arated, her Ladyship shedding some temporary tears, and his Grace
vowing eternal fidelity.

It was the crafty Lord Fitz-pompey who brought about this catastrophe.
Having secured his nephew as a visitor to Malthorpe, by allowing him
to believe that the Graftons would form part of the summer coterie,
his Lordship took especial care that poor Lady Aphrodite should not be
invited. 'Once part them, once get him to Malthorpe alone,' mused the
experienced Peer, 'and he will be emancipated. I am doing him, too, the
greatest kindness. What would I have given, when a young man, to have
had such an uncle!'

The Morning Post announced with a sigh the departure of the Duke of St.
James to the splendid festivities of Malthorpe; and also apprised the
world that Sir Lucius and Lady Aphrodite were entertaining a numerous
and distinguished party at their seat, Cleve Park, Cambridgeshire.

There was a constant bustle kept up at Malthorpe, and the young Duke was
hourly permitted to observe that, independent of all private feeling, it
was impossible for the most distinguished nobleman to ally himself with
a more considered family. There was a continual swell of guests dashing
down and dashing away, like the ocean; brilliant as its foam, numerous
as its waves. But there was one permanent inhabitant of this princely
mansion far more interesting to our hero than the evanescent crowds who
rose like bubbles, glittered, broke, and disappeared.

Once more wandering in that park of Malthorpe where had passed the
innocent days of his boyhood, his thoughts naturally recurred to
the sweet companion who had made even those hours of happiness more
felicitous. Here they had rambled, here they had first tried their
ponies, there they had nearly fallen, there he had quite saved her; here
were the two very elms where St. Maurice made for them a swing, here was
the very keeper's cottage of which she had made for him a drawing, and
which he still retained. Dear girl! And had she disappointed the romance
of his boyhood; had the experience the want of which had allowed him
then to be pleased so easily, had it taught him to be ashamed of those
days of affection? Was she not now the most gentle, the most graceful,
the most beautiful, the most kind? Was she not the most wife-like woman
whose eyes had ever beamed with tenderness? Why, why not at once close a
career which, though short, yet already could yield reminiscences which
might satisfy the most craving ad