of loneliness were her best taskmasters.

When Israel required to be trained as a peculiar race, the desert was chosen as their abode, and some of the most lofty minds are those which are longest schooled in solitude. But it has also its disadvantages and dangers, this solitary bringing up. The mind forced to look inwards—to recall the past too much—becomes sad, and is inclined to brood over its miseries, fancied or real; and Ellen, young as she was when the smile of fortune ceased to fling its radiance, was not too young to remember that times had once been better, happier than now; that there was a day when wealth had made them many friends; a day when they had lived in splendour, with carriages and horses, manservants and maidens; and when she contrasted it with their present life it was apt to make her discontented. She had been too well brought up by her father, who was a truly excellent man, not to know how wrong this was—and she often tried to banish the thoughts from her mind: but they would recur, and every time she encouraged them they became deeper rooted and more difficult to eradicate. Poetry and romance were Ellen's favourite subjects, and neither tended much to fill the aching void. They fed, without satisfying her craving, and like water to a thirsty soul only increased her thirst.

The poems of Lord Byron, and the novels of Sir Walter Scott, and other stars of the Georgian era, were her constant companions; she felt how much harm they were doing, yet had not the moral strength to resist their fascination. She began to live in a world of fiction—real life was tame and insipid, and she soon created in her mind some prince in disguise, some knight of romance, destined to lift her from the low estate she then groaned in, to the scenes she was born to grace. Ellen knew—how could she help knowing?—that she was very beautiful. Proud, but not vain, of her beauty, she felt that, living in a position beneath her due, this beauty might yet raise her to her dreamland heights. It was to no purpose that day after day declined without bringing the realization of her hopes—she still hoped on, without considering that the hours most precious were stealing silently away, and yet she was tracing nothing worthy of remembrance on her sands of life. These day dreams "when nearest and most inviting" were often rudely broken by the stern realities of life, and left her more and more discontented, harder and harder to be pleased; and the proud beauty felt as feels the eagle when, with ruffled wing, he beholds through the bars of his cage that heaven he has so often soared to, but to which he can return no more.

Such were Ellen's feelings as she was roused by the voice of L'Estrange asking her to take a walk in the country, as the day had broken off fine. She felt vexed at the interruption, and hastily answered she could not—she had a headache, and wished to remain quiet. Her heart smote her as she heard him turn away with mournful step, and the word quivered on her lips which recalled him—but pride smothered the unborn sound; the old weakness returned, and she allowed her dream to run on instead of awaking herself—shaking off the fatal habit—and rising a real woman to combat the trials of life. The conversation during breakfast had awakened an old train of thought. Often had she been told she was only fit for a peeress—and now within ten miles of her was one who could raise her to the height of her ambition—young, rich, handsome. Could she catch his eye? could she make a conquest of the young Earl's heart? She looked at herself in the mirror, Pride whispered she could! But then came a chilling thought—L'Estrange. For nearly a year had he paid her the most untiring homage. Pleased at first, flattered by her powers, she had led him on—led him on till he had proposed for her hand—been accepted too—ha! dreadful truth, accepted! She had loved him once—but now—did she love him? no, no, he had her friendship—he had her affection—but not her love! And who was her love? The phantom of her mind's creation, the unreal knight of her dreams. And now the phantom of her imagination was near, she had never seen him even—but L'Estrange said he was splendidly handsome! He knew him too—why should not she? Would he come up to her model? Could she make the conquest? Something whispered "Yes." But she was engaged—again that voice said, "Never mind." Was this her evil genius? Then were sown the seeds of that blight doomed to destroy a plant bards have called "too frail to bloom below." Ellen was a well-brought-up girl, and her better thoughts recoiled from the very idea of thus jilting her first love. She was a sensible girl, and her better senses told her how foolish were her thoughts. Perhaps the Earl might not even look at her, if she saw him; perhaps, and still more likely, she might never see him; perhaps he might have some other mistress of his heart.

On the other hand L'Estrange loved her as his own soul; she knew and felt that: he had no other lady of his affections, she knew that; and here, in spite of all, she was going to chance the reality for the shadow—chance all on a wild throw, and perhaps—most probably—lose both. So spoke the still, small voice within; but pride, false pride choked its utterances, drowned its whispers, and in her heart she resolved to make the trial, and as if to aid her in her thoughts came the lines into her memory—

She would hazard all on a blind toss! she had passed the Rubicon! however foolish the step it was now too late! Such were Ellen's thoughts as she lounged on the sofa, while poor L'Estrange plodded his solitary way to Arthur's Seat through the snow, thinking on Ellen, and wondering at her changed behaviour of late.

CHAPTER III.

A few doors from the Ravensworths lived a gentleman named Lennox. As his name argued, he was descended from a good stock, but his family had gradually sunk in the scale of life till he was glad to accept a situation in His Majesty's Revenue Office at Edinburgh. Mr. Lennox was certainly gifted in his personal appearance, but this was in a way much lessened by his intolerable conceit. It is not often that we find big men consequential, but Mr. Lennox was the "exceptio regulam probat." He was conceited of himself, and his height, and looks. He was conceited of his name, being distantly connected with the Duke of Richmond. He was conceited of his family, which consisted of several rather dashing girls, the rear brought up by an infant "son and heir," as he rather ostentatiously informed the world through the papers. He walked as if the ground was not good enough for him, he spoke as if his word must be law: and, like all his class, though dogmatical in the extreme, was not often right,—when he did happen to be so, one never heard the end of it. Still with all his foibles he was gentlemanly, and had long been a friend of the Ravensworths; he liked, too, to have an occasional tête-à-tête with the fair Ellen, whom he fancied as much pleased by his assiduous court, as he was by her lightest smile. Mr. Lennox was a great man in his county, being a Justice of the Peace, and remarkable for his rigorous sentences; for, being strictly moral himself, he had no pity on the erring. He was a great man in his village, the author and finisher of all improvements, the chairman of every public meeting; he was also a great man in his church, being copartner in the churchwardenship with Mr. Ravensworth, who allowed him almost entirely to manage things his own way. This