and hewing: I have no patience with the rebellious dogs."

"For shame! for shame!" cried Lady Westborough, who, though a worldly,
was by no means an unfeeling, woman "the poor people are misguided; they
mean no harm."

Lord Ulswater smiled scornfully. "I never dispute upon politics, but at
the head of my men," said he, and turned the conversation.

Shortly afterwards Lady Flora, complaining of indisposition, rose, left
the apartment, and retired to her own room. There she sat motionless
and white as death for more than an hour. A day or two afterwards Miss
Trevanion received the following letter from her:--

Most heartily, most truly do I congratulate you, my dearest Eleanor,
upon your approaching marriage. You may reasonably hope for all that
happiness can afford; and though you do affect (for I do not think
that you feel) a fear lest you should not be able to fix a character,
volatile and light, like your lover's; yet when I recollect his
warmth of heart and high sense, and your beauty, gentleness, charms of
conversation, and purely disinterested love for one whose great worldly
advantages might so easily bias or adulterate affection, I own that I
have no dread for your future fate, no feeling that can at all darken
the brightness of anticipation. Thank you, dearest, for the delicate
kindness with which you allude to my destiny: me indeed you cannot
congratulate as I can you. But do not grieve for me, my generous
Eleanor: if not happy, I shall, I trust, be at least contented. My poor
father implored me with tears in his eyes; my mother pressed my hand,
but spoke not; and I, whose affections were withered and hopes strewn,
should I not have been hard-hearted indeed if they had not wrung from me
a consent? And oh should I not be utterly lost, if in that consent which
blessed them I did not find something of peace and consolation?

Yes, dearest, in two months, only two months, I shall be Lord Ulswater's
wife; and when we meet, you shall look narrowly at me, and see if he or
you have any right to complain of me.

Have you seen Mr. Linden lately? Yet do not answer the question: I ought
not to cherish still that fatal clinging interest for one who has so
utterly forgotten me. But I do rejoice in his prosperity; and when I
hear his praises, and watch his career, I feel proud that I should once
have loved him! Oh, how could he be so false, so cruel, in the very
midst of his professions of undying, unswerving faith to me;