save you from a sore heart a sore heart, Miss Ellen, it's a sore thing. Maybe you don't know; put your hand here, Miss Ellen;" and the poor creature flung open her bosom, and placed Ellen's hand upon her heart.

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"Miss Ellen, you don't know me;" she continued, looking up earnestly in her face, and in the earnest gaze Ellen recognized a face which she had not seen for years. My readers, perhaps, have before this recognized Sally Browne. "I did not know you at first, Sally; I did not expect to see you here," replied Ellen, startled at the manner and appearance of her old friend; still more startled at a thousand terrible thoughts with which her appearance was associated.

"No wonder," replied the other; "no wonder. I'm not like what I was when I used to catch the lambs for you at Glenvale. I used to be light-hearted. I am light-headed now my brain's not right, Miss Ellen, dear."

It needed not these words to assure Ellen of the truth. The poor maniac put her hand to her head and tapped several times with her finger on her forehead.

"I might tap long, Miss Ellen," she said; "but they 're in it-whirling about-ayever since the day I saw them both-the sod's over them—and white daisies are on them you know his hair was whitewhite, white-like the snow;" and she walked away, apparently forgetting her companion altogether.

Ellen recalled her with a voice trembling with agitation. She raised its tone almost to a scream, before the other heard it. She started.

"Who says Sally? O, ah, Miss Ellen, dear!"

"Did you not say, Sally, you had something to tell me?" said Ellen, scarcely knowing what she said.

Oh, Miss Ellen!" replied Sally, "I have to tell you look at me, darlint; you would n't like to be like me-you would n't like to wander the world-you would n't, Miss Ellen, dear now take care, Miss Ellen, don't trust him he loved me too." "Who?" interrupted Ellen, in violent emotion.

she bared her bosom and pointed to her heart.

She sat down at Ellen's feet, and seemed more collected.

"I've wandered far to-day, Miss Ellen, to tell you this story; and when I did come I wandered in my mind -I can't think of anything."

How is your father, Sally?" inquired Ellen, hoping that the question might recall the scattered recollections of the poor creature.

She looked up full in her face, and an expression of deep meaning passed across the wildness of her features. She clasped her long, lank hands; and her only reply was by a troubled moan. For some minutes she continued this low and dismal sound, while she rocked herself backwards and forwards with a motion that kept a sort of time to her moans.

She continued this motion for some time: at last she started to her feet. She grasped her head wildly with her hands, and then caught Ellen's with a violence that made her shrink. A sudden fire seemed to light up the maniac's eye. "Listen to me, Miss Ellen," she cried, while her voice appeared to assume new energy; "listen to me-I must tell it. A woman does not like to tell her shame; but the vow of the dead is upon me;" and as she continued to speak, her breathing rose higher and higher. "Be warned, Miss Ellen; it was Edward Leeson that made me what I am; it was he that broke my father's heart; be warned, Miss Ellen. He wants to marry you; I know he does. Come, listen to me; there is no one near us, but them that you don't see. Come, now, here give me your solemn oath that you'll never marry him." She paused—an unearthly fire lit up her eye

- she squeezed Ellen's wrists with a painful and convulsive grasp. "Swear it, swear it," she repeated, with a violence that was becoming alarming, "as you would miss the curse the curse the curse, Miss Ellen!" she screamed. "They 're here to curse you - do you see him there, there — swear— look at him—he's beckoning me - his hair is all white-swear." Her eyeballs were straining on some point by the seaside. A cold shudder passed over all her frame, while Ellen was literally compelled to give the required vow. The maniac became calm. "Did you see him, Miss Ellen?" she said, in a low and fearful whisper — "my father- he was there;" and she pointed in the direction in which her eyes had been previously directed. "I saw him standing on that

"Who!" exclaimed the other, looking with a piercing stare into her features; "are not you to be his bride-won't he make you a grand countess didn't he say it to me?" The maniac paused; Ellen breathed free-rock." ly.

She paused for a long time, overcome by "Ay, Miss Ellen, he will put diamonds in excitement; she resumed, in a subdued tone: your hair, but they will turn to serpents," Poor old man! he was always fond of and they will get about your heart-so you, Miss Ellen. Do you remember, long don't take them they're here;" and again ago, when you were at Glenvale; and wo

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you all, Miss Ellen; and keep your promise, darlint, and sometimes think of me. Maybe, Miss Ellen," she added doubtfully, "you would sometimes pray for me; pray that my wanderings may be short." She hesitated, as if it were almost impious in her to ask prayer for the only blessing she seemed to regard as possible for her.

