ou know, of Mr. Merton's; I
could not bear you to have it, you would shew it to everyone.'

'Indeed I should do no such thing,' said Elizabeth; 'I never wish to
see it more, you are very welcome to it.'

Harriet received the precious document with great satisfaction,
carefully folded it up, and placed it in her bag, very much to Rupert's
delight, as he silently watched her proceedings.

When they went up to bed, Anne followed Lady Merton to her room, in
order to ask some question about the dress which she was to wear the
next day, Sunday, and after remaining with her a few minutes, she
returned to Elizabeth. She found her looking full of trouble, quite a
contrast to the bright animated creature she had been a few minutes
before.

'My dear Lizzie,' exclaimed Anne, 'has anything happened? what has
grieved you?'

'Why, Anne,' said Elizabeth, with almost a groan, 'has not enough
happened to grieve me? is it not terrible to think of what I have done?'

Anne stood still and silent, much struck by her cousin's sorrow; for
she had considered their expedition to the Mechanics' Institute as a
foolish girlish frolic, but by no means as serious a matter as it now
proved to be.

'I want you to tell me, Anne,' continued Elizabeth; 'was I not quite
out of my senses yesterday evening? I can hardly believe it was myself
who went to that horrible place, I wish you could prove that it was my
double-ganger.'

Anne laughed,

'But does it not seem incredible,' said Elizabeth, 'that I, Elizabeth
Woodbourne, should have voluntarily meddled with a radical, levelling
affair, should have sought out Mrs. Turner and all the set I most
dislike, done perhaps an infinity of mischief, and all because Kate
wanted to go out on a party of pleasure with that foolish Willie. Oh!
Anne, I wish you would beat me.'

'Would that be any comfort to you?' said Anne, smiling.

'Yes,' said Elizabeth; 'I should feel as if I was suffering a little
for my madness. Oh! how I hope Papa will speak to me about it. If he
does not, I shall see his displeasure in his eyes, and oh! I could bear
anything better than the silent stern way in which he used to look at
me, once before, when I had behaved very ill. And then, to-morrow is
Sunday, and I shall scarcely see him all day, and he will have no time
to speak to me; and how can I get through a Sunday, feeling that he is
angry with me? how shall I teach the children, or do anything as usual?
Anne, what do you