thought of asking how an obscure servant could render of no avail the firm will of the Beronet, or how such an he could exercise a happy influence over their deatiny; but they clung to that inexplicable hope thus presented to them, with ult the ardor of youth, and all the eredulity of love.
As to the oldl domestic, eager to escape from questions that he either wished not, or would not anewer, he with- drew, and as he was about to ascend the steps’ of thé hall-door, he save standing and leaning on the railing, Sir Charles Luttrell. Tho latter appeared to be lost in deep thought. The harsh and gombre countenance of this porson, hia eyes black and deop set in his head, his thick beard, his long hair which fell with moro art than grace upon his shoulders, gave to his appearance some- thing that was sinister and repulsive,
Jon stopped upon secing him in this altitude, and hegan to observe him with an astonishment so marked, and an attontion go obstinate, (hat Sir Charles felt hir- self put out of countenance. Ashamed, however, of his emotion, he soon resumed his sang froid, drew from his pocket five or six guincas, and presented them to the old man saying, “Tuke these, they are but an camest of the largo present I mean to make you when I marry Miss Davison.”
John stood moveless ag a statue. He seemed not to have heard a word. His looks were pertinaciously fixed upon the hend that Sir Charles Luttrell held toward him. He grasped the hand convulnively, drew it near to his eyes, and then dashing it away from lim with horror, be exelaimel—
“Keep your gold. F do not sell my friendship nor my devotion.”
CHAPTER IIT.
‘Tr was on the banks of the Lea, and at the extremity of a wide park, upon the property of Mr. Clark, that there was tu be seen, at the epoch of our narrative, a small eminence, whith in its site was extremely pic- turesque, because from its sumril might be scen the fertile fields that stretched for many a mile on the other side of the river. Mr, Clark had a particular liking for this poetical solitude, and scarcely an evening passcd away in which he was not to be found there with his ton, discoursing upon the beauties of Nature, and the infinite goodness of God, Whut a noble, calm, and dignified face was that of the old gentleman! To took at hima, it might at onco be seen in hia tranquil brow, that he was destined by nature for that life of retirement which he had selected, and if it were true that he hai ever known a different and @ higher fortune, it had caused him no regret to be parted from it.
Richard Clark and his father were at this spot one evening, when Sir Frederick, Clara, Sir Charles Luttrell, and the old man, John, appeared at the foot of the hill.
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The firet inclination of Sir Frederick Davison was to turn back, io order that he might escape an interview that could not but be disagrecable to both parties. A moment's reflection, however, showed him that he coulil not do thia without being guilty of great impolitencss. He, therefore soluted, his neighbors, and took a seat beside them. Need we say that-Clara hed no objection to follow his example?
John remained standing, A shade of doubt passed actoss his facc—but after @ moment's hesitation it was overcoms. He fastened 2 searching glance upon Sit Charles, and then approaching his master, he said—
« Sir, among the many extraordinary events of which in my fong course of lifo I have been a witness, there is one that I have ever religiously preserved in the hopa that it might some day tend to promote the ends of justice. Will you be s0 good as to listen to it, for 1 have now the proper auditory for hearing it,”
The master of John, althongh not a little surprised at this demand, and the manner in which it was made, assented as much from curiosity as from 9, regard for his foithful domestic. Sir Charles alone appeared a good deal annoyed. He shrugged his shouldere, and whistled hetween his tecth the old favorite air of the cavaliers,
After the reflection of a few moments, John spoke as follows:— . .
“It was in the year 1649, when the trial of King Charles took place, that there stooil at a short dictunce from the palace of Whitehall, a small tavern that was much frequented by the Roundheads, In that place misery alone forced me to hold the situation of a waiter. Now, upon that day, that should ever-stand accursed, the 90th of January, two men all of a sudden burst from the crowd that surrounded the scaffold, which you all know was ereeted under the very windows of the palace, and entered into the tavern where I wus. They both wore tausks, and on their clothes were drops of thot wugust blood, which they tind just shed. The one, a large and robust man, remained at first silent and pen- sive, and thon seizing the tankard that I bad placed before him, he dashed it against the wall opposite to him, and in doing it evinced a bitter feeling of disgust —perhaps of remorse—that man, at least I believe #0, was no other than Oliver Cromwell.”
“It is an infamous lic,” cried Mr. Clark, while fire flashed from his eyes, und his pale foreliead was wrinkled by rage.
“I may be deceived, Sir, and indeed what I do say of him is only from my own supposition, for I never saw that person aguin, and his face was altogether unseen by me. Tt was not 40, however, with bis companion, Less cautious than the elder, he unclasped hia mask that he might breathe the more freely. T could scan hia features well, precisely, completcly—and never—never since then could they be effaced from my memory. One particular �
