"And you have been to D---- Castle, I suppose, and found your uncle had left it for Bath. Indeed, _we_ only arrived the day before yesterday; but Papa wrote us, saying he had got one of his attacks of rheumatism, from the late fishing, and begged us to take this on our way to Habberton, Did you see my marriage in the papers, or did your uncle write you, Oliver?" Delancey's lips quivered, but his countenance did not change, as he looked her in the face, and told her he had not known it until now. And now her husband spoke: "It was very late, and he must want refreshment; and Mr. Allen intended to be wheeled to the dinner table; and they could so easily send up to D---- Castle to tell them to get a bed aired; and he could dismiss the chaise now, and their carriage could take him there at night." And Delancey _did_ stay, although unable to analyse the feeling that made him do so. And during dinner, _he_ was the life of that little party. He spoke of foreign lands--related strange incidents of travel--dwelt with animation on his schoolboy exploits. The old man was delighted--the husband forgot his wife;--and she, the false one, sat silent, and for the moment disregarded. She gazed and gazed again on that familiar face--drank in the tones of that accustomed voice--and the chill of compunction crept over her frame. But Delancey's brain was on fire; and in the solitude of his chamber--no! he was not calm there. He paced hurriedly across the oaken floor; and he opened wide his window, and looked out on the bright stars, spangling heaven's blue vault; and then beneath him, where the cypress trees bowed their heads to the wind, and the moon's light fell on the marble statues on the terrace. And he turned to his bed-side, and hid his tearless face in his hands; and in the fulness of his despair, he knelt and prayed, that though he had long neglected his God, his God would not now forsake him. And, as if to mock his sufferings, sleep came; but it was short, very short; and a weight, a leaden weight, oppressed his eye-lids even in slumber. And he gave one start, and awoke a prey to mental agony. His despair flashed on him--he sprung up wildly in his bed. "Liar! liar!" said he, as with clenched teeth, and hand upraised, he recalled that fond look given to another. Drops of sweat started to his brow--his pulse beat quick and audibly--quicker--quicker yet. A feeling of suffocation came over him--and God forgive him! Oliver Delancey deemed that hour his last. He staggered blindly to the bell, and with fearful energy pulled its cord, till it fell clattering on the marble hearth stone. The domestics found him speechless and insensible on the floor--the blood oozing from his mouth and ears. It may be said that this picture is overcharged; that no vitiated mind could have thus felt. But it is not so. In life's spring we all feel acutely: and to the effects of disappointed love, and wounded pride, there are few limits.