about ten miles from London. I dismissed my child's nurse, and set out alone with him for our new abode.

As soon as I found myself in the chaise which was to take me from a house where I had passed so many happy weeks, all my assumed composure forsook me, and I gave way to a flood of bitter tears, as I pressed my unconscious boy to my almost broken heart.

"Poor darling," I said, "you will never see, nor shall I, your father again."

Thrown upon the wide world without one single relative or friend to help or console me, no wonder that I nearly gave myself up to despair.

I dared not show myself to the only persons I could call friends, Lady Eustace and Mrs. Davies.

What account could I give of myself with a young child, and no proof of having been married? I felt, in addition to my other miseries, that I was now a complete outcast, and that I was disgraced for ever.

In the most desponding state of mind I arrived at the farm-house, where the owners of it seemed inclined to make me comfortable. All my energy, however, was gone, and I could make no exertion, except to nurse my little boy.

I fancied that I should not have been so extremely wretched if I had been allowed to take a last leave of St. George, and this thought never left me night nor day; so haunted by it was I, that, after I had been three weeks at the farm, I had almost resolved to write to the Duke of Beaulieu, and implore him, if the marquis had not already set off for Ireland, to sanction our taking an eternal farewell of each other. And I think I should certainly have done so, had not an unforeseen event prevented me.

One evening, as I was sitting as usual mournfully by the fire, with my eyes riveted on my sleeping baby, I was startled by a hurried step on the stair.

My heart beat violently. That step sounded

so like one which had always been music to my ears, that I stopped my breath to listen to it.

In a moment the door opened, and before I could recover from the frantic state of suspense into which that sound had thrown me, St. George himself was by my side and at my feet, and I had sunk once more into those arms which I once fondly thought would have always supported me.

It is as impossible as it would be painful to describe the scene that followed. It is sufficient to say that the marquis, after his recovery from the illness into which the sight of my sufferings had thrown him, positively refused to accompany his father to Ireland till he had bade me a last farewell, and on his knees implored my forgiveness.

The duke had at length consented, on condition that the interview should not be prolonged above one hour, while his grace himself, who had accompanied his unhappy son from town, waited at the little village inn for his

return.

Each of us was shocked at the havoc which misery had wrought on the other.

The hour was soon nearly expended, and which, broken-hearted as I was, I consumed in comforting, as well as I was able, the still more wretched, self-accusing marquis.

"Wretch that I am," he exclaimed, "to have made two women, whom I so dearly loved, so utterly miserable."

"One of them will soon be happy," I answered almost bitterly. "She was unhappy for a few months-I shall be miserable for ever."

No sooner were the words out of my mouth, than I bitterly repented having spoken them, so terrible was their effect upon the distracted marquis.

I hastened to implore him to forget that I had ever uttered them, and promised that I would endeavour to live and be reconciled to my fate for the sake of my little boy, whom I conjured him, by every thing sacred, to love and protect, if he should be deprived of my

care.

"Oh! Theresa," he answered, "will you, can you trust my vows, my promises, after the solemn ones I have broken to you? But trust me once more, while I swear, that our poor boy shall be as dear to me as my life, and that before I rest my aching head this night, I will, in conjunction with my father, arrange every thing necessary for the comfort and independence of one who is bound to me, as well as to you, Theresa, by the nearest and dearest ties."

"Promise," I said, "promise to love him, and though you must forget his wretched mother, I conjure you on my knees never to forget him."

I need not dwell on what followed. I had

just succeeded in calming, in some degree, my excited feelings, and in soothing those of Lord St. George, when the sound of carriage-wheels warned us that the promised hour had expired.

No poor wretch condemned to the gallows could have felt more despair at being summoned to his fate, than I did when, more dead than alive, I received the last embrace of him