He paused, and we were both silent. In fact, I was shocked at the fever of his pulse, no less than affected at the despondency of his words. At last I spoke to him of medical advice. “‘Canst thou,’” he said, with a deep solemnity of voice and manner, “‘administer to a mind diseased--pluck from the memory’--Ah! away with the quotation and the reflection.” And he sprung from the sofa, and going to the window, opened it, and leaned out for a few moments in silence. When he turned again towards me, his manner had regained its usual quiet. He spoke about the important motion approaching on the--, and promised to attend; and then, by degrees, I led him to talk of his sister. He mentioned her with enthusiasm. “Beautiful as Ellen is,” he said, “her face is the very faintest reflection of her mind. Her habits of thought are so pure, that every impulse is a virtue. Never was there a person to whom goodness was so easy. Vice seems something so opposite to her nature, that I cannot imagine it possible for her to sin.” “Will you not call with me at your mother’s?” said I. “I am going there to-day.” Glanville replied in the affirmative, and we went at once to Lady Glanville’s, in Berkeley-square. We were admitted into his mother’s boudoir. She was alone with Miss Glanville. Our conversation soon turned from common-place topics to those of a graver nature; the deep melancholy of Glanville’s mind imbued all his thoughts when he once suffered himself to express them. “Why,” said Lady Glanville, who seemed painfully fond of her son, “why do you not go more into the world? You suffer your mind to prey upon itself, till it destroys you. My dear, dear son, how very ill you seem.” Ellen, whose eyes swam in tears, as they gazed upon her brother, laid her beautiful hand upon his, and said, “For my mother’s sake, Reginald, do take more care of yourself: you want air, and exercise, and amusement.” “No,” answered Glanville, “I want nothing but occupation, and thanks to the Duke of--, I have now got it. I am chosen member for--.” “I am too happy,” said the proud mother; “you will now be all I have ever predicted for you;” and, in her joy at the moment, she forgot the hectic of his cheek, and the hollowness of his eye. “Do you remember,” said Reginald, turning to his sister, “those beautiful lines in my favourite Ford-- ‘“Glories Of human greatness are but pleasing dreams, And shadows soon decaying. On the stage Of my mortality, my youth has acted Some scenes of vanity, drawn out at length By varied pleasures--sweetened in the mixture, But tragical in issue. Beauty, pomp, With every sensuality our giddiness Doth frame an idol--are inconstant friends When any troubled passion makes us halt On the unguarded castle of the mind.’”