And Dashleigh was not satisfied with himself. The words of Augustine Aumerle, pleading for an inexperienced girl doing a foolish thing from a sudden ebullition of temper, often recurred to the mind of the husband. A thousand times the questions would force themselves on his mind. “Have I not been harsh to Annabella? might I not have overlooked a fault? would not a little indulgence have touched a warm heart like hers, and have made her destroy with her own hand what she knew must have given me offence? Was not the entrance of the duke at that most unfortunate moment when I myself had given way to passion, sufficient to irritate beyond all power of self-control a woman—a wife—and a peeress!” There was much of candour, much of generosity in the spirit of Dashleigh, and so strong did his self-reproach become, that the earl felt greatly disposed to pass a sponge over the past, and exchange mutual forgiveness with his wife. But then the first advance must be on her side; Pride peremptorily insisted on that. If Annabella were penitent, Reginald would be generous, but never would he degrade himself by suing for reconciliation, however fervently he might desire it. Thus day passed after day, each more intolerable than the last, Reginald always hoping that the pride of his young partner might give way, and yearning for the supplicating letter which might give him an excuse for forgiving. One morning, as the Earl of Dashleigh sat at his solitary breakfast, he listlessly took up the last number of the —— Magazine, which the footman had, according to custom, placed beside the plate of his master. Light reading was that to which the earl could alone now bend his attention, and his thoughts often wandered as he glanced carelessly down the page. He was however instantly attracted by the name “Dashleigh” in capital letters on the sheet of advertisements, and read with a surprise which almost mastered even his indignation,— _Now in the press._ THE FAIRY LAKE: A Romance. By the COUNTESS OF DASHLEIGH. “This is indeed throwing away the scabbard; this is indeed making a parade of insolent disregard of my wishes and commands! I hardly expected this from Annabella!” Such was the nobleman’s muttered exclamation, as he pushed back his chair from the table. But his feelings received a far ruder shock when he examined the periodical more closely. He gazed on “The Precipice and the Peer,” as it seemed to glare upon him from the close-printed column, as if he scarcely could believe the evidence of his senses! Could it be,—yes—the initial and the dash could not deceive him, could deceive no one who knew him! Annabella had held him up to the ridicule of the world, as a poor, nervous, spiritless wretch,—it was revenge, mean, despicable revenge, a blow aimed at the most vulnerable point!