been passed in a selfish inactivity, I would fain let it close with the
reflection of having served two beings whom I prize so dearly, and the
hope that their happiness will commence with my death.

"And now, Pelham, I have done; I am weak and exhausted, and cannot bear
more--even of your society, now. Think over what I have last said, and
let me see you again to-morrow: on the day after, I leave England
forever."




CHAPTER LXXVI.

But wilt thou accept not
The worship the heart lifts above
And the Heavens reject not,
The desire of the moth for the star,
Of the night for the morrow,
The devotion to something afar
From the sphere of our sorrow?
--P. B. Shelley.

It was not with a light heart--for I loved Glanville too well, not to be
powerfully affected by his history and approaching fate--but with a
chastised and sober joy, that I now beheld my friend innocent of the
guilt my suspicions had accused him of, and the only obstacle to my
marriage with his sister removed. True it was that the sword yet hung
over his head, and that while he lived, there could be no rational
assurance of his safety from the disgrace and death of the felon. In the