Ir I stood in the fabled palace of Truth, and were there asked the name of the most beautiful woman I ever looked upon, I am sure my reply would be, “Margaret Vernon." It is not that she is associated in my mind with any pleasing incident, or that she ever stood very high in my favour; I knew her but slightly, and all I saw and heard of her tended to produce anything rather than an agreeable impression respecting her. But for mere personal beauty, the beauty of perfect symmetry, with which no single fault could be found, I certainly never saw any one who equalled her. Shall I try to sketch her portrait in words? I never did so on canvass, for she is not my heroine, though deeply involved in the incidents of my story. Let me attempt to pourtray the beautiful Margaret Vernon at the age of twentythree. She was the eldest daughter of Sir Gilbert Vernon, a man of immense wealth, of which he was far less proud than of his ancient title and unblemished descent. Her mother died when she was seven years of age, leaving Miss Vernon and a sister five years younger to the care of their father, who died just as Margaret attained her nineteenth year. Certain traits in her character, early manifested and carefully cherished, induced Sir Gilbert, on finding himself attacked by an incurable disease, to execute a will, by which he emancipated his elder daughter from all control on her twenty-first birthday; and gave her the sole guardianship of the young Agnes during the remaining five years of her minority.

In person, Miss Vernon was somewhat taller than the ordinary run of women, though not remarkably so, and the dignity of her carriage would scarcely have become a fi ure less perfect and graceful than hers. Her head was beautifully placed on a neck and shoulders, so fair and spotless, that no ivory could have surpassed them in polish and purity. Her rich dark hair was simply braided from her magnificent forehead, and twisted up behind,

She

one massive tress being permitted to rest on her neck. Her eyes were of the deepest richest hazel that can be imagined, set off by long lashes of intense blackness. So beautiful a temple should have had a correspondent spirit to inhabit it, and in some points, Margaret Vernon's mind was not unfitted to dwell there. She was warm in her affections, liberal in her charities, honourable in her worldly dealings; but then she was haughty and unbending, proud to an extreme, and somewhat inclined to tyrannise, where she had the power to do so. loved her sister Agnes, but she loved her in her own way, and did not always take the most pleasing methods of proving her attachment. Her excessive care and watchfulness placed a restraint on Agnes's every action that amounted to a positive thraldom. Much as Agnes loved Margaret, she could not but feel that her eldest sister's absence was like a peep at freedom. She felt continually timid and embarrassed in Margaret's presence, yet she never attempted to break through the invisible bonds that were around her. She felt she was not a free agent, yet it was painful to think that her sister was, in fact, her mistress. What Margaret would think, what Margaret would say, what Margaret would have her do, these were the questions that arose in her mind whenever she was left to act for herself in any instance, no matter how trifling it might be. She had no standard, no will, no principles of her own. Margaret was all these to her, and who may estimate the amount of injury done to a young, sensitive, and affectionate spirit, by training such as this. The influence of this quiet unacknowledged tyranny brought in something of that fear which should be cast out by perfect love, and at the same time, nurtured a helplessness and dependence of mind, which caused Agnes to clasp her chain, and refer every circumstance, however unimportant to the decision of her elder sister. Agnes Vernon was very lovely, but

her beauty might only be compared to Margaret's, as that of the violet to the stately lily. Some family likeness existed between them, but Agnes had a less queenly figure, a less brilliant complexion, and a far less striking expression of countenance. There was a gentle subdued look about her, that might have been mistaken for the effect of secret sorrow, even before her young heart had known its bitter visitings. Was it the foreshadowing of her future destiny that was already casting its darkness on her brow?

There was one circumstance, however, on which Agnes Vernon did not consult her sister. It was a matter vitally connected with her happiness, yet she durst not have spoken of it for the world. She had already given her heart freely, fully, and alas! unsolicited, to Charles Willersley, the eldest son of a neighbouring clergyman.