The tide 's full in," she began again;

late?"

They were startled by the sound of Mrs. Irving's voice, in gentle tones, exclaiming, Ellen, my love, why are you out so Sally started; "I must be off," she cried wildly; my business was with you.' Ellen almost mechanically held her.

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all."

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It is my mother, Sally-tell- tell her

were both children; and then I was the bonniest child in all the country except yourself; and Master Charles used to vex you, saying I had blacker eyes than you, and the old man would take you on his knee, when you would begin to look downcast, and tell you that you had the sweetest face in all the country side; and that you would yet make a nice wife for Master Charles. Even in death he did not forget you. You have all my story, Miss" and one might fall in along the rocks, but Ellen, darlint. My father and my child are I'll be watched; my time 's not all in yet. in one grave; his white hairs are in it; but Would n't I make a pretty corpse, Miss Ellen, when he was cold under the sod he came to dear, if they found me with my long hair me in his winding-sheet, and he sent me all wet with the salt water?" to you; and I have to tell you-he-heMiss Ellen-he forsook me- he left me to die by the road-side, if I chose, when my father put me out; ay, and the old man's heart was broke, and he never looked up more. I bore it all until I saw him dieand my child, too. I was with him when he died; I saw him as the breath went from him; and he forgave me, and he blessed me; ay, and he blessed the baby; but that, Miss Ellen, went hard with him; but he did bless it, and he died; and I sat day and night beside the corpse. I talked to it all night. They wanted me to quit it; and before the morning light the child had gone to him. The dead man's blessing was on it; and it took fits and died. Then something passed through my head; and from that morning out-they say I'm mad- but I saw him that 's gone. He came to me in his white shroud; and he laid the vow upon me to come to you, and then I was to wander the wide world, a desolate creature, to go near neither kith nor kinto disgrace them that was what he put upon me. But maybe there's good for me in the next world; there's none in this. But I've done one vow, and I'll keep the other, though it's a hard one too, to be desolate in the earth - desolate desolate desolate !" and, repeating the word with bitter emphasis, she turned to depart down towards the sea.

It was now almost dark, and the tide had risen so high that there was no passage along the rocks. The mad girl stood just upon the edge of the water; her dark figure clearly discernible amid the white spray that was dashing round her. "Look, Miss Ellen!" she cried; "look!" pointing out towards the light that glimmered on the horizon from the light ship; "look! it's all black but that one star-all, all, all!"

She stood for a moment gazing on the light; then turned round, having discovered that there was no egress by the way she had

come.

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Mrs. Irving was now quite close to them. She was surprised at the strangeness of the figure which she saw wildly held by her daughter; she had no time, however, for inquiry. The maniac suddenly disengaged herself with violence from the gentle grasp that had detained her. Her eyes glared with fire; she raised herself up with proud dignity to an elevation that gave her fine figure a look of commanding energy; and while she raised her voice to a shriek, expressing the mingled emotions of terror and triumph, she cried out in an unearthly tone, "There!"

Ellen looked in the direction to which her out-stretched arm pointed; there stood, motionless and breathless, Mr. Leeson; her uncle was following a few paces behind.

There was, perhaps, fortunately for all parties, little time for thought or reflection. The maniac moved towards the object of her hate, as if she would have scorched him with her just indignation.

"Edward Leeson," she cried, "I have found you! Edward, do you know me; do you know the mother of your child? When last you saw me you told me I might go with it to hell; but it's in heaven, where you'll never be. Listen to me, villain, listen! The very dead have come to warn me about you. The blessed dead don't come back for nothing. If there is a God in heaven, vengeance will overtake you. You broke my father's heart. Let this lady ask what of the old sexton of Glenvale. Well she knew poor Sally when she was a child; she would not know her now; but SHE's promised; and listen the curse of the light heart that you have made heavy is with you wherever you go!"

She once more advanced towards Ellen. Good-by, Miss Ellen; if I have said any- A wild peal of laughter, such as none but thing queer don't be angry with me-re-maniacs laugh, closed this address, in which member my poor brain is turned. I've told no one had ventured to interrupt her. She

rushed down towards the sea, and disappeared apparently into the wave.

