the
persuasion of Sir Chetwode Chetwode or of Sir Tichborne Tichborne, good
judges both. The Johannisberger quite converted them. They no longer
disliked the young Duke. They thought him a fool, to be sure, but at the
same time a good-natured one. In the meantime, all were interested, and
Carlstein with his key bugle, from out a neighbouring brake, afforded
the only luxury that was wanting.

It is six o'clock, carriages are ordered, and horses are harnessed.
Back, back to Dacre! But not at the lively rate at which they had left
that lordly hall this morning. They are all alike inclined to move
slowly; they are silent, yet serene and satisfied; they ponder upon the
reminiscences of a delightful morning, and also of a delightful meal.
Perhaps they are a little weary; perhaps they wish to gaze upon the
sunset.

It is eight o'clock, and they enter the park gates. Dinner is
universally voted a bore, even by the Baronets. Coffee covers the
retreat of many a wearied bird to her evening bower. The rest lounge on
a couch or sofa, or chew the cud of memory on an ottoman. It was a day
of pleasure which had been pleasant. That was certain: but that was
past. Who is to be Duchess of St. James? Answer this. May Dacre, or
Bertha Vere, or Clara Howard? Lady St. Jerome, is it to be a daughter
of thy house? Lady Faulconcourt, art thou to be hailed as the unrivalled
mother?' Tis mystery all, as must always be the future of this world. We
muse, we plan, we hope, but naught is certain but that which is naught;
for, a question answered, a doubt satisfied, an end attained; what are
they but fit companions for clothes out of fashion, cracked china, and
broken fans?

Our hero was neither wearied nor sleepy, for his mind was too full of
exciting fancies to think of the interests of his body. As all were
withdrawing, he threw his cloak about him and walked on the terrace.
It was a night soft as the rhyme that sighs from Rogers' shell, and
brilliant as a phrase just turned by Moore. The thousand stars smiled
from their blue pavilions, and the moon shed the mild light that makes a
lover muse. Fragrance came in airy waves from trees rich with the golden
orange, and from out the woods there ever and anon arose a sound, deep
and yet hushed, and mystical, and soft. It could not be the wind!

His heart was full, his hopes were sweet, his fate pledged on a die. And
in this shrine, where all was like his love, immaculate and beautiful,
he vowed a fa