In ordinary cases, such a family as the Vernons would have had little intercourse with that of a country pastor, poor and undistinguished as the Reverend George Willersley. Their acquaintance would have been confined to the parson's" being formally asked to dinner three or four times a year, and the parson's wife exchanging stiff morning visits with the ladies of the family. But Mrs. Willersley was a Vernon, a distant relative of the Baronet's, and the very pride that would have kept Sir Gilbert aloof from any other family of merely middling rank, prompted him to show that no one of his name and blood, however humble in circumstances, could be unworthy of notice. The Willersleys, therefore, were frequent visitors at the hall, and Agnes being of the same age as Rosa Willersley, a girlish friendship sprang up between them, which, however, was jealously watched by Margaret, who was very unwilling that Agnes should have any one as counsellor and confidante except herself, and was peculiarly averse to her being on terms of close intimacy with one whom she considered their inferior. Permission for Agnes to visit the rectory was therefore always accorded reluctantly. Still Agnes's happy hours there were neither few nor far between; they were the sunbeams of her life-the times from which she dated, and to which she looked forward, and though Rosa Willersley's society was the ostensible pleasure she

sought in them, the image of another arose in her heart, though his name passed not her lips, and the thought of one far dearer than Rosa, or any other on earth, sent the eloquent blood burning to her cheek and brow.

As to the young man himself, he loved Agnes with all the abandonment of a passion, which is so bestowed, that it admits of neither hopes nor fears. To wed Agnes Vernon, was a purpose that never presented itself to his mind in any defined shape, even in his wildest dreams. To love her, was the continual action of his soul. That her affection for him exceeded that of a sister and friend, was an idea which never entered his thoughts. The daughter of Sir Gilbert Vernon, endowed with all the advantages that wealth, and rank, and beauty, can bestow, was a being removed from even the ambition of the poor country curate, he was designed to be. never sought to win her affections, he never told her he loved her, he was not even jealous of her; but he loved on day after day, year after year, ardently and unchangeably, and she, to whom the knowledge of that love would have been dearer than all the treasures of the earth, whose own timid attachment was nursed in fear and in secret, she knew it not!

He

But it was not always to be thus. There came a glorious summer evening, succeeding to a long happy day, which Agnes had spent at the rectory. Margaret, as usual, had not deigned to accompany her, but had promised to send a carriage for her early in the evening. The appointed hour, however, was long past, and still no carriage made its appearance. Agnes grew nervous and uneasy.

She was

sure that Margaret was ill, or the ponies had been restive by the way, or something terrible had occurred, and at length her anxiety reached such a height, that she resolved to set forth on foot. She accepted the offer of Charles Willersley's escort gladly, and surely there must have been some tell-tale expression of satisfaction in her countenance as she did so, or the reserved and humble lover would never have ventured to press her delicate arm to his heart as he drew it within his own. Agnes coloured and trembled as she walked, and the words that she forced herself to say on some com

mon place subject were constrained and faltering. Charles seemed to partake of her embarrassment, and after a few minutes, having vainly attempted to support conversation, they walked on in silence.

About half a mile on their road was a gate, which led into a pathway, running across meadows and coppice, and forming a short cut to the hall. Here they stopped. "Shall we go by the footpath, Agnes, or shall we continue on the road, and take the chance of the carriage?" asked Charles. "It is no matter," murmured Agnes, and her cheek burnt with deeper crimson, though there was nothing in that simple question to create agitation. Charles felt the trembling of the small hand that rested on his arm, he saw the blush, suffusing as much of her fair face and neck as her scarf and bonnet left visible, and a thrill of indescribable delight ran through his veins. As if, by mutual consent, they passed through the gate, and took the field path, which, for a short distance, skirted the highway. "You are tired Agnes," said Charles, as the faltering step of his companion attracted his attention, 66 you had better rest a few minutes before we proceed: See, you can sit quite comfortably on the foot of this tree:" and as he spoke, he put aside the long grass and weeds, and seated Agnes on the spot he recom mended. He stood before her for a moment, and her upraised eyes met his. There was a wide revelation in that mutual glance. Not a word was spoken, yet they knew, each knew, that to the other there existed nothing else on earth so loved, so near in heart and soul. Then might their love have found a voice, all might have been told, and though trouble and care might have ensued, sorrow, such as they were yet doomed to feel, could hardly have befallen them. But the sound of an approaching carriage was heard, and Agnes sprung to her feet.