"Good God, she 'll be drowned!" exclaimed Mr. Irving, as he rushed to stop her; but her movements were too rapid; she had passed with a light step along rocks that seemed almost impassable; and before he reached the water's edge the same fearful laugh was echoing from a place which he knew to be one of safety.

From the incoherent ravings of poor Sally, my readers will gather as much as they can wish to learn of the dismal tale of the transactions in which she was concerned. They can have no difficulty in conceiving the natural result of her terrible disclosures.

Of all these occurrences I knew nothing at the time. My readers may therefore conceive my astonishment, as I was accidentally present at the scene which I must now describe.

Charles Wilson, I have already mentioned, had obtained a scholarship in the University; and he made his rooms his residence up to the time of his being called to the bar. An intimacy subsisted between him and me for some time. I remember, it must have been within some days of this strange interview, we had made a plan for a day's excursion into the county Wicklow: we returned late in the day by one of the evening coaches; we both were tired, and as we passed a tavern in street, Charles proposed that we should have

supper.

I do not now remember by what accident we were shown, not into the coffee room, but into a small room set apart for more private parties. There were two tables in it; at one of which Charles and I seated ourselves, and were soon engaged in the discussion of our supper with the appetite of hungry men.

I understood the shortness of his reply as a reproof of my impertinent inquiry; and like most persons who have received a deserved rebuke, I was very well inclined to be silent. Conversation altogether flagged at our table; but the others appeared well inclined to make up for it by their noisiness.

Their leader commenced calling for champagne; and I could not help thinking that he did so in a pointed manner, as if to ridicule the less aristocratic call which Charles had just that instant made for two tumblers of punch. It was not, however, pointed enough to justify a notice. Charles' face colored, and he again vehemently picked a bone.

The others commenced a conversation in a tone so loud that most of what they said could be heard at our table, particularly as our humble beverage by no means appeared as exhilarating in its effects as the champagne, of which their libations were certainly not stinted.

The officer talked of cock-fights and horseraces; the fat-faced gentleman of fighting bull-dogs, in a tone, and with a zest that seemed to confirm my guess as to his occupation. The other was generally silent, although occasionally he joined with the others in boasting of exploits of a character even more disgraceful than those of the heroes of the cockpit and the dog-fight.

At last he said to his companions, "Boys, I must tell you of my last adventure. Only think of it; an old rascal thought to hook me into matrimony with his niece."

"Into matrimony!" exclaimed the officer, incredulously.

"Ay," he said, "an old Jew of a Dublin merchant, who thought his money would be well spent in buying even the contingency of a coronet for a vulgar-looking niece that he While we were thus engaged, a second has taken as his child; she was the daughter party entered the room and took possession of of some country curate; but I humored the the other table. One of them, who seemed thing, and had a month's sport out of it, feastto be the leader, was a handsome young man ;ing with the uncle and flirting with the niece. at least he would have been both handsome I had them all in high tune; but, egad, the and gentlemanly in his appearance, if he had not both the manner and look of a roué. He was accompanied by a dandy-looking young officer, who was smoking a cigar, and a bluff and vulgar-looking, middle-aged man, who had something the look of a dog-stealer, but was also engaged in the gentlemanly occupation of the cigar.

A strange glance passed from the leader to Charles. Charles was evidently confused; there was, however, no sign of recognition.

"Do you know those chaps?" I asked, thoughtlessly.

"I don't want to know them," he answered, shortly, and began vehemently to pick the leg of a turkey, which had constituted a portion of our supper; he showed, however, no other symptom of agitation.

plebeian wretches took the matter too seriously, and I have been forced to cut it short."

Charles' features underwent a thousand changes of color and position during this speech, which the speaker rendered still more disgusting by language and insinuations of which no gentleman could be capable. I felt anxious to escape the contamination of such society.

"Who were the wretches that had the impudence to try to take in your lordship?" exclaimed the dog-stealer, as he thrust repeated spoonfuls of some made dish down a throat which gaped like the crater of a volcano, which, indeed, he made it resemble in other respects by being guilty of a certain practice to which volcanoes are said to be addicted.

"Honor bright," exclaimed the officer, in

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