“When morning broke, the Squire's brains, Though racking, were still much clearer. 'I know you well,' said he to his guest, 'Now that I see you nearer. “'You 've play'd me a d----d scurvy trick: Come, what have I lost--don't tease me. Is it my soul?' 'Not at all,' says Nick; 'Just vote for the Union, to please me.'” Amid the loud hurrahs and the louder laughter that fol-lowed this rude chant Forester hurried on to his room, fully convinced that his mission was not altogether so promising as he anticipated. Undeniable in every respect as was the accommodation of his bed-chamber, Forester lay awake half the night, the singular circumstances in which he found himself occupied his thoughts, while at intervals came the swelling sounds of some loud cheers from the party below, whose boisterous gayety seemed to continue without interruption. CHAPTER IV. THE DINNER-PARTY It was late on the following day when Forester awoke, nor was it for some time that he could satisfy himself how far he had been an actor, or a mere spectator in the scene he had witnessed the preceding night. The room and the guests were vividly impressed upon his memory, and the excitement of the party, so different in its character from anything he had seen in his own country, convinced him that the sea, narrow as it was, separated two races very unlike in temperament. What success should he have in this, his first, mission? was the question ever rising to his mind; how should he acquit himself among persons to whose habits of life, thought, and expression he felt himself an utter stranger? Little as he had seen of the party, that little showed him that the anti-Union feeling was in the ascendant, and that, if a stray convert to the Ministerial doctrines was here and there to be found, he was rather ashamed of his new convictions than resolute to uphold and defend them. From these thoughts he wandered on to others, about the characters of the party, and principally of the host himself, who in every respect was unlike his anticipations. He opened his friend Lionel's letter, and was surprised to find how filial affection had blinded his judgment,--keen enough when exercised without the trammels of prejudice. “If this,” thought he, “be a fair specimen of Lionel's portrait-painting, I must take care to form no high-flown expectations of his mother and sister; and as he calls one somewhat haughty and reserved in manner, and the other a blending of maternal pride with a dash of his father's wilful but happy temperament, I take it for granted that Lady Eleanor is a cold, disagreeable old lady, and her daughter Helen a union of petted vanity and capriciousness, pretty much what my good friend Lionel himself was when he joined us, but what he had the good sense to cease to be very soon after.”