The halls of Wilton Lodge were glittering with a thousand lights—the merry peals of the violin resounded through the mansion—the gay dancers were seen in every direction—while feasting and profusion marked the splendid scene. Maxwell leant beside a lofty column, decorated with flowers and variegated lamps, and looked on the festive scene with a saddened heart. Clara was arrayed in almost regal splendor. The jewels glistened in her hair—the pearls gave their pure forms to decorate her snowy neck and arms; every thing combined to make her happy and gay, and yet he thought that she was sad. Wearied with the dance, she seated herself near the spot where Maxwell stood. He approached, and laughingly inquired why she looked so serious, where all was so gay and bright. She denied that such was the case, when he jestingly remarked, that he should think she was sighing for her old flame, young Williams, unless she looked more like a happy bride. A deep blush overspread her cheek, and with deep feeling she replied, that Matilda Clayton might grieve for him, for they suited better than any two she had ever known. He asked her why? Because, said she, her heart is false as a traitor’s, and his, like hers, inconstant and base. “You astonish me,” said Maxwell. “I know them both,” she replied, “and Mr. Dudley knows them too.” Maxwell said no more, and Clara rejoined the dance. * * * * * One month had scarcely elapsed since the marriage of Dudley, when the village was again excited by the appearance of Williams. No sooner had he arrived than a thousand vague reports and ideas were afloat, and the general sentence was, that his business was to see Matilda. He refreshed himself at the hotel, and taking Maxwell’s arm, strolled towards the cottage. The sun had set, and the moon was shining with an unusual brightness, and gave to the flowers and shrubberies around the cottage a more than natural beauty. They approached softly, for they recognized Matilda’s voice, and listening, heard these words: Yes, false to me has been this world; Its malice tore thy heart from me: The shaft which at my peace was hurled, Was deeply felt, I know, by thee. Still conscious virtue is my stay, Though yet a dart does rankle here— He thinks me base and false as they Who tore my bosom with despair. I’ll blame him not; the poisonous breath Of malice forced him thus to stray; And fain I’d clasp the tyrant Death, To wash that guiltless stain away. Williams’ agitation became so great that his friend with difficulty prevented his betraying his nearness to the house; but caution was necessary, as it had been planned that Maxwell should go in alone, and by degrees apprise Matilda of W.’s arrival, and his object. He accordingly knocked at the door. Mrs. Clayton asked who was there. His name was given, and he immediately entered.