pped, and to my great discomfort they spoke.

"You do not know him," said a voice that did no dishonour to the coral
lips through which it came. "His heart is fixed upon this hated match."

"You smiled upon him, Elinor," said Rupert, in a voice of emotion; "you
gave him hope."

"For your sake, Sinclair, I smiled upon the man I hated; for your dear
sake. The least suspicion of the truth, and we are ruined. I cannot have
you banished from me."

"What is to be done?" exclaimed Rupert in despair.

I could hear no more. The voices dissolved into whispers, and these soon
ceased. The fate of Rupert Sinclair was sealed.

Now, what was my course at this alarming crisis? What steps did it
behove me--the friend, tutor, and counsellor of Rupert Sinclair--to take
at such a moment as this, when the happiness of his whole life was about
to be decided? Was there, in fact, any thing to do? Had not Sinclair
already reached that point at which remonstrance is vain, and advice
impertinent? And why should I remonstrate at all? What had I to say
against a union with a lovely and accomplished woman, whose father had
perhaps wealth enough to buy off the prejudices of Lord and Lady
Railton, had they been ten times as bigoted as they really were? What
could I produce against the young lady herself but a prejudice formed at
first sight, and perhaps as unfounded as it had been hastily adopted?
Was not Sinclair old enough to select his partner for himself; and when
did interference in the delicate affairs of love ever lead to any thing
but the confusion of the intruder, and the acceleration of the mischief
he absurdly hoped to prevent? I was at the height of my perplexity when
Sinclair returned to me. I heard his footsteps at the door, and
immediately plunged into my bedroom.

Next morning I was awake betimes, but Rupert was up before me. Indeed,
when I beheld him, I doubted whether he had been to rest at all. He
looked haggard and distressed. I took my cue from his downcast
appearance.

"Rupert," said I, "it is my intention to quit Bath."

"When?" he inquired.

"Possibly to-day. To-morrow at the furthest."

Rupert sighed.

"We return together, I presume?" said I in continuation.

"Wilson," answered Rupert, in a tone of kindness, "I have never deceived
you yet; I will not deceive you now. Nor shall you suffer in any way
from acts of mine. I cannot leave this place. It is not expedient that
you should stay."

"Your leave of absence