was just as I had reached that tree, that you came out into the garden with your friend. Not choosing to show myself, under the circumstances, I stood still, in the shadow, till you had both passed by.'

`And how much of our conversation did you hear?'

`I heard quite enough, Helen. And it was well for me that I did hear it; for nothing less could have cured my infatuation. I always said and thought, that I would never believe a word against you, unless I heard it from your own lips. All the hints and affirmations of others I treated as malignant, baseless slanders; your own self-accusations I believed to be overstrained; and all that seemed unaccountable in your position, I trusted that you could account for if you chose.'

Mrs Graham had discountinued her walk. She leant against one end of the chimney-piece, opposite that near which I was standing, with her chin resting on her closed hand, her eyes--no longer burning with anger, but gleaming with restless excitement--sometimes glancing at me while I spoke, then coursing the opposite wall, or fixed upon the carpet.

`You should have come to me, after all,' said she, `and heard what I had to say in my own justification. It was ungenerous and wrong to withdraw yourself so secretly and suddenly, immediately after such ardent protestations of attachment, without ever assigning a reason for the change. You should have told me all--no matter how bitterly--It would have been better than this silence.'

`To what end should I have done so?--You could not have enlightened me farther, on the subject which alone concerned me; nor could you have made me discredit the evidence of my senses. I desired our intimacy to be discontinued at once, as you yourself had acknowledged would probably be the case if I knew all; but I did not wish to upbraid you,--though (as you also acknowledged) you had deeply wronged me--Yes; you have done me an injury you can never repair--or any other either--you have blighted the freshness and promise of youth, and made my life a wilderness! I might live a hundred years, but I could never recover from the effects of this withering blow--and never forget it! Hereafter--You smile, Mrs Graham,' said I, suddenly stopping short, checked in my passionate declamation by unutterable feelings to behold her actually smiling at the picture of the ruin she had wrought.

`Did I?' replied she, looking seriously up, `I was not aware of it. If I did, it was not for pleasure at the thought of the had I had done you.--Heaven knows I have had torment enough at the bare possibility of that!--`it was for joy to find that you had some depth of soul and feeling after all, and to hope that I had not been utterly mistaken in your worth. But smiles and tears are so alike with me; they are neither of them confined to any particular feelings: I often cry when I am happy, and smile when I am sad.'

She looked at me again, and seemed to expect a reply; but I continued silent.

`Would you be very glad,' resumed she, `to find that you were mistaken in your conclusions?'

`How can you ask it, Helen?'

`I don't say I can clear myself altogether,' said she, speaking low and fast, while her heart beat visibly and her bosom heaved with excitement,--`but would you be glad to discover I was better than you think me?'

`Anything that could, in the least degree, tend to restore my former opinion of you, to excuse the regard I still feel for you, and alleviate the pangs of unutterable regret that accompany it, would be only too gladly--too eagerly received!'

Her cheeks bad and her whole frame trembled, now, with excess of agitation. She did not speak, but flew to her desk, and matching thence what seemed a thick album or manuscript volume, hastily tore away a few leaves from the end, and thrust the rest into my hand, saying, `You needn't read it all; but