"It must be the phaeton," she said in a low voice, as she began hurriedly to retrace her steps towards the gate, and it was a positive relief to her that her conjecture was correct, though five minutes before she would have given all the world to hear Charles Willersley say he loved her. So true is it, that woman shrinks, as from something too intensely agitating, from

the very love tale she most longs to hear. The carriage drove up; a slight accident it appeared had detained it but Agnes did not hear one word of the servant's explanation. She was scarcely conscious of the fervent pressure of Charles Willersley's hand upon her own as he bade her farewell, but afterwards that parting moment came back vividly upon her remembrance, and through long years of separation, was treasured up amidst her dearest memories. Oh, that delicious homeIward drive on that sweet summer evening--the ecstasy of the gentle tears that overflowed as soon as she was alone! She was in a very delirium of happiness. She had not yet had time to think or reflect, the proud image of her sister had not yet arisen amidst her blissful visions. She only felt and knew that she was beloved. She was indeed encircled with the charm of "love's young dream❞—the freshness of its dawn lay about her heart. The present was enough for her; with the past and the future she had nothing to do. The carriage rolled on through beautiful scenery, rendered still lovelier by the tender mellowing of the evening light. She took no notice of the landscape, she did not think about it, yet its soft loveliness had an influence on her feelings. She felt that the world was a paradise, and she, the happiest of its inhabitants.

And how felt Charles Willersley as he slowly wandered home on that eventful evening? As a child who has unwittingly put in motion some stupendous piece of machinery, while he lacks the power again to stay its action. There was fear amidst the exultation that would arise in his heart at the assurance he felt that Agnes loved him; and this, he could not for an instant doubt, for that one glance of mind on mind had written the truth in fiery characters on his soul. The angel of his worship had descended from her own sphere to his, and he was awed, and almost terrified at the responsibility that seemed to have fallen upon him. How could he honourably pursue his advantage? How could he venture openly to woo the high-born maiden who his heart told him was already won? Should he seek to engage her in a clandestine attachment? That was even worse. Who would believe that his love was

disinterested, that no thought of worldly aggrandizement had mingled with his aspirations? Yet, above all, so much having been revealed, how could he again meet her as a mere common acquaintance? Surely it would be an act of injustice to her, who had fondly given him her first affections, to keep her in a state of doubt and suspense, if such she still entertained, as to his real feelings towards her. In spite of the sincere devotion of his heart to Agnes, and the glow of satisfaction which any man would naturally feel in such circumstances as his, Charles Willersley was honestly puzzled what do do with his good fortune. To worship at a distance, to love silently and hopelessly, seemed a few hours ago the only fate he could expect, and now that an unguarded moment had diminished the distance between their hearts, it appeared as if the difficulties of their position were increased tenfold. Very different were the uneasy dreams that disturbed the repose of the rector's son, to the sweet visions that flitted round the pillow cf Agnes Vernon.

For two days ny heroine was as happy as hope that has known no shadow, and confidence that has never been shaken, can make a young imaginative girl. The fact that she was loved, was the predominant idea of her mind, and she looked forward with delight to her next interview with Charles, for she doubted not that his lips would assure her in words of what she already knew so well. The Willersleys were to dine at the Hall on the third day from that of Agnes' visit to them, and she counted the hours and minutes until she should again be with him who was henceforth to be all her world. The longed-for day came, and brought bitte disappointment. Charles did not accompany his party, he pleaded indsposition and sent an excuse. Agneswept sadly in her own chamber, and she sent him as kind a message as she dared by Rosa, for she doubted not his grief at missing an interview wth her would be equal to her own. little thought that his absence on tha day was only the beginning of a sys tem of self-banishment from her society, which, on deliberation, he had resolved upon as the wisest and most honourable course that was left for

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him.

At the very time that she was secretly lamenting his absence, Charles was galloping across the country towards the residence of his godfather, Colonel St. Aubyn.

The Colonel was a fine soldierly looking man, of seven or eight-andforty. He had lately returned from abroad on account of the death of his brother, who had left him a large estate, called Woodfield Park, in addition to his already immense possessions. He was residing there for a short time, previously to again quitting England for a foreign land. He was exceedingly fond of Charles Willersley, and often had expressed a wish that he should embrace the military profession instead of the more peaceful one for which his father intended him.

When Charles reached Woodfield Park he met with a warm and hearty reception, and Colonel St. Aubyn's delight at seeing him was much enhanced, when he found that his young friend had changed his intentions respecting his future life, and now came to inquire if the Colonel would still use his influence to procure him a com

mission.

