crushed, yet not quenched, within the hidden soul. Hope brings no comfort; for there were cruelty and crime in its promises: memory has no solace; it can, at best, only crave oblivion—and oblivion of what? Of all life's sweet dreams, and deepest feelings. Yet, what slight things must, with a sting like that of the adder, bring back the past—too dear, and yet too bitter! a word, a look, a tone, may be enough to wring every pulse with the agony of a vain and forbidden regret.
Mrs. Courtenaye felt that her son needed consolation; and she hurried to his chamber, and had opened the door before she recollected that she could say—nothing. He was already dressed, and alone. He was leaning against the fir-place, and so lost in thought that he did not hear his mother enter.
"My own dear child!" said she, laying her hand on his. He started—his cheek grew deadly pale: it was for a moment, and his part was taken.
"Ah! you were afraid I should not have finished my toilet," exclaimed he, with a forced
