excepting his heir, whom he hates worse than the thoughts of his own coffin. He to think of marrying Miss Rosa-marry him to the worms that are hungry for his dried-up carcass!"

Now this woman was a wicked woman, but her wickedness sprang from the weakness of her intellect. Had fortune treated her kindly, she would have acted her part in life worthily. She loved happiness for herself, and loved to promote it in others; but she could not stand the temptations that want and poverty flung in her path; she had been too delicately nurtured. People of this weak-minded description, though they love nothing strongly but their own welfare, always hate those who interfere with and mar it most potently. Mrs. Dredgely, just now, found herself in this predicament of detestation towards Mr. Rubasore. She recorded her everlasting hate to him in an impious prayer. She went down upon her knees, and she prayed to the Disposer of all blessings, that "she might speedily marry this man in order to be a curse to him; that she might live to make him swallow his insulting gift; that she might administer it to him on his death-bed, in his medicine, or in his gruel; and then, telling him of it, hasten the death of the miser."

Having prayed to this effect, she carefully put by the part of the note and wrote to him, whom she looked upon as her future husband, a letter full of humility, submission, gratitude, and cajolery. The bait took; he pronounced her to be the most exemplary of women, and began fervently to wish that she had Rosa's fortune, in order that she might possess herself of Rosa's place in his house and—I suppose we must call it—heart.

Mrs. Dredgely was not deceived in her speculations. Miss Belmont, with the full concurrence of Mr. Underdown, wrote to her most kindly, requesting her to remain at Jaspar-hall so long as it suited her convenience, and by no means to stint herself of any of the luxuries to which she had been accustomed, and to consider herself as entitled to receive until she, Rosa, had attained her majority, the usual stipend that, as her gouvernante, she had been accustomed to enjoy.

There was balm in all this to her wounded pride, and an antidote to her fears of the asthmatic widow, the miserable fare, the low associations, and the confined atmosphere of St. Bartholomew's-close. For all this, she sent a much less florid letter of thanks than was that which she returned for Mr. Rubasore's pitiful gift and shabby selfishness of conduct. In her letter to Miss Belmont, her language was simple, quiet, and to the purpose. In her epistle to her relation, every sentence was strained to express the most unbounded love, the most exhaustless gratitude, and the most unqualified subserviency. When people read letters, let them think on Mrs. Dredgely's correspondence.

CHAPTER XXXII.

"And if the glorious saints cease not to know
Their wretched friends who fight with life below,
With me thy spirit ever shall abide,

Only more pure and rarified."

OLD POET.

On the evening of the day in which Mr. Rubasore was held to bail, an unusual gloom brooded over the party at Trestletreehall; and, though it consisted of five generally lively ladies, their taciturnity would not have disgraced a Quakers' meeting.

A mystery of an unpleasant nature is usually as favourable to silence, as a wonder is to talkativeness. Mr. Rubasore had been permitted to remain in the error of believing that the blow that had stunned him was inflicted by the hand of Rebecca; and the vigour of that hand he imputed to the robust and out-of-doors life that she had been, so unfemininely, permitted to lead. All the servants remained nearly in the same error as was Mr. Rubasore; but they, when they made their appearance, having seen her standing over him, with a dagger in her hand, imagined that she had struck him on the head with its hilt.

Mr. Underdown had hitherto forborne questioning the headstrong young lady, as he well knew, by long experience, that the least assumption of authority, on his part, would annihilate the little that he really possessed over her. This first event of the real romance of life—at least of a sort approaching to the terrible-had completely demonstrated how little of a heroine Miss Belmont was. There had been a succession of tremors all day; and her frequent attempts at mirth were either whimsically lugubrious, or actually hysterical.

On the contrary, Rebecca was unusually sedate and composed. Seated, she sate more erect: walking, her carriage was almost queenly. She, too, had been unusually silent throughout the day; and the few remarks that she had made were peculiarly sensible, laconic, and to the point. Her judgment was evidently working upon those events, which all the other ladies had subjected to the ordeal of their imaginations.

Her aunt Matilda was childishly anxious to know where Rebecca had put the dagger, and if there was any blood on it. Rebecca begged to satisfy her on both points: firstly, that it was safe : and, secondly, as far as she knew, that it was guiltless of human or any other blood.

But where did she get it? How came she by it?

That she was endeavouring to discover.

"Let us have music," said Mr. Underdown.

Music was attempted; and the attempt proved that Miss Oliphant, "for that night only," as they say in the play-bills, sang out of tune; and that if she, also for that night only, played detestably upon the guitar, she acquitted herself still worse upon the harp. Rebecca looked upon all these attempts with something not very distant from a dignified contempt.

Rosa, half in tears, left the harp, and came and seated herself near Rebecca.

"I never played worse," said she.

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'My dear Rosa, you played miserably indeed."

"The instrument is shockingly out of tune."

"No, no; I will not have my harp thus slandered. It is you that are unstrung. Let me convince you. I will play over to you the last lesson that you taught me. As my good papa says, 'Mark ye me!' and then blame the tone of my harp if you can.'

She rose, and played the simple air. It was certainly but a beginner's lesson; but it was executed with a firm touch, and an exquisite judgment. The company were astonished.

"I have vindicated my poor harp," said she, in an equable voice, as she placed herself again near Miss Belmont.

