led constantly to bear in mind that they could never be more, each to each, than brother and sister, though that they might always be, and harmlessly. Harmlessly-oh! yes, very!-for in a little time. this brotherly and sisterly style of address was followed by little brotherly and sisterly endearments— the hand was held and not withdrawn; the waist was encircled, and the encircling arm not removed, nor the presumption chidden-and then followed what may easily be surmised-the brotherly kiss given without reproof, first on the hand, then the forehead, then the cheek, then the lips; for there are regular gradations in these little matters-as an ascending scale invented by the devil-and so easy, so almost insensible are the transitions, that familiarities not checked at their very outset run very little chance of being checked at all. It is the first little scarcely perceptible decorum-breach, that ought to be most scrupulously guarded against. This once permitted-this once deemed harmless (and harmless, perhaps, it is in itself) the rest follows, as naturally as one wave follows another, and we are overwhelmed before we are aware of it.

Thus it was with these two young people. They thought that there was no harm-no harm at all in what they were doing. Peregrine wanted a friend -in the loneliness of his heart he sought for companionship and found it-found that which he thought would in some small measure, a very small measure only-compensate for the absence of his betrothed. If he had a sister-a real sister-to cling

to in this emergency, it would have been the very thing of all others for him—but he had not that solace, and when he persuaded himself that he could make a sister of Augusta Sweetenham, he was of course miserably mistaken-friendship-brotherly affection, and all that is very good in its way, when the object of it is nothing more than a he-companion; but when, instead of this, it is a pretty girl-and clever, as well as pretty-oh! indeed this friendship is the very devil, and Peregrine soon found it to be such.

Not, however, that he acknowledged the real state of his feelings even to himself. He had friends, who were constantly trying to convince him that he was in love with Augusta Sweetenham, but he always strenuously disowned the soft impeachment, and really believed that he was speaking the truth. The fact was that he never permitted himself to analyze the sensations he experienced. He went on, from day to day, in a sort of vague, dreamy condition, flattering himself that he really loved Julia Poggleton far better than Augusta Sweetenhamthough, the one being absent and the other present, the latter, as a thing of course, occupied the greater share of his attention. He wrote to Julia every month by the overland mail, and his letters contained the same expressions of devotion-the same longings after his betrothed as of old, and he thought that as the words were not more feeble, the spirit which dictated them was unchanged. His letters,

indeed, were, if possible, more strongly worded than before-but, alas! they were cautiously worded; the endearing expressions, which they contained, did not come there unthought of, as they once came, warmly, gushing from the heart. He read over his letters approvingly, and thought that they were kinder than ever-but poor Julia saw the difference!

We must, however, say this for Peregrine Pultuney, that there was no effort upon his part to deceive his cousin. He only deceived himself. He told her, with the utmost candour, of his intimacy with Augusta Sweetenham-he spoke in his letters of his "dear sister" of the kindness of both Mrs. and Miss Sweetenham, and the gratitude, which he felt towards them-he said that Augusta had promised to be bridesmaid, and that Mrs. Sweetenham hoped, above all things, that the Poggletons, on their return to India, would go to her house and remain there till Peregrine's marriage. There was certainly. not much concealment upon his part, and he thought that his candour was a sure proof of the correct state of his feelings; but he was wonderfully self-deceived.

And, as for Augusta, she was, if possible, still less acquainted with the real state of her feelings. She lived, as it were, in the present―never looked forward-never looked back-was happy, always happy in Peregrine's society-and this she knew; but then she thought that she only regarded him as a beloved brother (she had no brother of her

own) and that her feelings towards him were quite pure-quite sisterly-all that they should be. She had never thought of him as a husband-never envied Julia Poggleton-never deplored the hopelessness of her condition-but she loved Peregrine nevertheless. Much as she had seen of men and manners—much as she had mixed with the world, she was quite a novice in the affections-had often been wooed but never won-had flirted with many, had played with others' feelings, wounded others' hearts, but not endangered her own. And now she thought that Peregrine was very much unlike the empty triflers, from whom her soul had so often recoiled-very much unlike all the young men, who had flocked round her with their idle compliments, vieing with one another in the silliness of their remarks and the absurdity of their whole demeanour. She had first attached herself to him, because he was an engaged man-because she thought that she might talk freely and unaffectedly to him without fear of having her freedoms misinterpreted. He was clever too-very clevershe knew that, and she took delight in his conversation; he was so open too, so free, lectured her so soundly, and yet so pleasantly, that she not only listened to, but profited by his advice—and yet all the time-poor girl!-she did not know how deeply she loved him.

We do not seek to justify either the youth or the maid. Perhaps of the two, the conduct of Pere

grine was the least justifiable, for he had a touchstone, whereby to try his affections, which Augusta Sweetenham had not-and that touchstone was his correspondence with Julia Poggleton. We have already said that he deceived himself into a belief that his letters were as cordial as ever; but he ought to have been awakened from his delusion by the discovery of the altered feelings with which he perused his cousin's most affectionate epistles. He received them with indifference and read them with distaste-we had almost written with dis-gust. The endearments, with which poor Julia's every sentence was thickly overlaid, became to him almost sickening. The pet names, in which he had once so delighted, he now regarded as folly and weakness as childish and mawkish imbecility, and more than once he tossed her letters away half read with a gesture of impatience and an expression of contempt. And yet he did not acknowledge even to himself that his love for Julia Poggleton had departed—he was wilfully, obstinately blind— thought sometimes it was possible that his tastes might have altered, but never that his affection had fled-and then shut out Julia Poggleton from his recollection, until the arrival of the next over. land mail.

We must hurry on a little faster with our narrative, but before making a grand leap over the next few months, we must observe that it is possiblejust possible-that vanity was at the bottom of all this evil. Augusta was not destitute of vanity. Much