Once, and only once, Ethel heard her mother's voice, and was spoken to by her. She had gone to hear the speech from the throne, on the prorogation of Parliament. She got there late, so that every bench was filled. Room was made for her near the throne, immediately under the gallery, (as the house was constructed until last year,) but she was obliged to be separated from her party, and sat half annoyed at being surrounded by strangers. A peer, whom she recognized as the Earl of D----, came up, and entered into conversation with the lady sitting behind her. Could it be her mother? She remembered, that as she sat down she had glanced at some one whom she thought she knew, and she did not doubt that this was Lady Lodore. A sudden thrill passed as an electric shock through her frame, every joint in her body trembled, her knees knocked together, and the colour forsook her cheeks. She tried to rally. Why should she feel agitated, as if possessed by terror, on account of this near contact with the dearest relation Heaven has bestowed on its creatures? Why not turn; and if she did not speak, claim, with beseeching eyes, her mother's love? Was it indeed her? The lady spoke, and her voice entered and stirred Ethel's beating heart with strange emotion; every drop of blood within her seemed to leap at the sound; but she sat still as a statue, saying to herself, "When Lord D----leaves her I will turn and speak." After some trivial conversation on topics of the day, the peers were ordered to take their seats, and Lord D----departed;--then Ethel tried to summon all her courage; but now the doors were thrown open, the king entered, and every one stood up. At this moment,--as she, in the confusion of being called upon, while abstracted, to do any act, however slight, had for a moment half forgotten her mother,--her arm was touched; and the same voice which had replied to Lord D----, said to her, "Your ear-ring is unfastened, Ethel; it will fall out." Ethel could not speak; she raised her hands, mechanically, to arrange the ornament; but her trembling fingers refused to perform the office. "Permit me," said the lady, drawing off her glove; and Ethel felt her mother's hand touch her cheek: her very life stood suspended; it was a bitter pain, yet a pleasure inconceivable; there was a suffocation in her throat, and the tears filled her eyes; but even the simple words, "I thank you," died on her lips--her voice could frame no sound. The world, and all within its sphere, might have passed away at that moment, and she been unconscious of any change. "Yes, she will love me!" was the idea that spoke audibly within; and a feeling of confidence, a flow of sympathy and enthusiastic affection, burst on her heart. As soon as she could recollect herself, she turned: Lady Lodore was no longer there; she had glided from her seat; and Ethel just caught a glimpse of her, as she contrived another for herself, behind a column, which afterwards so hid her, that her