the pang to part. Don't you remember the story of the Frenchman, who for
twenty years loved a lady, and never missed passing his evenings at her
house. She became a widow. 'I wish you joy,' cried his friend; 'you may
now marry the woman you have so long adored.' 'Alas!' said the poor
Frenchman, profoundly dejected; 'and if so, where shall I spend my
evenings?'"

Here Violante and Helen were seen in the garden, walking affectionately
arm in arm.

"I don't perceive the point of your witty, heartless anecdote," said Lady
Lansmere, obstinately. "Settle that, however, with Miss Digby. But to
leave the very day after your friend's daughter comes as a guest!--what
will she think of it?"

Lord L'Estrange looked steadfastly at his mother. "Does it matter much
what she thinks of me,--of a man engaged to another; and old enough to
be--"

"I wish to heaven you would not talk of your age, Harley; it is a
reflection upon mine; and I never saw you look so well nor so handsome."
With that she drew him on towards the young ladies; and, taking Helen's
arm, asked her, aside, "If she knew that Lord L'Estrange had engaged
rooms at the Clarendon; and if she understood why?" As while she said
this she moved on, Harley was left by Violante's side.

"You will be very dull here, I fear, my poor child," said he.

"Dull! But why will you call me child? Am I so very--very child-like?"