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resented to him. Besides, to enter into particulars, even
- - -

_re of interest sufficient to warrant me in doing so,
mid involve more of my own personal history than I choose
present to disclose ; and the reader must therefore be con-
nt with so much of that of my friend as he may be able to
Ither from—(l am afraid I must call them)—the confessions
hich will be hereafter brought before him.
_ _

lay succeeding the interview described in the last

chapter, I found myself, towards evening, seated with poor
Melton by the window of his little apartment in Walnut-tree
Walk. I had shared with him his tea,—which, by the kind
hands of his landlady, had been neatly prepared and fur-
nished with a few such little delicacies as were suited to his

nd our conversation had assumed a vein of
cheerfulness which had restored much of the equable and
even buoyant spirits which he naturally possessed. An oc-
casional vein of sadness, it is true, flowed through his re-
marks if they glanced upon any topic calculated to call up
recollections of the past ; and there was a bitterness of tone,
here and there with his most lively sallies. He
s more collected, however, and at ease ; and, in a while,
he could speak freely of his future prospects, and even, with
tolerable equanimity, recur to past sorrows and disappoint-

tate,—

" You will wonder, George," he remarked, after a pause
in our conversation, during which a thoughtful and saddened
expression had crept over his features. " You will wonder,—
and well you may !—to see your early school friend as you
see him now. There was a time when if I could have looked
forward to this day, I should have thought that I gazed upon
sibility—the phantasy of a disturbed dream.
ifinitely more happy am I now—here, in this
—(and he looked round upon his neat, though

or apartment

." than I have

bumble dwelling with a smile of bitterness)—
been when, in a worldly sense, brighter and better prospects

were still before me !"
He paused for a few moments, and then resumed in a tone
"Yes, George, the first bright
—the dream of love, of a happy home, of a holy

of melancholy earnestness—

dream of lift

for ever; and now—but why trouble you

sy miseries

I strove to lead his thoughts into another channel, and he
listened to me—at least I thought he listened—whilst I
pointed out to him the path of ambition, which was still open
gifted as he was. I saw his eyes glisten ; I saw his
ig, and his breast heaving with excitement ; tears
.eavy tears—rolled down his cheeks, and he
sobbed aloud. I painted a bright prospect before him—a
calm and hor

igth-h

_ lot, if not one such as hope had painted in
his earlier years ; but he heard me not. The notes of a
--- g musician turning a French piano beneath the win-
dow, had abstracted alike ear, eye, and sense ; and poor
Melton was alone for a time, communing with the past.
" That strain, George," at length he murmured faintly,
" what memories does it bring to me ! How it whispers to
me of the scenes of boyhood which we trod together—

Of Brignal banks so fresh and fair.
And Greta's woods so green!'

I see them at this moment rising up before me, called up
by the magic of that simple air ; and its notes, like mocking
!fends, drag me to that latticed chamber with its clustering
flowers, which used to " lap the senses in Elysium ;" and to
the presence of that fair being, sweeter than they, and
faded, now, as they are.. I hear at this moment the notes
streaming from her parted lips ; I see her, at this moment,

Trembling to hear the sound
Of her own voice and lute ;
Blushing to look around
On listeners so mute.'

Oh ! I would give worlds to forget all, of which that
simple air brings to me the harrowing memory ; and yet that

oar fellow who comes, day by day, to play it beneath my
indow, has had—how often heaven knows !—the last
,nnv which I have possessed; and has seldom indeed, as

now, gone away without some token—aye, for the very pain
which in his innocence he has inflicted upon me. To how
thoughtless happy heart the strolling musician
adness ; to how many bereaved ones misery un-

brings g
utterable

The chord once struck which vibrated to the seat of poor
vlelton's grief, I foresaw that the veil which hid all his
leart from me would not long be permitted to remain ; nor

was I mistaken, for, after a short period, he went on—
Maria B--; how formed she was to win

