CHAPTER XIII.

"Auspicious Hope, in thy sweet garden grow
Wreaths for each toil, a balm for every woe."

CAMPBELL.

It was a particularly gay season, and never was there a party more disposed to enjoy a gay season than that assembled in Mr. Lindsay's house in St. James's Square. Mr. Lindsay's great wealth was of course greatly exaggerated, and would have been of itself a sufficient passport, but he was also of an ancient family, and all his fashionable connexions, who had quite forgotten him when he was a poor adventurer, and his brother a curate, eagerly claimed kindred with him now, and were very lavish of cards and invitations, flattering attentions, and proffers of service.

Mr. Lindsay was not deceived by beings

so shallow; but of such the élite circles in which he wished his nieces to move were made up; he could not make such people amiable, but he could make them useful, and so he smiled when he met them, bowed when they flattered, returned their visits, and accepted their invitations.

Mrs. Lindsay had obtained the Reverend Gregory's permission to leave him alone to do all the duties of a populous parish, while she did the honours of his brother's house in town, and chaperoned her daughters into every fashionable scene. Her pride and pleasure were boundless. Her girls, new, beautiful, young, and gifted, created a sensation beyond what even her maternal vanity had hoped. She found herself courted by the wealthy and the titled, and began now to feel almost sure that the brilliant Augusta might make a much better match than her rich and handsome cousin, while all fears of failure were lulled by the conviction that, to use her own words, she had always "that to fall back upon."

But, if they were popular, he was not less

so; his expectations were exaggerated twenty fold by his dashing friends, who seemed to think his wealth reflected credit on them, and often made it the means of obtaining credit. The faultless beauty of his form and face, his affectation and insousiance, made him the idol of shallow hearts and empty heads, that is to say, in the world of fashion, an almost univeral idol. Coquettes, husband-hunters, and sentimentalists, all played the whole artillery of their charms off upon him, and all in vain, cabs, coats, and coiffures too were all à la Lindsay.

As for old Lindsay, he was all delight in seeing those around him so happy. He gave his nieces leave to draw upon him for any sums they needed, allowed them a front box on the first tier at the opera, subscribed to every thing worth subscribing to, secured them tickets for Almack's, welcomed to the house any one who seemed to please them, allowed them to give balls and fêtes to their hearts' content, and only stipulated that he should not be obliged always to join in the sports he thus promoted.

Augusta's life was now one dream of joy and gaiety. Dress and dissipation took up all her time the gayest butterflies of the season fluttered for ever around the rose of that season. Hers was, as De Villeneuve had said, the beauty that makes a court around it, and Augusta was so much taken up with conquest, she had no time for love. She seldom sought her couch till Dan Phoebus had quitted his, then loitered over a late breakfast and fashionable papers teeming with praises of her beauty, till it was time to ride or drive through the crowded parks; then the toilet, the dinnerparty, opera, or ball, and sometimes all crowded into one night. If Ellen, and even Mrs. Lindsay, could not keep pace with her, there were plenty of thorough-bred London chaperons, to whom the hot air of crowded rooms is as a native element, ready to take charge of the" belle of the season generally mammas with involved sons, who considered that a niece so equipped and so indulged would be a desirable wife, in what they considered the important point.

And Ellen-oh! Ellen was young, too, and to the young, novelty is ever charming, and pleasure alluring. She did not drain the cup with the avidity of Augusta, but she tasted, and the taste exhilarated. She liked to join the fair and gallant in the graceful dance; to her the opera was a pleasure, for the harmony of her soul found an echo in fine music. The theatres, too, had a deep charm for her poetical mind.

But Ellen, in the enjoyment of these things, never forgot either herself or others. She was always down to make her uncle's breakfast, always preferred those amusements which he could share, always walked with him in preference to riding with a gay party, always promoted poor Annie's sharing the pleasure of the hour, and several times remained at home to hear a chapter of "Rollin," and to nurse Miss Tibby when she was unwell. Mr. Lindsay rejoiced to see that the perpetual variety of scene had a salutary effect on Ellen's health. At first, she seemed to seek amusement in order to fly from thought, but now she really