cts of his
character remove Lady Emily's guilt? No! and this, at times, was her
bitterest conviction. Whoever turns to these pages for an apology
for sin will be mistaken. They contain the burning records of its
sufferings, its repentance, and its doom. If there be one crime in the
history of woman worse than another, it is adultery. It is, in fact,
the only crime to which, in ordinary life, she is exposed. Man has a
thousand temptations to sin--woman has but one; if she cannot resist it,
she has no claim upon our mercy. The heavens are just! Her own guilt is
her punishment! Should these pages, at this moment, meet the eyes of one
who has become the centre of a circle of disgrace--the contaminator of
her house--the dishonour of her children,--no matter what the excuse for
her crime--no matter what the exchange of her station--in the very
arms of her lover, in the very cincture of the new ties which she has
chosen--I call upon her to answer me if the fondest moments of rapture
are free from humiliation, though they have forgotten remorse; and if
the passion itself of her lover has not become no less the penalty than
the recompense of her guilt? But at that hour of which I now write,
there was neither in Emily's heart, nor in that of her seducer, any
recollection of their sin. Those hearts were too full for thought--they
had forgotten everything but each other. Their love was their creation:
beyond all was night--chaos--nothing!

Lady Margaret approached them. "You will sing to us, Emily, to-night?
it is so long since we have heard you!" It was in vain that Emily
tried--her voice failed. She looked at Falkland, and could scarcely
restrain her tears. She had not yet learned the latest art which sin
teaches us-its concealment! "I will supply Lady Emily's place," said
Falkland. His voice was calm, and his brow serene the world had left
nothing for him to learn. "Will you play the air," he said to Mrs. St.
John, "that you gave us some nights ago? I will furnish the words." Mrs.
St. John's hand trembled as she obeyed.

SONG.

1.
Ah, let us love while yet we may,
Our summer is decaying;
And woe to hearts which, in their gray
December, go a-maying.

2.
Ah, let us love, while of the fire
Time hath not yet bereft us
With years our warmer thoughts expire,
Till only ice is left us!

3.
We'll fly the bleak worl