one of his deep tranquil
voice, the power to which woman, whatever her intellect, never
attains; and to which, therefore, she imputes a nobility not always
genuine,--namely, the power of deliberate purpose and self-collected,
serene ambition. The effect that Nora produced on Egerton was not less
sudden. He was startled by a beauty of face and form that belonged to
that rarest order, which we never behold but once or twice in our lives.

He was yet more amazed to discover that the aristocracy of mind could
bestow a grace that no aristocracy of birth could surpass. He was
prepared for a simple, blushing village girl, and involuntarily he bowed
low his proud front at the first sight of that delicate bloom, and that
exquisite gentleness which is woman's surest passport to the respect of
man. Neither in the first, nor the second, nor the third interview,
nor, indeed, till after many interviews, could he summon up courage to
commence his mission, and allude to Harley. And when he did so at last
his words faltered. But Nora's words were clear to him. He saw that
Harley was not loved; and a joy, which he felt as guilty, darted through
his whole frame. From that interview Audley returned home greatly
agitated, and at war with himself. Often, in the course of this story,
has it been hinted that, under all Egerton's external coldness and
measured self-control, lay a nature capable of strong and stubborn
passions. Those passions broke forth then. He felt that love had already
entered into the heart, which the trust of his friend should have
sufficed to guard.

"I will go there no more," said he, abruptly, to Harley.

"But why?"

"The girl does not love you. Cease then to think of her."

Harley disbelieved him, and grew indignant. But Audley had every worldly
motive to assist his sense of honour. He was poor, though with the
reputation of wealth, deeply involved in debt, resolved to rise in
life, tenacious of his position in the world's esteem. Against a host
of counteracting influences, love fought single-handed. Audley's was a
strong nature; but, alas! in strong natures, if resistance to temptation
is of granite, so the passions that they admit are of fire.

Trite is the remark that the destinies of our lives often date from the
impulses of unguarded moments. It was so with this man, to an ordinary
eye so cautious and so deliberate. Harley one day came to him in great
grief; he had heard that Nora was ill: he implored Andley