"Bravo, bravo, my dear boy," cried the Colonel, "I always thought it would come to this knew you far better than you did yourself; I always saw you were made to be a soldier. It would have been as unnatural to make a parson of you, as to have apprenticed Napoleon to a tailor. The fire was in you, my boy, and I knew it must come out; but I am sorry to see you look grave."

Charles muttered, that circumstances of late occurrence had induced him to take this step.

Let me

"Hum-circumstances? see, your father has had no losses that I know of, and you are on good terms with every body. Ah, so she has been cruel, Charles? That's a very suspicious blush; and who may the obdurate fair one be? Miss Fanny Figgins is a very pretty girl; but she would scarcely refuse you, and Miss Matilda Clarke you would scarcely ask; there's Miss Wentworth, pretty, gentle Annie Wentworth-surely it is

not Annie?"

"I can assure you, Colonel

"Nay, if you begin assuring with such a colour on your brow, I shall

be sure I am right, so we will say no more on the subject. Come, we will talk over this commission business."

Plans for the future were discussed, arrangements, most advantageous to our hero, made, and the patron and his protegè parted.

Margaret Vernon sate alone in her boudoir in an attitude of deep and perplexed thought. She was seated in a recess, lighted by an old-fashioned window, through whose small panes a dim, softened light fell upon her ;—her feet rested on a silken cushion, her fair fingers were interlaced and rested on her knees. On the window seat, beside her, lay an open letter. Her thoughts were too confused to find vent in words; but their general outline may be given as follows:

"So, my fair sister can be confirmed at once in a station worthy of herworthy of a daughter of our house, and the same act that sets the seal on her rank in life, will remove her from the reach of him-him whom, alas, I love! That I should live to feel it, and own it, even to myself! That I -a Vernon-the head of my house, the upholder of its honour, should thus love, thus be jealous of my young sister for the sake of one so utterly beneath either of us! I know he loves her. I have read the silent language of his countenance as none but one who loves can read it. I have seen how common-place and heartless have been his greetings to myself, while he turned with all his soul in his eyes to gaze on her! What if she should ever know it. If her girlish fancy should be deepened into an enduring passion, under the influence of his acknowledged love! Surely, he would hardly dare to approach her with the language of affection, and yet, if it should be so! she might renounce my authority, might sacrifice all her splendid prospects to her silly romance -for Agnes can never know a passion like the fever that consumes a mind like mine; and then they would marry. I could not bear it; I could not survive it. I would not wed him myself; the honour of my house demands that I should not, even had he presumed to love me; but I cannot bear a rival in his heart, and that rival, Agnes. She has been as mine owr dear child; I have watched her ard

cherished her with a mother's care, and not for worlds would I see her in a position where I feel any one must be hateful to me. It is mercy to herself to prevent the indulgence of her childish whim. Years hence, how

bitterly she would regret it, when she found herself the inmate of a country parsonage, and surrounded by a tribe of his needy relations. Mrs. St. Aubyn, the wife of Colonel St. Aubyn, with twelve thousand a-year, and the chance of a peerage! It is my bounden duty not to let this opportunity pass. Agnes is a child, she wants strength and decision of character, and my father knew this when he left her to my care. Can I do a wiser or kinder thing than to give her to the protection of such a man as Colonel St. Aubyn ?"

Thus meditated Margaret Vernon, and again she took up the Colonel's letter, containing a proposal of marriage for her sister Agnes.

She

When Agnes had first read it she had been overwhelmed with sorrow and shame. She had vainly endeavoured to conceal her real reason for the refusal which she entreated Margaret to return to the Colonel. At length her agony became so extreme that flinging herself on Margaret's neck she confessed her previous attachment, and prayed her sister's kindness and forgiveness. Her tale was coldly received, and Margaret affected an utter disbelief of Willersley's love for her sister. She exhorted her to conquer her own predilection, as something that amounted to a crime. accused her of meanness in loving unsought, and of dissimulation in concealing from her the very first emotion of preference she felt; and she positivdy refused to write such a letter to the Colonel as should at once extinguish hope. Who may tell the progress of the influence she exercised over her sister's mind? The alternations of exceeding kindness and criel harshness, so skilfully employed as to make Agnes believe that Margart could have no motive but regard or her happiness, might have overcome the resolution of a firmer nature than hers. Accustomed to yield implicit unquestioning obedience to every wish of Margaret's, whom she locked on as a superior being, a reluctant compliance was slowly extorted from