God. Those affectionate admonitions of her first and kindest friend had long been overlooked; and while she thought with bitter regret of them, she also remembered her subsequent treatment of Matilda with keen selfreproach. Memory seemed to have become an enemy which would do nothing but upbraid her, while for a moment she became conscious that had such ingratitude and unkindness been foretold in former years, her exclamation would have been like that of Hazael, "Is thy servant a dog?" Her thoughts reached back into the long vista of past days, when nature, feeling, and principle all combined with the exercise of natural affection to render her happy, and to lead her on in a course of devotion and peace. Eleanor's heart was smitten by the contrast, and a crushing sense of misery weighed down her spirit. The rich gifts of fortune appeared now in their native insignificance, compared with those of nature; for friendship, affection, peace, contentment, and cheerfulness seemed all to have been sacrificed in a mere delirium of vanity, while she felt what a mirage of the desert had misled her. "Oh! that it were with me as in the days that are past!" thought she, bitterly; “but more easily might I gather the scattered leaves of this fallen flower, and restore them to life and beauty, than hope to become the same simple, unsophisticated girl I once was. Nature intended me for better things, and Providence blessed me with peculiar advantages, but all is madly thrown away, and I will not-for I dare not— reflect, or attempt to retrace my steps." CHAPTER XXII. Hearts are not flint, yet flint is rent, NEXT morning, before breakfast, Matilda entered Eleanor's room,and, with all her usual tact and delicacy, announced her own happy prospects, as if they had indeed been like sisters, and that it formed a subject of mutual interest and confidence between them. Not a trace seemed to remain in her memory that her cousin had mistaken the nature of Sir Alfred's intentions, nor did she seem to entertain a suspicion that any thing could arise but sympathy and good wishes from the friend of her childhood. Miss Fitz-Patrick was melted and overcome by her cousin's considerate kindness; but pride still prevailed, and rather than show any emotion liable to be mistaken for regret or disappointment, she answered, during the few moments that Matilda remained, with coldness and constraint, which rendered it a mutual relief when the interview was terminated. Miss Howard started with surprise to discover, during breakfast, how universally Sir Alfred had announced the news of their engagement, for the usual reserve of his character had apparently vanished, while Sir Richard was evidently rehearsing all the sly allusions, hints, and innuendoes which abound on such occasions. It seemed on this day as if the whole party had changed characters. Eleanor was pensive and silent, her spirits were evidently forced, and a slight nervous quiver of the lip gave evidence of internal agitation. Mr Grant seemed also grave, and glanced occasionally at Eleanor's countenance with an expression almost amounting to pity, so fully had he been impressed with the idea that Miss FitzPatrick was secretly attached to his friend. There appeared a degree of empressement in his attentions now, beyond what he ever testified formerly, but yet Eleanor became thoroughly conscious, that these cares were for her sake entirely, not for his own-that the cloud which agitated his spirits was one in which she had no share, and that, while anxiously desirous to promote her happiness, his feelings were no longer dependent on her caprice. It seemed to Eleanor as if every thing in life had been transformed around her, and when, after breakfast, Sir Alfred led Matilda into the library, she hastily retreated to her own room, and in solitary retirement gave vent to every bitter emotion which was at war within her breast, where not a single source of comfort presented itself, to which she might turn for relief, in brooding over past events and present circumstances. It would have been difficult for any one, and impossible for Eleanor, to analyze her complicated sensations; but there arose an intense and prevailing sense of wretchedness in her mind, while silently weeping such tears as are seldom shed but once. For a moment she acknowledged, that Matilda merited happiness, while she was herself unfit to be the chosen companion of one so singularly gifted as Sir Alfred, and Eleanor felt humbled by the contrast of her own mind and heart with her cousin's. Yet, while conviction struggled for the mastery over envy and mortified pride, there rankled a feeling deeper than all, which pierced to the inmost recesses of her spirit, when the belief became inevitable that Mr Grant also had learnt to view her with indifference. It always hitherto appeared certain to her imagination, that at some time or other there would be a necessity for choosing between Sir Alfred and her former lover, whom she fancied that no circumstances could alienate. Though grander features of character in the one had dazzled and almost captivated Eleanor for a time, yet in all the supposititious scenes with which she frequently beguiled an idle hour, it invariably happened that the preference was given to Mr Grant. She generally caused him to suffer agonies of imaginary suspense, and made the concession of accepting him an obligation which could never be sufficiently appreciated; but still an interview had been so frequently rehearsed, and arranged on her own pattern, that it seemed incredible to think it might not perhaps take place in actual reality. If any thing more trying than another could have been added to present mortification, it was the consciousness of Matilda being preferred, and in remembering her own ungenerous conduct to her cousin, she thought of it all with shame and contrition, while the very possibility of making any acknowledgment or reparation seemed now out of the question. Eleanor's mind was thus tortured by vain regrets and temporary remorse, when these painful ruminations were interrupted by the announcement that Dr Murray had called, requesting to see her immediately, and alone. Any thing seemed to promise relief from the wretched state of her present thoughts, and she desired that he should be ushered into her own boudoir, where they had occasionally met already on parish business. There appeared an unwonted expression of melancholy gravity in the eye of Dr Murray as he entered Eleanor's presence, and his step was lingering and slow, as if unwilling to hasten the time when he must speak. Having observed, after a friendly greeting on both sides, that Miss Fitz-Patrick seemed unusually languid and pale, he took her by the hand with a look of benevolent interest, saying he feared she had suffered materially from her recent perilous adventure on the ice. "Oh, dear no! It was scarcely worth mentioning. I might be in danger for a few minutes, but with so many friends near, and such prompt assistance, there could be little cause for serious apprehension." "Miss Fitz-Patrick!" replied he, still preserving a look of unwonted seriousness, "the issues of life and of death are in the hands of Him by whose providential care you were then preserved. Had that alarming accident been foreseen, without its merciful conclusion also becoming known, think how fervent would have been your prayers for that safety which now seems a matter of course. It is seldom that our thankfulness, after any interposition of this kind, bears a due proportion to the anxiety which we previously felt; but as the servant of Him to whom you owe every hour of existence, and the many blessings which render it precious, I should claim and expect to see the most heartfelt gratitude. There is much to make life enticing to you, Miss Fitz-Patrick, but there is yet more to make death alarming, when we consider how readily you acknowledge that the rich bounties of Providence have only served to estrange you from the Giver. I could have wished, I had almost believed that, when snatched, as it were, from the borders of the grave, you might have considered seriously that important purpose for which a new lease of life had |