The two damsels, though in all respects qualified for members of the corps de ballet, were quiet, unobtrusive girls, new at their profession; I watched them some little time before joining, this perhaps attracted their observation; but it was evident when I came up that their conversation, though I was ignorant of its purport, had turned upon me. The look that Lucy Manson now gave me was no longer an uninteresting one. I entered into conversation with them, she joining apparently without hesitation. My two friends were soon induced to leave us by the arrival of certain well-dressed elderly visitors who appeared for the time being to engross their souls. I was left alone with the girl; the elderly lady was no where to be seen. Well managed, I thought. More interested in her than I cared to admit, I proceeded in the ordinary way to improve my acquaintance, but soon found that I was pursuing a very wrong course. We discussed the new opera which had that night been produced, and I was astounded at the taste displayed in her remarks-they were those of a cultivated mind; her language was refined; her manners that of a lady, and oh, the tones of her voice! It was time for her to go on, she bowed slightly, and left me impressed with the truth of what my friend had said-She was an odd girl.

I watched her closely on the stage, and felt that she never would be more than she was; she was not fit for it. She danced well, but it was the perfection of ladylike grace; she did want confidence to go through the lascivious exhibition which calls down raptures from the unprofitably excited crowd, who applaud the crime and condemn the criminal. Her style was for the ball-room rather than the stage.

Her task was done, and she retired to prepare for departure. My offer to escort her home was coldly but politely declined, she even seemed kind. Her mother, she said, was waiting for her.

Wrapping myself closely in my great-coat, I waited at the door to see her depart. She was one of the last who came out; all her sisters had gone, some in their own or their friends' carriages; others, whose hour was past, under the escort of those less wealthy admirers who were content to enjoy the pleasures of their society at second-hand. They were dispersing in all directions to eke out the already far-spent night in petit soupers, &c., &c.

At last, muffled in a quiet dark cloak, leaning on her mother's arm, she came, and, not even indulging in the luxury of a hackcab, walked quietly to their home in Brewer-street; it was a lodging over a grocer's shop. I followed unperceived till they entered the door.

That night I went direct to my chambers, ruminating on this fascinating ballet girl.

This must be all a scheme, thought I, but I am too old a hand to be easily caught-doucement !—we shall see.

Every opera night found me behind the scenes guardedly improving my acquaintance with the pretty Manson. My friends were not slow in observing my doings, nor backward in making their remarks thereon, confidentially informing me that it would not do; I was losing my time; that, and and ——, had been in the field before me, and even they had failed; but little cared I. There was a pleasure in talking to her that I had never felt before.

Once or twice did I try to test the reality of her staid behaviour, but any advances of that nature were repulsed in a manner that made me repent most heartily of having made them. A sort of friendship seemed to have sprung up between us; she was always glad to see me at the opera, but our language was still the language of friends.

At length, one night she came alone: her mother, she said, had a very bad attack of influenza; she feared these nightly walks were the cause, and much as she disliked walking in the streets of London alone at night, she could not allow her to continue them. I requested to be allowed to see her home; at first she declined my offer with the same cold politeness she usually showed when I in any way went beyond the bounds of mere ordinary civility, but urging the unpleasantness of her lonely walk more strongly, she at length accepted my offer with thanks. My cab was at the door, and I offered, as a matter of course, to hand her into it; she drew back suddenly, and said pointedly, "Thank you, no; I had rather walk." I pressed her no farther, sending the man home. I turned naturally in the direction of her house, and she said with a smile, "You walk as unhesitatingly as if you knew where you were going." "To Brewer-street, Golden-square," said I, "am I not right ?"

She did not answer, and I could perceive that she was both surprised and displeased at my knowledge.

I continued, for I was out of all patience with myself and with her, and forgot the ground I had hitherto maintained over my own feelings

"Can Miss Manson wonder that, having once seen her, I could help striving to become acquainted with the abode of so much beauty and worth!"

"She can wonder that Mr. Hertford should have condescended to acquire indirectly a knowledge which that insignificant person

had herself seen no necessity for imparting: the more that it can hardly be a source of congratulation to a man of feeling to reflect that he will cause inconvenience to a poor person, the very lowness of whose station will not allow her to be the hunted of tigers, and watched of hired crossing-sweepers."

"Upon my honour, Miss Manson, you are wrong, I have not done you this insult: for myself I acquired the knowledge which I must now regret, inasmuch as it gives you pain, and to myself I have kept it: but why will you blame me? It cannot be that you have misunderstood me! It cannot be that all is cold in such a bosom as yours! Lucy, I love you, by Heaven! better than I ever thought to love woman. I am as little akin to those gay things who have fluttered around you, casting their cheap admiration at your feet, as you to the frail pieces of woman's flesh by whom you are nightly surrounded. I love you better than my own soul. My love for you, long suppressed, has become a part of my very existence. Quit this harrassing life for which you are little suited; trust me that your mother, your every friend shall be well provided for. Quit this place once and for ever. If I make you not happy, may all misfortunes accumulate on my head."

I pressed her arm closely to me while I spoke, and bent down to her face; she showed no sign of resentment, but I felt her whole frame tremble, and her eyes were suffused with tears. She hesitated, made two or three attempts to speak, but at length said, in a low but distinct voice,

"Would you marry an opera dancer?"

