sells her soul to win what is more than gold, more than life-the first love of a noble, trusting heart. With her detected treachery, away sweet confidence in what seems fair and true-away dear power of loving and of believing! Of this odious race you are the worst specimen, Augusta; for you are an interested coquette! Enough! cling not to me! kneel not to me! Henceforth we are stran

gers. I go into a cold, false world, to struggle with an unrelenting fate; but that world has nothing so cold, so false, so hollow, as her I have worn in my heart of hearts!-away, I say! How dare you extend to me a handon which glares the ring of another! Is not that ring the gift of him whom, in my prosperous hour, you rejected?-whom I have seen you scorn, heard you ridicule? You answer not, base, most base! But no, you are too mean for my curse.

"Grovel on, yea, even in wealth — in the

wealth you have purchased at the price of

all self-respect, at the price of the peace of a ruined man, who cared not what Fate seized, if she spared him you-grovel on in conscious infamy, woman of the vain head and marble heart! but, were I lying a beggar in a loathsome lazar-house, and were you the throned Queen of the universe, I should look, perhaps I may say, I shall look from my bed of straw to your palace-home, and feel that I am not all degraded, all a beggar, while I have escaped the contamination of a union with one so false, so base. Be happy! in other words, be rich! And so, farewell!"

His voice ceased; Augusta remained on the ground, her face buried in her hands; at length she looked up-he was gone.

The Rejected walked proudly from that fatal spot, deserted by her he loved, Ruin before him, Want tracking his footsteps, yet he looked confidently up to the intensely blue sky, and felt, as he gazed, that there was a God in the heavens above, watching over the

VOL. III.

F

wanderer of earth. The Rejecter-affianced to the rich man she whom a few days would see possessed of all the goods this world can give its children-she watched till he was out of sight, and then she rose, her eyes dropping the vain tears of shame and unavailing regret, her form bowed, her head sunk on her bosom-and so she stole back, glided stealthily into the house, and threw herself, humbled to the dust, on the floor of her own room.

CHAPTER LVIII.

"Oh! thou art the cause of this anguish, my mother!" HAYNES BAYLY.

When Julian quitted Augusta, he felt too excited, too restless, to return to the Rectory; he wanted to be alone, to arrange his thoughts, to muse over his solitary fate.

He must leave, and that promptly, the Rose-garden of Epicurus; he must quit the Eden of the heart, to toil in the wilderness, and make the barren land fruitful-more desolate than our first father, for he is alone; no weeping Eve beguiles his lonely way. Alas! alas! in the first moment of astonishment and indignation, he had found some solace in the

violent outpouring of his wrath; but that bitter satisfaction soon passed away - and a void, a deep sadness, and a sickening sense of loneliness, weighed upon his heart.

The wrench had been so sudden, every fibre bled. He knew not, till he lost her, how dear she had been to him, how entire had been his faith; and this hollow worldling he had known......he could scarce remember the time when he knew her not! Whom could he trust, when she proved false? whom could he believe, when she had so deceived him?

He wandered on, he knew not, he cared not, whither. Wander where he would, he could meet nought like this- he had known the worst!...... He determined that very night to repair to London: he could not remain in her house; he could not be a burthen on his ruined father. No; he would rather toil to support him. Yes; he had a duty yet to bind him to life....and she-she was not worth one thought, one tear!..... No, that was