THERE is no power against which we so much strug. gle, as the power of sympathy, when it tempts us to feel for the sorrows of our friends; we are glad enough to participate in their joys,—to catch the diamond sparkles which pleasure and prosperity fling to us, as we pass through life-to revel in the sunshine-to bask in smiles: but we upbraid the feeling that makes us sad at others' griefs-we like it not-we throw it away--we neglect its utility, and we care little for the comfort it bestows on the afflicted. We would forget that the cup of life is of mingled waters, bitter and sweet together, and that put it off as we will, it must be drunk, ay, to the dregs.

The late light of an autumnal morning found mother and daughter alone in that sad room-the fire burnt out, the tapers like their hopes exhausted-the air without heavy with salt vapour, and within laden with sighs: the mother had told her life's whole history to her child, and that blessed child was unselfish enough to grieve more at her parent's, than at her own, griefs. Mary had never, in the common acceptation of the word, been proud, but she was high-minded; her spirit was elevated, and her manners (particularly as her years advanced) had taken their tone from her mind. The circumstance which her mother at last developed did not render her despicable in her daughter's eyes-she saw her parent, as more weak than wicked-and that was all; but she knew enough of the world, to feel assured that half such a story would be sufficient to blast her reputation for ever. She could not even make out a plausible counter-statement-to suspect a woman's honour is as bad in the end, as to destroy it,

at once, altogether. Society is ever too alive on the subject to be baulked of its victim; it delights in an expiatory sacrifice whereon to tack its own sins. Mary almost lost sight of her own peculiar sorrow, in the magnitude of her mother's; a little reflection convinced her, that Harry was lost to her for ever. Mrs. Lorton proposed that, as it was evident D'Oraine desired money, and not her daughter without money, Mary should reveal the circumstances to Uncle Horace, who for the love he bore his niece, would doubtless buy him off, and keep the secret from Harry Mortimer, as well as from the world:-but Mary's spirit, steadfast in the truth, revolted against even the shadow of a lie-no, on him who was to be her husband she would practise no deception, however slight: her heart with all its secrets, she had resolved should ever be open to his perusal, as a fair printed book.

"I chose,” she said, "one worthy of such confidence—I would not even veil my faults before him, though at his bidding I would mend them; but it is over now-this man's aspect gave him pain before, and well it might, poor fellow! though he little knew the worst. Oh mother, mother, mother!" she repeated in her agony of spirit.

"You have broken my heart," said Mrs. Lorton, “I expected scorn and reproach; I have experienced only kindness, and a tenderness far more hallowed than I could anticipate. You do not hate me, do not cast me, your widowed mother-widowed and poor, from you, Mary."

66

"Cast you from me!" said the affectionate girl; Oh, no! my mother-my dear mother! if you had only told me this before, if I had known it, I would not have permitted the growth of that affection which is blasted for ever."

Mrs. Lorton was too much a woman of the world to yield to this feeling of Mary's without a struggle: when she had time to collect her thoughts, she felt that Horace Brown would sacrifice thrice twelve thousand pounds, rather than suffer the shadow of a stain to rest on Mary, reflected as it must be from her mother; bitterly as it would mortify her, to receive the least favour from him, still it was better that he should know the facts, than that they should be exposed to the whole world: he might perhaps pronounce the doom of exile on her, but what of that? her fame would be preserved, untouched, untainted; her child, too, would be preserved, she would again, adorn the society for which she appeared formed-agonising as

was the alternative, still it was the only one left. She spoke to Mary again and again on the subject, and though Mary saw the expediency of saving her mother, through the means of Uncle Horace's gold; and felt that for her sake, the old man would accede to the sacrifice—still the degradation clung more closely to her than a shroud—for her mother's sake, would she make the sacrifice, but for herself, all, all, was blasted! never could she become the wife of Harry Mortimer-never again feel herself the friend of Lady Ellen-never enter society but with a palpitating heart-never hear her mother's name mentioned without a blushing cheek! and yet that mother, at that very time, was dearer to her than ever-why? because she was utterly dependant on her ; and to those with generous souls, dependants are like flowers which the sun invigorates by his beams, and shines to sustain! The difficulty felt by both was in arranging how to put the proposition, so as to induce D'Oraine's silence until Mary could communicate with her uncle. He was known but too well to Mrs. Lorton, as a man of desperate deeds and desperate fortunes; one of unrestrained passions, and profligate, yet selfish, avarice; that his necessities must have been great, Mrs. Lorton could not doubt, for had they not been so, even he would not have urged so base a plan for procuring gold: so monstrous was the proposition altogether, that she would have imagined it made only to intimidate, were it not for her former knowledge of his character; still her mind was relieved by the fact of her having spoken to her daughter freely of her distress, and the persecution she had endured during the last London season.

