affections of both were still united by hidden links, which irresistibly propelled them to one object.

The very efforts which Willoughby made not to attach himself to our heroine seemed to invest his feelings with a seriousness, a pathetic tenderness, so strangely mingled with his pity for Alfred, that while he sometimes sat apart, yet unable to withdraw his gaze from the mild and lovely features of Caroline, his sensations approximated to torture.

Her beauty appeared to him, the more he gazed upon it, Nature's only perfect work. That any one could admire any other style, any other lovely being, seemed to him a thing impossible. His former fancied attachment he now saw to have been indeed but a dream of vanity, and that it had touched any other feeling.

He could not, however, maintain the struggle long; he soon began to seek for arguments favourable to his wishes. Alfred's love, he told himself, could not bear comparison with his in fervour, or he would have persevered longer—he would have renewed his offer again and again. The attachment was not mutual, Caroline having herself rejected him. Such an attachment then would, in all probability, soon be forgotten; then why, if he could, make himself acceptable, might he not be happy? In a little time he arrived at the certainty that Alfred would himself be generous enough to rejoice in his happiness.

Lady Palliser's encouragement was decided. Caroline's indeed was but passive. Geoffery, however, himself believing his cousin's attachment to be a hopeless one, pretended to point out many marks of a hidden preference, which he said could not be mistaken, averring that a cool looker-on was better able to judge than a party interested.

Willoughby, more even than the rest of the world, was liable to being flattered into the belief of what he wished; he very soon, therefore, gave himself over to a passion which left him no longer master of any one thought or feeling.

Geoffery's motives were such as we have already pointed out. Unsuccessful courtships were at least time lost, while his being the administering medium of flattery and flattering hopes kept up his own influence.

Willoughby, when he wrote to his brother, which he did frequently and kindly, thought there was a delicacy in refraining entirely from any mention of Caroline, or of his own growing admiration; accordingly he did not even allude to the subject.

Three or four letters had been severally received by Alfred, and opened with excessive trepidation, dreading what they might contain; yet when they were concluded and found not to contain even the name of Caroline, the feeling of momentary relief was followed by one allied to disappointment; one which was at least an access of the miserable suspense, the restless craving to know something, even the worst, rather than look any longer upon the desolate blank, which, without the slightest variation, each weary day now presented. From the hour he had quitted Cheltenham, and it was now some weeks, he had seemed to himself a being cut off from the past, apart from the present, shut out from the future. It was a state of mind no longer to be endured. Within about half an hour after the receipt of Willoughby's last letter, though it was then about ten o'clock at night, he set out for Cheltenham.

CHAPTER II.

Alfred arrived at Cheltenham at an early hour in the morning. On repairing to Lady Arden's villa, however, he found that the family had already gone to the walks.

That Caroline was probably there also was his first thought; his next, that Willoughby perhaps at that very moment walked beside her as her received lover. He certainly dreaded to behold realized the picture his imagination had formed. Yet a strange restless feeling, a sort of desperation, blended with a faint hope that he might be quite wrong, impelled him to turn his footsteps towards Montpelier.

It chanced that the band which had paused for one of the usual intervals, recommenced just at the moment. It would be utterly impossible to describe the universal thrill which, on hearing the well-known sounds, took possession of Alfred's whole frame, the rush of associations, numerous, various, vivid, yet so cruelly contrasted with his present feelings.

He wandered on, and entering what may be termed the walk, beheld close to him, but in the act of turning, Caroline and Lady Palliser, with Willoughby in attendance. He had seen Caroline's countenance for one moment, but none of the party had seen him. Their backs being now towards him he followed within a few paces, endeavouring to summon resolution for the necessary task of joining and speaking to them.

Willoughby it was evident had no eyes for any object but his fair companion, towards whom he turned and addressed with an eagerness which precluded the possibility of his ever once looking before him, much less over his shoulder. Caroline of course turned her head from time to time towards Willoughby to reply. She wore the memorable close bonnet of white sarsenet which Alfred had thought so becoming. The morning he had first seen her wear it became present to memory, while imagination vividly pourtrayed within its own beautifying sanctuary that vision of loveliness which it now seemed to be the peculiar privilege of another to behold, as once it had been his, sheltered from the common gaze, and beautiful for him alone.

Lady Arden's party also was close before him, but his agitation, instead of being at all composed by the time he reached the front of the pump-room, was so much increased, that while the ranks of fashion were wheeling to the right or left, to turn down the prescribed limit, he found a convenient screen behind the crimson velvet pelisse of Lady Whaleworthy who chanced to be near, and a moment after, turning off by a cross walk, he made his way home. On the plea to the servant who admitted him, of fatigue after his journey, he sought the shelter of his own apartment; where, while he was supposed to have retired to bed and slept, he sat strengthening and preparing his mind by meditation for a meeting with his brother, and endeavouring to resolve what should be the tenor of his own conduct.

He had been but a very short time shut into his room, his mind still in much too perturbed a state for society, when he heard the family party coming in below. He could distinguish Willoughby's step cross the hall and hastily ascend the stairs, but he had not yet resolution to admit him; he therefore bolted his door without noise, and remained quite still. He heard Willoughby turn the handle of the lock gently, and after pausing a moment retire. "They have told him of my arrival, and with his wonted kindness, poor fellow, he is impatient to see me," thought Alfred. "And if he is destined," he added, after a pause, "to a better, a brighter lot than mine, shall I wantonly embitter his happiness by allowing him to perceive that the confirmation of hope to him will be the sealing of despair to me? No, no, I will be more generous, he shall see me firm, collected—if possible cheerful. Nay, that he is happy, surely ought to be, and as surely is, a source of rejoicing to me. Would this admit of a question were his happiness derived from any other source?—Certainly not! What perverted feeling, then, can it be to which I yield?—Selfishness! yes, selfishness the most aimless, the most degraded! For shame! for shame! I must cast it from me and be a man."

As he formed this resolve he rose from his seat and stood erect. After a few seconds he hastily decided on descending to the breakfast-room, lest Willoughby should again seek him; for he felt that he should have more self-command in the full family circle, than were his heart just at this moment subjected to the probing of his affectionate brother's anxiety in a private interview.

Alfred, too amiable not to be a general favourite, was received by every individual of the party with the most entire cordiality, except, indeed, Geoffery, who had no good will for