Beauvilliers in the picture gallery, or in the ballroom at Florence. However disguised might be their conduct was too similar to bear

their manner, comparison. From the suddenness with which the veil of my illusion fell from before my eyes almost from that very hour it would seem now as if I had been influenced by prejudice. But no, it was

Gabriella's self that cast it from me. True, my knowledge of her mother's character had given me an insight into the character of the daughter. It had made me think, and thought was destruction to Gabriella. Her behaviour could not bear investigation-her character still less so. It was not the shock of Mrs. Beauvilliers as a mother that had disturbed me, it was the dread of Mrs. Beauvilliers as a model for too apt a representation; and what as the folly of a foolish woman would have passed without other reproach, grew criminal in the more gifted intellect of her daughter.

"Gabriella's defence was powerless. The dream which had wrapped my senses gave way gradually but quickly, as the imperfect light that had first dawned on me broke into open day. Her struggles to retain her victim became only the more reprehensible, her real grief at his escape only the greater earnest of the selfish, frivolous vanity which had induced his capture. Her powers of complete selfinterest and indifference to all beside were indeed

wonderful! With a voice, a look, a gesture, still pleading with well feigned motive for delay, she turned without a moment lost to lament her failure, from the resolute departure of the one lover, to play with unabated assiduity the same game over again with another.

"My last glimpse of her, as my chaise rolled rapidly away, showed her turning from the entrance door into the little walk that leads to her flower-garden, leaning on the arm of the traveller.

"But to the end, mistress of her art, she has left me without a doubt of her unworthiness still to regret in bitter hopelessness the peace of mind that she has broken for ever."

I rose as I concluded, and walked to the window, for it was a moment of weakness over which I had no control. But the effort was not sufficient, and I buried my face in my hands.

I was roused by my cousin's gentle voice, and she laid her soft white hand upon my arm. Harry," said she, " if I may trust this moment's sorrow, your peace of mind-it is not broken for ever."

66

Agatha," said I, "it is not to such as you that I should betray the secrets of a weak and miserable passion. It is not with such as you that I should contemplate the frailties of an erring sex; but I cannot forget that such a fair creation has been created to so little good."

"I regret it with you-but I have seen Ga

briella," she continued,

"I have known her-she was

unworthy of you-yet her troth was plighted to another, she could break none with you."

"Good God! What other!"

"And do you then," said Agatha, gravely, "think so lightly of the duties of a wife. Believe me it is the highest station which the heart, or the ambition of wornan should aspire to. She is charged with the dearest interests of one more responsible in life than herself-his most tender dignity is confided to her care, and if she break her trust, if she be wanting but in the smallest portion of this silent bond, she violates the most solemn engagement of her life, and is forsworn before God and man in the vows which she has taken upon her in the presence of both?" She stopped, and coloured at her own eloquence. "Harry," said she, "What do you regret? your peace of mind? Let it return to you-let not the caprices of an ill-guided woman weigh upon you. There are some thanks due for the return to a duty from which you should never have wandered."

"I am grateful," said I, "as grateful as I can be. I feel that it is beneath me to dwell thus on the memory of such a woman. But when you have loved, Agatha, you will forgive a weakness, which, like an carly deep-rooted disease, still continues to sting me with poignancy, in utter defiance of the leech's

utmost skill. Oh, Agatha-dear Agatha-you have never-never loved

The expression of her countenance caught my attention just then, but she was silent.

"Have you ever loved,” cried I, forgetting at the moment all else but what was belonging to my cousin Agatha. She smiled, but her smile was followed by a sigh.

A strange feeling came over me, and I caught her hand. I scarcely know what I said, but it was not of Gabriella that I spoke or thought. There was a slight flutter visible in her countenance when I began, but she listened to me with mildness; then with a gentle shake of her head she extricated her hand, and glided from the window.

BEAU LEVERTON.

"Seeking the bubble Reputation."

WE once- (it is now some years ago)-enjoyed the pleasure of meeting the celebrated "Beau Leverton." As every thing which relates to him "belongs"—as

writers say, 66 to history," we shall indulge ourselves with putting our recollections upon record. We respect a beau of the first brilliancy; and wonder at his appearance, as at that of an aloe. He is perhaps even a rarer marvel.

Here, however, let us caution the reader. We would not be understood as paying implicit homage to the stuffed figures which move in procession down Bond and St. James's Streets, kept upright solely by the aid of staymakers and tailors. On the contrary,

we hold them to be of precisely the same advantage in a commonwealth, that those less ostentatious shapes are which keep watch in country gardens, as perpetual centinels over the peas and currants. But Leverton was not one of this small-witted genus. He was originally intended for something even higher than what he became. Fate however threw him into