You kn

, now I loved her. But no ; you cannot conceive
depth of such a love as mine. Yet she, even she it was
3se inconstancy has wrecked this heart. But she knew it
t- Oh, no ! they told her that I was unworthy ; that I
as an outcast; that I loved another : and she cast me
Sway to be the thing I am. I have promised, George, that
I Would tell you all, and I will do so ; but why make a long
tocy
of what may be conveyed in a few words? I was mad,
1_ and wild ; I had won honours and a distinguished
me, in that career which was my chosen one ; I was
.ered, and / fell:—but not to guilt ! I
1'1h:1,1:m11 1111th,
and her on
elove whichly l I had vowed t) Maria ; but I
The close of another term-
-83 to make her mine ; the close of that term saw

couttea and flait

another'a ! ';

kn exclamation which escaped me roused poor Melton
m the gavor of grief into which the recital of this deso-
ng tale had cyst him. " no," he interrupted plead-
ly she was not false; ahe loved me still—
But treacherous tongues can poison truth ;

And to be wroth with those we love
Do th work like madness in the brain.'
aced me still with all the deep love of a Woman's heart ;
he thought that she had been slighted—betrayed ; and
madness of that love itself gave her to the arms of
ter and that other a villain."

CHAPTER IV

)/33 Cambridge to London," ha resumed,
I a few days, and was—why should I

. —immersed in a round of dissipation and folly, No,tn
1 letter reached me, written by my only remaining sister. I
had three once, you know, George, but that scourge of our
family—consumption—had already taken away two ; and the
last is now at rest beneath the quiet sod of our village church-
'iat letter told me of the bereavement which had

pause,

"'
is like a pocket with a hole in it ; and those who
therein risk their money are very like to lose it.
maHnosz To FALL FROM A HORSE.—In all falls, the horse-
. legs or head.
that in a can, lest in away from his horse as soon as he possibly
aisttr_ilegle to rise again he strike him with. his
was no long legs
says she would be, irrevocably, after he falls
is apt to crush frequently happens that the horse himself
note from
own '+
brine of
If in the direction, in which his rider lies,
mother. It enclosed, too, a brief and hurried and iriipre him. Indeed, there is scarcely
that beloved object—not blaming me for my guilt—not re- any. hard rider
. again seif_passession
ofEtts not been thus served but here
the body of his horse aen stands his friend. When he sees
it
with him, he frequently saves
-noodling me, but breathing an earnest prayer for my lelapp,i,- .
ess, whilst she bade me a firm and yet a tender far himself by me,etir,
,i,is
Own
nh one of his feet, and, by obtaining
fulcrum, shove
You will not be happy, Harry,'—she told me, and oh, how
raeseh.
wen.
Coolness in this
hbooudryozilopenigiltlr ground out of
the
aetic has been the assurance I—' you will not be happy
sportsrnan in anot.her.7ay. Instead
ofilleeczeisge
hseeirr
ofs hish
.1 the course of life which you have chosen. Yet humble reins, and
raibeadnadtontllrlsgtthisehoir tr, h;
'RS:aI.-Wit' ow will, as the man
though the pretensions of your Maria may be to share the
"I°' is flurried
if not always, perhap'sYiti Zill'e hef keeps them
lot of one to whom such prospects are within reach, if you
ainnditsbus secures his horse. It was the rernkll:fouat of ten,
use rightly the opportunities and the talents which you pos-man to whom we have before alluded, and who (sin ge,ntl-
ess, she dares not incur the risk of building up her future arte) was, from his des e te system of ridinm
espknraown .to have more ilutus in
and despite
appiness upon the love of one so unstable—so utterly reck- his -fine horsemanship,
the time he hunted Leicestershire
other ar4 ‘s—even if that love was hers. They tell me, however, other mail durin
louee an appearance as that of a man running'tthe
t
nothing had you love another; and Ido not complain. You deserve so
field calling out, " Stop my horse."--.The
on foot over a
a brighter—a fairer—st better than I nldby Nimrod.
to ever be to you. Horse and the Homed, ,

ard. Ti

me ;—that iMari,