I was hardly surprised at this from a girl of her character; but the firm direct way in which the question was put took me aback, and for a moment I was lost.

"What signifies the idle ceremony of marriage between us two? Can it unite us more firmly than the bonds of love! I do not like marriage. Do you wish for legal obligations, you shall have them. I will so bind myself to you as to leave no alternative between ruin and fidelity. I will bind myself never to marry-never to love any but you. What would you more ?"

She burst into a violent flood of tears; I feared that a fit of hysterics would be the end. In a very few minutes, and with the most wonderful self-command she turned to me, and said, "I thank you, sir; I need take you no further." I stammered out Heaven knows what. "And yet," she continued "though you have shown yourself all the blackest, you have said rightly, you are not like the rest of them, and honour, if not feeling, may restrain you. I will trouble you yet more :-My father was a respectable tradesman who had raised himself to opulence by an uninterrupted attention to his business. A plain man

himself, he yet understood the value of instruction for his children, and our education was not neglected. We were admitted to the best society in the neighbourhood where my father's country-house was situated; and he was on the eve of retiring to end his days there on the proceeds of a life of industry, when one unfortunate speculation involved us all in irretrievable ruin. The society which had tolerated, quickly rejected us; we had lost our passport. We left our house, and took lodgings. My poor father was obliged to labour as a journeyman in the trade of which he had lately been the head; our holiday friends deserted us, of course. My father was too proud to ask assistance of any one; and mental anxiety, superadded to severe bodily labour, soon deprived us of our last support. My mother was too delicate to work; and, in our extremity, I applied to the person who had been my dancingmaster, and whom I knew to be in some way connected with the theatres by his kind assistance I obtained an engagement at the Opera, and some occasional employment in teaching in his own establishment; and have been enabled to use the little talent I possessed for the support of my poor mother, and her three helpless little children. In spite of the prayers and remonstrances of my mother, I entered on this mode of life. I came prepared for the trials to which I should be exposed; but if a woman be strong in the consciousness of virtue, she need not fear the open solicitations of vice. I have been insulted, I have been surrounded by temptations; but when vice comes unmasked before us, our task becomes comparatively easy. Privation, death, anything before deliberate sin. Those to whom I have before been exposed, failed by the very audacity of their villainy. She must be base, indeed, who yields to mercenary considerations; and the woman who has any mind, can despise a mere appeal to the passions: but he who attacks our affections wounds the more sensitive part of us it is against the insidious approach to the heart that we must guard. Such, sir, has been your deliberate plan, long and unrelentingly pursued; you see I do not disguise my feelings from you. You are not like the others, and your insult is only the more cruel for the manner in which it has been offered to a helpless orphan, and the paltry sophistry with which you have endeavoured to disguise it. But one word more. If you consider it consistent with your feelings as a man of honour and a gentleman- to your heart I should blush to appeal to throw a widowed mother and her children penniless on the world, you will succeed in doing so by pursuing the course you have commenced-the next time I meet you behind the scenes of the Opera House I forfeit my engagement. You have well contributed to the misery of one whose only

offence against you is that she ever crossed your path. Let that suffice. I wish you good night."

Her tones, at first those of passionate indignation, softened as she spoke of the misfortunes of her family; her words were broken by frequent and half-suppressed sobs: but, finally, her sorrow merged in anger at the unmerited insult which had been offered her; she spoke in a voice well worthy of the sentiments with which her heart was bursting, standing erect, with her flashing eyes fixed full on mine. Every pulse in my body quickened as she went on; and when she had finished I stood motionless-speechless-it was but a moment. When I recovered, she was gone.

It was sometime before I could sufficiently collect my thoughts to weigh well the words she had uttered. What my feelings were it would be difficult to say. At first, a consciousness of foiled villainy, then pique, disappointment: then love, admiration, and an inclination to throw myself at her feet, and give her all, hand, fortune, everything. When cool reflection came, I felt this could not be. But one alternative remained. She must be mine! How? Even at the expense of honour and truth. But still she must be mine. She had admitted that

her heart was gained: the rest was easy. I was shocked when I thought of the base course I must pursue; but I did not hesitate. Still it was the first time I had ever been guilty of such deep-laid deceit, and my mind naturally recoiled from it. Her very helplessness, which should have been her protection, but strengthened me in my resolve. I satisfied myself that she could not escape; that if she did not fall into my hands, she might into worse; that I might as well gain her, since she was to be gained. I am not sure that, eventually, I did not persuade myself that I would be doing her a kindness by taking her under my protection. Shame whispered the wrong into my ear; but my heart was hardened against the hissing suggestions of conscience: all virtue was drowned in the unconquerable desire to possess this beautiful creature. Marry her I could not; there was but one other way. I consoled myself with the reflection that but for the rites of the church, which I tried to think idle, we should be to all intents married; that my fidelity and constancy to her should never cease; that I could amply compensate her by love, affection, and in worldly circumstances, for the injustice I was about to do her. The result of these wretched reflections was that I wrote to her, urging the violence of unreflecting passion as an excuse for my conduct of the night before, making her an unequivocal and deliberate offer of my hand, and praying that I might be allowed to call that afternoon, to be introduced to her mother. I acted basely to her from be