gan to read. That last evening when they were all together, rose with terrible distinctness. The little fountain shone with the falling moonlight, and Henrietta's eyes seemed to grow darker and more intense as they filled with that pure and spiritual ray. Walter Maynard stood beside, pale and dejected; and nearer still leant Norbourne Courtenaye. How well she remembered his tender and earnest gaze, and the small knot of blue harebells on which her own glance fell; when, with sweet shame and pleasure, she looked down, too timid to look upon him. A more solemn and deep conviction of how utterly she loved him seemed to strike upon her heart. She started, for she heard his name; his name that, saving from her own lips, whispered in the stillness of midnight, she had not heard since his departure. Quietly, even carelessly, Sir Jasper was reading the following passage from Lady Marchmont's letter:—
"Do you remember a young man called Norbourne Courtenaye, who was staying at Churchill Manor? He has just married his
