“Besides,” said Frances, continuing the former part of the subject, “grandmamma and Mr. Jackson, you know, think it quite certain that you are the son of a noble family.” “Still, all is mystery!” he replied, mournfully, as his thoughts reverted to the disgraceful possibility which had of late haunted his imagination, that of his being yet proved the child of criminal, though, perhaps of titled parents. “In short,” he continued, “a being, such as I am, must drag out existence, a solitary wanderer, unconnected with any, but by the ties of charity, of compassion.” After a pause, which neither of the sisters had voice to interrupt, he re-commenced— “Duty, Frances, must soon again call me from the too happy dream I have lately enjoyed. Sometimes, indeed, in an hour of peace, I may, I shall, return to happy, happy Lodore, the dear paradise of my childhood; and from the generous friendship there granted me, derive gleams of felicity! snatches of a joy that will render the rest of life, perhaps, more dark.” He was silent a few seconds, then added, “Yet so precious will such moments ever be to me, that I shall hold them cheaply purchased by the dreary wretchedness that must precede and follow them!” Julia’s tears flowed silently. Frances’s too, were again starting into her eyes. “Nay, Edmund,” said the latter, “there is something more than usual in the matter! this love, this First Love that you speak of so feelingly, I fear is a serious business after all! for you never were in love before, I suppose. But, indeed, you need not grieve so much; for I know—that is—at least—I have no right, perhaps, to betray such a trust—but still—I am perfectly certain that—that you will not be refused.” “For heaven’s sake what are you talking of, Frances?” exclaimed Edmund, colouring excessively, while Julia turned deadly pale. “I am saying,” replied Frances, “that I am sure, Lady Susan will not refuse you: she thinks you—so——” “Lady Susan!” repeated Edmund, in a voice of disappointment. “She certainly never will, Frances,” he added, “for I shall never have the folly, or the presumption, to put it in her power to do so. You know I have just explained to you that I can never marry—at least—But I may say never; for it would indeed be wildly romantic to hope that I ever shall be enabled, even to seek to do so, consistently with honour, and my own—wishes! the word is too inadequate. And were I, by the most unlooked-for circumstances, placed at liberty—am I to—to have—the vanity to—But you are leading me on to speak too much of myself, Frances; which is always, you know, a dangerous, as well as an unbecoming topic.” He ceased, and all three walked on for a time in silence. At length Julia said, in a low tone— “Why should it grieve you so much, Edmund, not to—to marry? I don’t think there is any occasion for every one to be married! Now, I—for one—never intend to marry.” Edmund started, and looked round.