"Dearest Janet, forgive me," cried Philippa, in much agitation; "I will make now, in the presence of our guardian, a confession that I ought to have made before. I have been acting as your enemy, when my only wish was to be your friend. You remember our conversation on Valentine's Day. When I repaired to my dressing-room after luncheon, I perceived that one of my valentines was unopened; I broke the seal, the writing within was in the hand of Heathcote; and without even reading it, I inclosed it in a blank envelop, directed it to you, and put it into the post that morning. I wished to give you a few minutes' pleasure, and to prove to you that you were not quite forgotten. I knew Heathcote to be a favorite with you, and imagined that you would be gratified by his attention. When you brought the verses, and read them to me, I was surprised at their warmth and earnestness, and repented of what I had done, and I have repented more and more ever since." "And those verses were never intended for me!" exclaimed the weeping Janet. "Heathcote never felt a moment's preference for me! Oh, Philippa! I know you intended kindness to me, but this was cruel kindness." And poor Janet now indeed felt the cope-stone placed on her humiliation; she would have much rather believed Heathcote to be fickle and inconstant, than have discovered that he had never loved her at all. She pressed Philippa's hand, however, in token of forgiveness, and left the room; and the bride elect, for the first time in her life, was called upon to listen to a lecture from her guardian, beginning with some strictures on her own officious folly, continuing with a few allusions to the vanity and blindness of her friend Janet, and concluding with an earnestly expressed hope that none of his friends would ever place a young lady under his guardianship again! Philippa's wedding-day arrived. Janet was present at it, not as a bridesmaid, for she had refused to spoil the group of beautiful girls who appeared in that character by joining them--she was plainly and quietly dressed; none among the brilliant assemblage prayed more fervently than she did for the happiness of Philippa; but her cheek grew paler than ever, and her tears fell fast, as she listened to the solemn ceremony, feeling that similar vows could never be plighted to herself, and that domestic happiness was as much beyond her reach as if she had been a being of another sphere. She left London on that day to return to the village where her mother died, and where she took up her residence with an old friend, with whom she had previously communicated by letter.