dine with the bastard of Richard I? Moreover, the Count had another objection, Sir Philip was a Protestant, and no daugther of Capelmonte would ever marry a heretic.

This last objection, if not urged in the way it was urged, Sir Philip would have got over. He had been a passable Mahommetan when he resided with the hospitable sheik; and in the Brazils, where Sir Philip had been at one time a prisoner of the Indians, he had acquitted himself uncommonly well as a professor of the religion of the tribe, which consisted in a veneration for a wooden Madonna; but Sir Philip objected to conversion on compulsion. As to the question of rank, Sir Philip might have got over that, too; for the Count's confessor had informed him that for a consideration he would undertake to convince his patron of the lustre inherited by Sir Philip from his ancestor having declined the intimacy of Falconbridge, a sworn foe of the Pope's, and Sir Philip had no objections to this transaction. But his compulsory conversion stuck

in his throat.

A quarrel was the result, and Sir Philip one day was missed at Capelmonte, having prudently taken advantage of the confessor's hint, that if he did not wish a bullet through his head he had better leave the Abruzzi. He managed, however, before his departure to have an interview with Alicia, but he failed in inducing her to accompany him.

They parted in sorrow, and Sir Philip resumed his wandering life, but no change of scene-no danger-no excitement—could banish from his memory, or his heart, Alicia Capelmonte.

The young Italian was, of course, in despair; but months elapsed, and she heard nothing of her English lover, and youth and time had their effect. She recovered spirits, and though the commanding form of Sir Philip, his stern, cold expression, which softened only to her, often recurred to her memory, the custom of the country was upon her. The authority of her father and her friends could not well be gainsaid, and hardly a year had elapsed ere Sir Philip had ascertained that the only woman he ever loved was the wife of another man.

It was the solitary and the abiding passion of his life. His concentrated nature could not diffuse itself in a general admiration of the sex. A momentary predilection he might feel and might for a time pursue, but not again did he feel, nor before had he felt, the absorbing passion which alone is love. So Sir Philip returned to Eveslay a greater misanthrope than when he had left England. He was, in fact, miserable. His despondency grew upon him, and affected his health, and his friends-for he had a few-began to surmise that he had suffered some affliction which, if he continued to brood over it, might result in fatal consequences. What that afflic

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tion was no one knew, for Sir Philip was the most reticent of men. In his own county, where his territorial influence made him the foremost man, a considerable amount of political interest inevitably centred in him, and attempts were now made to induce him to enter public life. More from weariness of opposition than from any other motive he consented, and the moment it was known he was willing to be Member for Blankstone, opposition was at an end, and he was duly elected.

There was considerable speculation as to his politics.

So far as he had revealed any political opinions, they were of an eclectic order; but, to the surprise of his friends, he became a staunch party man, and supported the Tory ministry on every occasion. As a matter of course so locally powerful a man, and a man who began to show no inconsiderable power of debate, was offered office. The offer was refused, but he accepted one of those exceptional embassies which are often tendered to eminent men.

It was to the Court of A--that he was accredited, to settle a long-pending question of national importance. Sir Philip was no stranger to this Court, having formerly resided in Ronzi for some time, and this intimacy had been one of the reasons which led to his selection as ambassador, and which mainly induced him to accept the appointment. This history has nothing to do with his negotiations, but it is interested in what befell him at a ball given by the Grand Duke.

Sir Philip had arrived among the last of the guests, intending to leave among the first. It was a masqued ball, but Sir Philipwas too proud to wear any disguise, and too blasé to join in the amusement. He was merely a spectator. He was walking listlessly among the brilliant crowd when a lady, dressed in black, and covered with a thick veil, accosted him by name. There was nothing remarkable in this, and in his present humour nothing inviting. He bowed politely, and would have passed, but the lady, taking his arm, he could not help walking with her.

"Sir Philip," said she, in Italian, "you are powerful in your own country-that country so free and so strong. May I, then, ask you to assist with your influence poor Italy, at present, and for ages, struggling for freedom?"

Madame," said Sir Philip (who was somewhat surprised at the abrupt introduction of so serious a subject, and not at all disposed for a political intrigue), "I am no philanthropist, and have, I confess, little sympathy with united Italy. I know too much about it to be very hopeful of its real union.'

"Allow me, Sir Philip," said she, "to doubt the accuracy of your information. Your acquaintance with Italians was not in a good school. Believe me, there are patriots as pure, scholars as

profound, statesmen as able, in Italy as in England, only, I admit, they are not to be found in the Abruzzi."

Sir Philip started. The word awoke uneasy memories, but he replied

"I know not why you exclude the Abruzzi from the capacity of producing great men, as well as the rest of Italy. I know that country well there are men of energy and decision there; and if you are in want of revolutionists who will not stick at trifles, there is no better recruiting ground. Brigandage and revolution are nearly allied."

"In that you are mistaken," said she. "The peasantry of the Abruzzi are loyal to a man. They follow their priests, who feel that revolution of any kind is against their order, and they also follow their interests; for no Government can deal more tenderly with the population of the Abruzzi than that of Ferdinand of Naples. They know well that a patriotic government would ruin them, as it would be the first duty of such a government to destroy robbers."

"Are you a native of the Abruzzi," said Sir Philip, "that you know them so well?"

