That obtained, _then_ will come, after much delay, that "happier future," of which the counsellor dares not trust himself to speak. The resolve is taken, the journey is made. But time brings reflection, and reflection, reason. It is not her husband's sin that took her from his roof, but the visionary sin of her own love; it was "the desire to swear at the altar of God to be true to David Stuart till death, that prompted her to plan her breaking of her first vow." She will not undo that vow to indulge her own undying love. Still urged by David Stuart to the act, she resists the great temptation, and retires meekly into solitude, to pay the full penalty of her submission to the call of virtue. To return to the pollution of her husband's house is not to be thought of. To partake of sin with David Stuart is a suggestion not more to be tolerated in her pure and agitated soul. One other drop, and the cup is full indeed. We have spoken of Lady Margaret Fordyce, but we have thought it unnecessary to mingle the history of that admirable person with the main current of our narrative. Lady Margaret, as we have said, is an old friend of Mr. David Stuart. She has taken a sisterly interest in the career of Eleanor, but has never ascertained from her the secret of her early and pure affection for her guardian. Inheriting a goodly fortune, the first care of Lady Margaret is to purchase the estate of Dunleath. She is not long mistress of it before the recovered property is in the hands of the man who, in his youth, became a criminal in order to possess it. David Stuart marries Lady Margaret Fordyce. Eleanor receives the intelligence while she is languishing abroad under the care of her foster-brother and his wife. The news goes silently to her heart as a lancet might travel thither, giving no external indication of the mortal wound inflicted. But the blood flows unseen within, and life stops, as it needs must, from the cruel laceration. Eleanor dies--still without a murmur. She had borne daily outrage from her husband, and confined the knowledge of her wrongs to her own bosom. She owed her sufferings to the first great fault of her guardian, yet she would never listen to one unkind word against his memory when she deemed him lost, and her love for him suffered no tarnish at any time for his offence. Shall she complain now that he is happy, and is master of Dunleath? She dies indeed broken-hearted, but good, gentle, uncomplaining, and forgiving, to the last. The characters that move in the various scenes that make up this melancholy play are sketched out with a skilful and well disciplined hand, and are creditable to the authoress's creative powers. Great knowledge of human nature is indicated throughout the work. There is nothing overdrawn; the plot is natural, and the style fluent and poetical.