Our limits will not allow us to enter into particulars. If this were a novel, instead of a tale of real life, we might follow the course of their love, step by step, and expatiate upon the stolen glances, the tender _tête-à-têtes_, and all the sentimental etceteras which usually form the burden of a tale of love—fortunately for our readers, we must, perforce, spare them the infliction. Suffice it, that their mutual attachment soon became the subject of common remark and conversation; and, at last, those who were most interested, and, as usual, most blind, were enlightened by the hints and charitable warnings of sundry busy, good-natured friends. Dire was the wrath of old O’Connor, when his eyes were opened to the truth: he cursed his own blind folly, for having allowed matters to go so far; cursed (but not aloud, he was too prudent for that) the wife of his bosom, for having been as blind as himself; and cursed every red coat that ever was made, and every unfortunate wight who had ever worn one. At length he remembered the legitimate object of his wrath, and hastened out of the house in search of Denby. Fortunately for them both—for Philip was not a man to bear unmerited abuse with patience—he failed in his object; Philip was not to be found at his lodgings, at the reading rooms, or at the billiard-table, for the best of all reasons—that he was seated beside Ellen O’Connor, not five minutes after her father had left her. While the one was leaving the house in one direction, the other was arriving at it by another. Philip found her in tears; and, in answer to his impassioned and alarmed inquiries, she gave him an account of the scene she had just witnessed, and implored him, if he had any affection for her, to bear patiently the intemperance which, she feared, her father would indulge in if they should meet. He calmed her fears on that score, and they had a long and interesting conversation, the result of which was, the conviction that it was impossible for them to live without each other. What arguments the philosopher, Denby, made use of, we know not; but the result was, that, in three days, Ellen O’Connor eloped from her father’s house in his company. Some weeks passed gaily and happily over the heads of the young couple; but they were soon awakened from their dream of love and bliss, by the sterner realities of life. The story of old O’Connor’s aversion to the match, and his loud and angry invectives against his daughter, had gone abroad, and Philip’s creditors became pressing in their demands for payment. Ruin stared them in the face; and Ellen, whose fear of meeting her justly-incensed father had hitherto prevented her from seeking his forgiveness, was determined to brave the interview she dreaded. With a faltering step she sought her father’s dwelling; and her heart smote her, when she thought how happy that home had been, till she introduced sorrow and disappointment there. The house was shut up—the family had left