"I felt," said she, "like one who, wearing a mask loosely upon his face, has the knowledge, that if it drops off, instant death must follow; had I not sighed for wealth and distinction, I might have remained tranquil and unnoticed -I should have been no mark for his cupidity—the evil remembrance of my first faults would have been obscured by my after deeds of good, but the scourge was in his hands, and it extracted blood, unmingled with water. Oh! how I dreaded this exposure, how I quailed, when at Lady Norley's, on that fatal night, I met his eye-his basilisk eye! No dress, no title could deceive me—in the morning watch, in the midnight dream, at the opera, in the park, in the silence of my own chamber, in the crowded saloon, I felt as if his eye was on me! he followed the carriage home; and Uncle Horace, who had seen him before your VOL. II.-6

birth, I felt assured would recognise him also, for he had never concealed that whatever my present life might be, my past was at least suspicious. Your father, too, I had long deceived him, and (do not hate me, Mary) I felt his death a relief-while I wept, I thanked God that he was gone! The virtues of those we injure stand between us and Heaven, and cast us back upon our sins."

"Was he then," inquired Mary, "quite without suspicion?"

"Perfectly," she replied, “I do believe most perfectly; he was dazzled by my extreme beauty in my youth, and I was still so young, that there was no room for suspicion; his nature was unsuspicious, and he was as much immersed in business during our early wedded life, as he was afterwards in dinners and display. I was the grand aid of that display, and he was satisfied: still his leaving me without provision, was so strange an act, that it perplexes me in a way which I cannot describe. Your Uncle's letter which you have read is harsh and unfeeling— but brothers in law are never brothers in heart; he disliked me because your father did not wish that he should know my foreign origin, and threw a mystery over me, which your uncle could ill brook. Then, Mary, he loved you so dearly, that he was jealous you loved your mother better than him; he was unjust to my good qualities, and certainly I was not slow at aggravating his dislike— however, he has, as men always have, his revenge."

66

“Indeed!” interrupted Mary, "I am sure he thought not of revenge; would that you had let me see the letterwould that you had confided in me: Oh, dearest, mother, your Mary was not unworthy of your confidence!"

"I know it now, my child!" replied Mrs. Lorton, “I know it now when it is all too late! but you cannot fancy the bitter sufferings I experienced in London. Maxwellshe knew D'Oraine had influence over me, but she considered it as one of those slight liaisons, which are continually taking place amongst those who either are, or would be, fashionable: she had been bribed I know by Uncle Horace, perhaps, also, bribed by HIM!”.

"Oh," exclaimed the shuddering Mary, "that such means should be ever necessary! Oh, if people did but know the value of simple truth!"

"Ay," said her mother; "but, Mary, with women, c'est le premier pas qui coûte-man can retrieve a fallen step, but woman, never."

It was a beautiful illustration of true filial affection, to witness the zeal with which Mary Lorton entered into her mother's plans and feelings-how completely she put her own aside, though conscious that the dearest tie of her existence must be broken-though perfectly aware, that if Uncle Horace was won over to pay the price, and her mother's secret be thus preserved, she must appear to those she so loved and cherished, as a capricious, cold-hearted, jilting woman: still with a wisdom that far surpassed her years, and a strength of mind which no one who knew her usually tender and gentle nature would suppose she possessed, she talked---it is true, with a feeble voice, but with a firm purpose---to her mother, concerted the best mode of proceeding, and finally resolved to see D'Oraine herself alone that morning.

"I will yield up every thing I possess on earth," she said, "every prospect---I will banish all thoughts, all hopes, all affections, to preserve this secret inviolate: but, mother, I cannot---I cannot---the word seems unpronounceable when I think of him; no, if he persists

She paused.

"We must perish," added her mother, "we could not survive it---Oh, my child, my child! my pride, my hope, my delight! it is I who have brought this misery upon you! to see you either dragging on a blighted existence, dying of that secret sorrow which cankers in and devours the heart---fading before me---or blasted, shivering, and dying---destroyed by a blow, struck in reality by a mother who would die to save you! and then the sneers and taunts of those who envied both--the sarcasm, the spite, the malignity--the saloons---that despite our origin were compelled at times to praise. How many miserable wretches would exult in this downfall!"'

"Poor creatures!" said Mary, smiling sadly;" such are not worthy of our anger-a wonder is but a wonder to them; be it a reputation lost or a reputation gained, it is all one do not let us think of that, leave me to myself— this matter now rests entirely between D'Oraine and me -you need not be again disturbed by an interview."

"It is impossible," said Mrs. Lorton ;" "you cannot see him alone-you! young and unprotected, to encounter such a man-it must not be !"

"It must be, mother," said Mary, firmly; "your presence would increase my weaknes, not give me strength; it must indeed be. I think I remember some lines-my