"Yes," said the lady; "I am of the Brigand country, and. know it well. Fifteen years of my life were spent there."

Sir Philip started. Could it be that his long-loved, his lost Alicia was before him? The voice had struck him, but nothing else assisted his memory. The craped figure revealed none of the graceful contours of figure he remembered so well, and the veil was impervious.

"If," said he, "you know the Abruzzi, you perhaps haveheard of the Capelmonte?"

"I knew them well," said the lady; "I was the school companion and friend of the Lady Alicia, now Countess Bosconi." "I knew her too," said Sir Philip.

"That I know," said the lady, "and that was the reason I spoke to you. Alicia has often spoken of you, and, I believe, thought of you more than became the Countess."

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I hope she is happy," said Sir Philip.

"She is a widow," said the mask.

"A widow !" said Sir Philip, eagerly; "tell me, my dear lady,. where I can see her."

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Be.

Is it of any use to give you that information?" said his companion. "You loved her not, or you could not have let a year elapse without writing her or sending to her some message. sides, it is probable, even if you loved her still, that she loves you. no longer. The Count was not a very kind husband, but he was her husband, and she, I hope, laments his death. A year after

this will be time enough. Adieu, Sir Philip! I have told all that I mean to tell."

"One word yet!" said Sir Philip; "I love your friend still: I never loved anyone else. I am unmarried; and if you think she still thinks of me as at one time she did, I conjure you to tell me where I can see her. Nay, I will not let you go till you tell me."

He caught her by the hand. It was plain to her she could not escape from his firm grasp. Several parties passed them, generally two-and-two, and smiles were interchanged as they saw the distinguished Englishman so engaged.

"Come with me into the garden," she said at last, "and I will gratify your curiosity."

He obeyed. The evening was clear and warm; the air was heavy with the perfume of flowers, and the stillness was uninterrupted save by the distant waterfall and the whisper of lovers' voices among the flowering shrubs. The mask led the way to a retired part of the garden, where, the trees terminating, allowed the moon to throw a faint light on surrounding objects. The voices had died away. The thick shrubbery they had passed shut them off from the festive guests, while before them was an open meadow, in which no object was visible within the limited and indistinct horizon.

The lady gently released her hand.

"I will not attempt to escape," Sir Philip; "I do not wish to do So. Do you not know me? Has five years made such a difference in me that Sir Philip Warden does not know Alicia Capelmonte ?"

It was she, indeed, more beautiful than ever, though fuller in figure and more matronly than the girlish form which had secured his affections.

"Oh, pardon me, Sir Philip!" she said; "I only wished to try you. I know what I have done is wrong in your eyes-would be wrong in an Englishwoman; but I am an Italian, and there was a time, Philip, when you said you loved me, and a time when I said I loved you; and although I have since been married, I loved you still."

Sir Philip was an enamoured man, and not disposed to criticism. He heard Alicia's history-how that she had been unhappy during her brief marriage with Count Bosconi, who had died a year ago. Her father and mother were both dead, her uncle survived, and she had also an aunt (the Abbess of the Carmelite nunnery), with whom she now resided; but she was her own mistress, and could marry the man of her choice. Such was the purport of her information, gathered by Sir Philip at that moonlight interview. It would have been well for the lady had she been more candid, and entered more at large into the history of her family.

The marrlage took place, of course, after a preliminary courtship, much more en régle than that I have summarised above, but which it is not necessary here to narrate, as Sir Philip is not our hero, and we may, perhaps, have occasion to describe the marriage of our own hero, which will be enough for the book.

The married couple went to England, and Warden Hall again welcomed its master. For a year or two nothing could be happier than the life these two led. Sir Philip's nature became softer from contact with the mild nature of Alicia; his apathy and reserve melted like snow before the sun. He took an interest in his tenants, lowering their rents, and encouraging every scheme for their improvement. He cultivated the society of his neighbours, and spent his large income, and something more, in a stately but cordial hospitality. His political position became more and more important and powerful as the House and the country became accustomed to the judgment and wisdom which characterised his speeches; while his thoroughly independent character and large fortune gave him an influence which, could he have submitted to the drudgery of office, would have secured him one of the highest places in the Ministry.

Thus, on the whole, assuming that our duties centre in ourselves an assumption by no means uncommon-Sir Philip led a reasonable, happy, and stately life. He had a secure position in the highest circle of English society. He was a man of ton, but his real power in the country secured him the respect of the many out of the pale of fashion who often excel those within it. In his domestic relations he was certainly happy. On the whole, during these years of his married life, there was no man who, setting religious considerations out of view, led a life more apparently enviable than Sir Philip Warden. I say, setting religious considerations aside: were these to be taken into account, it would have astonished Sir Philip and shocked fashionable society, if it were hinted that his old butler, who was a sincere believer, was much more to be envied by a wise man.

And there came a time-and it came suddenly-when, even putting religion aside, Sir Philip had little to boast of as compared with the butler. All of a sudden, in the third year of his marriage, the fashionable world was startled by the rumour, and then by the certainty, that Sir Philip was separated from his wife.

What the cause of the separation was, the world did not know. Lady Warden was a foreigner, and, despite her amiable manners and real kindness of heart, the presumption in correct English society was against her, and no one suspected the distinguished statesman, so cold, so self-possessed, so patriotic, of having given any cause to justify her ladyship taking the initiative, if, in fact,