others, Agnes was
seated, looking over a large and elegant portfolio, the peculiar
beauties of whose admirable engravings, Ernest Clifford seemed eagerly
pointing out, as he bent over her chair; his handsome countenance lit up
with a smile of pleasurable emotion.

"Ah, yes, I understand you now, Maria. But I heard Mr. Bernard had some
partiality that way."

"Hush, speak lower, for he is standing at the table near you."

"Oh, dear me, I had no idea he was so handy."

"That was mere idle gossip, I assure you," was the reply, as the tones
sank into a whisper. "I have the best evidence in the world as to that."

"Well, well, they will make a handsome couple, I must say," remarked
Maria's companion, as Mr. Bernard moved away with a firm step, which
gave no indication of the mental agony that was rending his soul.

Glad to make his escape, he stepped out from an open window in the
balcony, and from thence descended, by a short flight of marble steps,
into the large and thickly-shaded garden, which it overlooked.

With a feverish step he traversed its winding walks, until wearied he
sank on a rustic seat, beneath the welcome shade of a graceful elm. The
sounds of music and mirth came wafted to him through the open casement,
and never seemed they less congenial to his feelings.

"If I could only think it some of that ill-natured woman's gossip, I
would not care," he said, half aloud, "for the mind that could indite
such an epistle as Ella received, containing the account of Agnes's
supposed death, would be capable of anything,--but, alas, I fear it is
too true.

'Her heart it is another's, and
It never can be mine.'

Yes, she appears reserved, almost cold with me. I am evidently shunned
by her, while =he= is welcomed most warmly, whenever he appears. But I
cannot blame her. It was natural that an acquaintance, thus strangely
formed, should lead to such a result, and he, too, yes, he is worthy of
her. He loves her dearly, I am sure of that; but never, never can he
regard her as I do."

Again the sounds of music swelled on the balmy evening breeze. It was
now a woman's voice that warbled clear and sweet a touching strain.

"It is Agnes," he murmured, adding as a fine manly voice took up another
part, "and that is Ernest Clifford. My fondest hopes, a long, a last,
farewell."

CHAPTER XIV.

A fortnight had elapsed subsequent to the festivity recorded in the
preceding chapter, when, late one aftern