uttered a dreadful oath, "he shall keep his word, or my
name is not William Mathews."

"Ah! if he did but love me as he once loved me, I would not care. The
shame would be joy, the disgrace happiness. The world is nothing to
me--it may say what it likes--I would rather be his mistress than
another man's wife. But to be forsaken and trampled upon; to know that
another with half my beauty, and with none of my love, is preferred
before me; is more than my heart can bear."

"Does my father know your situation?"

"No, no, I would not have him know it for worlds. I dare not tell him;
and you have promised me, William, not to reveal my secret. Though
father constantly transgresses himself, men are so unjust about women
that he would never forgive me. I would rather fling myself into that
pond," and she laughed hysterically, "than that he should know anything
about it. Sometimes I think, brother, that it would be the best place
for me to hide my shame."

"Live, girl--live for revenge. Leave your gay paramour to me. I have
been the ruin of many a better man."

"I would rather die," returned the girl, "than suffer any injury to
befall him. He is my husband in the sight of Heaven, and I will cling to
him to the last!"

"You are a fool, Mary! Till this moment I always thought you a clever
girl, above such paltry weakness. When your name is coupled with infamy,
and you find yourself an object of contempt to the villain who has
betrayed you, I tell you that you will alter your opinion."

"Alas! he despises me already," sighed the unhappy girl, "and it is that
which makes me feel so bad. When I think of it there comes over me just
such a scorching heat as used to sear up my brain in the bad fever. The
people said I was crazed, but I was not half so mad then as I am now."

"Keep up your spirits, girl! I will compel him to make you his wife."

"What good would that do? You could not make him love me. We should only
be more miserable than we are at present. I wish--oh! how I wish I were
dead!"

Here the conversation between the brother and sister was abruptly
terminated by Godfrey's spaniel, which had followed Anthony through the
park, springing over the stile into the garden, and leaping into Mary's
lap. The poor girl was sitting on the bank beneath the shade of a large
elm tree. She bent her head down, and returned with interest the
affectionate caresses of the dog.

"It is Mr. Hurdlestone's dog, William. Poor Fido, you lo