Astonished at his unexpected appearance, Isabel started back with a suppressed shriek; but on recognising the intruder, her fear gave way to confusion. The blood mounted in torrents over brow, neck, and bosom; and hastily crushing the letter in her hands, and concealing it in her dress, she paused hesitatingly before her cousin. His quick eye detected the movement, and rushing forward, he flung himself at the feet of Isabel. “It is then true—true—true,” he exclaimed passionately, “my ears are not deceived, and you love another. Is it not so Isabel?” The maiden averted her head, for she saw at once that she had been overheard, and she could not endure the boy’s agonised look. “Oh! Isabel, dear, dear Isabel, say it is untrue. Only say I was mistaken, that it was all a dream, that you still love me as you used to love me.” “I do love you still,” murmured Isabel, in broken accents, “as I ever did, as my dearest, nearest cousin.” “Is that all!” said the boy, whose eyes for a moment had lighted up with wild unchecked joy, but which now shewed the depth of his returning agony in every look, “is that all?” he continued in a tone of disappointment. “Oh Isabel,” and the tears gushed into his eyes, “is there no hope? Speak—only one word, dear Isabel. I have dared to love you—I might have known better—and now you spurn me. Well—the dream is over,” and dropping the hands which he had seized, he gazed a minute wildly into her face, to see if there was one last gleam of hope. But no response came back to dispel his agony. The lady Isabel was violently agitated, and though her look was one of pity, it was not, alas! one of encouragement. She burst into tears, and turned her head partially away. Striking his brow wildly with his hands, the page rushed from her presence, and when she murmured his name and looked up, he was gone. (To be continued.) * * * * * CALLIRHÖE. BY H. PERCEVAL.