hed), "and natural talents,
and amiable temper, you have only to act well and prudently to secure at
last a worthy husband and a happy home. Have you heard me, Alice? Such
is the plan I have formed for you."

The young man thought as he spoke, with honest kindness and upright
honour; it was a bitterer sacrifice than perhaps the reader thinks for.
But Maltravers, if he had an impassioned, had not a selfish heart; and
he felt, to use his own expression, more emphatic than eloquent, that
"it would not do" to live any longer alone with this beautiful girl,
like the two children whom the good Fairy kept safe from sin and the
world in the Pavilion of Roses.

But Alice comprehended neither the danger to herself nor the temptations
that Maltravers, if he could not resist, desired to shun. She rose, pale
and trembling--approached Maltravers and laid her hand gently on his
arm.

"I will go away, when and where you wish--the sooner the
better--to-morrow--yes, to-morrow; you are ashamed of poor Alice; and
it has been very silly in me to be so happy." (She struggled with her
emotion for a moment, and went on.) "You know Heaven can hear me, even
when I am away from you, and when I know more I can pray better; and
Heaven will bless you, sir, and make you happy, for I never can pray for
anything else."

With these words she turned away, and walked proudly towards the door.
But when she reached the threshold, she stopped and looked round, as
if to take a last farewell. All the associations and memories of that
beloved spot rushed upon her--she gasped for breath,--tottered,--and
fell to the ground insensible.

Maltravers was already by her side; he lifted her light weight in his
arms; he uttered wild and impassioned exclamations--"Alice, beloved
Alice--forgive me; we will never part!" He chafed her hands in his own,
while her head lay on his bosom, and he kissed again and again those
beautiful eyelids, till they opened slowly upon him, and the tender arms
tightened round him involuntarily.

"Alice," he whispered--"Alice, dear Alice, I love thee." Alas, it was
true: he loved--and forgot all but that love. He was eighteen.

CHAPTER VII.

"How like a younker or a prodigal,
The scarfed bark puts from her native bay!"
_Merchant of Venice_.

WE are apt to connect the voice of Conscience with the stillness of
midnight. But I think we wrong that innocent hour. It is that terrible
"NEXT MORNING," when reason is wide awake,