ith shame, and then with anger at
his want of composure.

"There are many circumstances in life, Miss Leicester," said he,
gravely, "which demand heavy sacrifices of personal feeling; and happy
if sometimes the recompense come in seeing that our self-devotion has
worked well for others! I may one day explain myself more fully on this
head."

Before Mary could answer, a messenger came to say that her grandfather
was waiting to return with her to the cottage, and she bid Linton
good-bye with a degree of interest for him she had never felt before.
Linton stood in a window and watched her as she went, nor did his eye
quit the graceful form till it disappeared in the covering of the trees.
"Yes," said he to himself, "I have struck the right chord at last! She
neither is to be dazzled by the splendor nor excited by the ambitions of
the great world. The key to the mystery of her nature lies in the
very fact of her position in life,--the indignant struggle against a
condition she feels beneath her; she can sympathize with this. She is
just the very girl, too, to awaken Laura's jealousy, so brilliantly
handsome, so much of elegance in mien and deportment Ay! the game will
win; I may stake all upon it. Who is that?" said he, starting suddenly,
as a door banged behind him, and he saw Tom Keane, who had been a silent
listener to his soliloquy. Linton well knew that, shrewd as the man was,
the words could have conveyed little or nothing to his intelligence, and
carelessly asked what had the post brought.

"A heap of letters, yer honer," said he, laying the heavily loaded bag
on the table. "I never see so many come to the town afore."

As Linton unlocked the bag and emptied its contents before him, his face
suddenly grew dark and angry, for none of the letters, as he turned them
over, were for himself; they were all addressed Roland Cashel, Esq., and
marked "private." At last he saw one with his own name, and, motioning
to Keane to leave him undisturbed, he sat down to read it. It came from
his correspondent, Mr. Phillis, and was of the briefest:

Sir,--All has gone wrong. R. C. sailed last night on a
yachting excursion with Lord and Lady K., some say for
Wales, others for the Isle of Wight. The truth I cannot
ascertain. The persons invited to Tubbennore are all
preparing to set out, but eagerly asking where C. is to be
found. There has been something like a breach at K.'s, and I
fancy it is a