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Norbourne felt the influence of the lovely hour and scene. Every step he took brought with it some gentle recollection; for a few moments he wandered on, lost in a delicious reverie. But the past only brought the present more vividly before him—he started! for the first time, the folly and the error he was committing seemed to strike forcibly upon his mind. He turned pale, and leant, breathless, against an oak beside. What could he say to Ethel when he saw her?—he had no excuse that he might offer for his falsehood: what could he say?—nothing! What right had he, the husband of another, to offer Miss Churchill vain regrets, which to her were only insults? and Constance, his sweet, his devoted Constance, she who had not a wish, nor a thought, but what were his own—how could he justify his conduct to her? That she might never know, was nothing. To his own heart he could not answer his meditated treachery; for treachery it was to tell another how much he grieved over an union in which she, at least, was wholly blameless. The tumult and