ence towards me, yet many slight and
casual circumstances served to show me that my attentions to her were
neither unnoticed nor uncared for. Among the many gay and dashing
companions of our rides, I remarked that, however anxious for such a
distinction, none ever seemed to make any way in her good graces; and I had
already gone far in my self-deception that I was destined for good fortune,
when a circumstance which occurred one morning at length served to open my
eyes to the truth, and blast by one fatal breath the whole harvest of my
hopes.

We were about to set out one morning on a long ride, when Sir George's
presence was required by the arrival of an officer who had been sent from
the Horse Guards on official business. After half an hour's delay, Colonel
Cameron, the officer in question, was introduced, and entered into
conversation with our party. He had only landed in England from the
Peninsula a few days before, and had abundant information of the stirring
events enacting there. At the conclusion of an anecdote,--I forget
what,--he turned suddenly round to Miss Dashwood, who was standing beside
me, and said in a low voice:--

"And now, Miss Dashwood, I am reminded of a commission I promised a very
old brother officer to perform. Can I have one moment's conversation with
you in the window?"

As he spoke, I perceived that he crumpled beneath his glove something like
a letter.

"To me?" said Lucy, with a look of surprise that sadly puzzled me whether
to ascribe it to coquetry or innocence,--"to me?"

"To you," said the colonel, bowing; "and I am sadly deceived by my friend
Hammersley--"

"Captain Hammersley?" said she, blushing deeply as she spoke.

I heard no more. She turned towards the window with the colonel, and all I
saw was that he handed her a letter, which, having hastily broken open and
thrown her eyes over, she grew at first deadly pale, then red, and while
her eyes filled with tears, I heard her say, "How like him! How truly
generous this is!" I listened for no more; my brain was wheeling round and
my senses reeling. I turned and left the room; in another moment I was on
my horse, galloping from the spot, despair, in all its blackness, in my
heart, and in my broken-hearted misery, wishing for death.

I was miles away from Dublin ere I remembered well what had occurred, and
even then not over clearly. The fact that Lucy Dashwood, whom I imagined
to be my own in heart, loved another, was all that