"And yourself, too," said the latter, drawing more closely to her, "as a complete heroine; and last night you fought for your life with a ruffian."

"Not exactly, my Rosa. But dare you," she continued, in a whisper, and fondly leaning upon her shoulder; "dare you, Rosa, when the family have retired, go with me, and search in the preserve for that ruffian."

The intrepid proposition almost overpowered Miss Belmont. She clasped Rebecca round the neck, and kissed her passionately. 66 yes; I will go with you," said she; " but, Rebecca, it will kill me."

She uttered these words so loudly, that they were partly overheard by Mr. Underdown.

"Go! go where?-what's all this talking about killing, girls?" said he, rather hastily for him.

"Oh," said Rebecca, "I only invited Rosa to go with me, and look for a ghost. As she thinks it will kill her, I retract my invitation. Are there ghosts, dear Mr. Underdown?" she continued, with her sweetest smile; and, when she chose, Rebecca could smile sweetly indeed.

"If we had Captain Dribble here," (meaning, gentle reader, my humble self,)" he would tell you that he had positively seen one. For myself, candidly, I would not believe that I saw a ghost, if one actually stood before my eyes, and I viewed it as distinctly as I view you. I would rather believe that my own nervous system was

disordered, than that the natural and healthful chain of cause and effect was destroyed, in order to produce a miracle. It is against the laws of nature, that the forms, or rather the effigies, of the dead should arise; or that the sensations, to which the sight of the living give rise, should appear before us, where the living are not. Now these pretended ghosts have but seldom any adequate cause, frequently none at all, for their appearance. And do you not perceive, my dear ladies, that a miracle is a blot upon, an irregularity in the glorious scheme of the Omniscient; an after-thought-a something to be amended or provided for, that was not foreseen. What, think you, could justify such an extreme measure as a miracle? The finding a pot of money; the assuring of a friend that his friend is dead; or that the living one would not survive-if it were necessary these things should be known, the knowledge of them would have been provided for by Him in whose hands is providence-provided for by natural causes. No, no, my sweet ladies, there are no ghosts, believe me, but what we make of ourselves, as we have been doing to-night, by banishing from ourselves all hilarity and good spirits. Come, now for a game at romps; and let us be ghosts no more."

But this playful attempt did not answer; none moved from their places. It is true, the good man rose; but, seeing how little he was seconded, he quietly reseated himself.

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"I do most heartily wish there were ghosts," said Rebecca, very deliberately. A ghost of a shriek attended this avowal, from more than one of the company.

"Why, my beloved child? It is a strange wish," said Mr. Underdown.

"Because I suppose it would be nothing wrong in a ghost to instigate to crime."

"The question is too subtle for me to answer. I must first know the nature of a ghost, by what laws it is governed, and to whom it is amenable. As no one will ever be able to answer my question, so shall I never be able to answer yours. However, I have taken care that if bolts and bars and locks and chains can keep out evil spirits, you are quite safe from any intrusion, for I have had all the fastenings of the doors and windows. doubled."

The ladies thanked him, all but Rebecca. She, however, expressed no disapprobation. She shortly after rose, and said—

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'Well, Mr. Underdown, even you must allow that the most unyielding scepticism cannot prevent ghosts of all descriptions from entering into the region of dreams. Thither will I go, and seek for some; so a good night to you all."

"How Rebecca is altered!" exclaimed Miss Matilda, with a shudder.

As Rebecca kissed Mr. Underdown, in his turn-a habit that she did not seem at all inclined to relinquish-he whispered into her ear"Won't my dear Becky tell me to-morrow the history of the poignard?"

"I will conceal nothing from you, my more than father; but be not over-anxious. I have almost nothing to reveal. God bless you!"

"And you too, my beloved child."

Shortly after, the rest of the party broke up, and each retired to his or her respective sleeping apartment.

CHAPTER XXXIII.

"Love, in her sunny eyes does basking play,
Love walks the pleasant mazes of her hair,
Love does on both her lips for ever stray,
And sows and reaps a thousand kisses there
Her heart is Love's chaste altar."

OLD POEM.

It was nearly midnight, and the extensive buildings that constituted Trestletree-hall lay in alternate light and shadow; for the moon was looking down upon it, in all her splendour, from her loftiest stance in the heavens. Wherever her beams uninterruptedly revelled, there objects could be distinctly discerned, even at a considerable distance. Rebecca had neither retired to her bed, nor made any preparations for it. She was in her full dinner-dress, not dressed as was lately her wont, in the hoydenish style of that of an overgrown child, but elaborately, as a young lady of rank and wealth, and fast approaching womanhood, should be. Though she was always lovely, refinement seemed to have thrown the last touching grace over her. So improved was she, that her own father would not have known her, had her face been turned from him.

The thought that haunted her like an evil demon, and made her regardless of rest, was that of the wild and desperate-looking tall young man, who had so supernaturally obeyed her will, and thrust the instrument of death into her hand. That he was still hovering about the grounds was her strong presentiment; and, had not her pride quelled the rising idea, she had felt that, by some mysterious chain, his fate was linked with hers.

I have before said, that she had retired to her room at an early hour. Now this room was on what is usually called the first floor, and looked over the lawn at the back of the mansion. To every window on this floor, there was a light, but tolerably capacious, iron balcony. Rebecca's window was nearly in the centre of the rest,