ing a glance at his face, in which she read the truth of all that she had feared—he was evidently overwhelmed by emotions, operating under the aid of circumstances, to awaken a sensibility so acute, as to be destructive.
"Alas! alas!" exclaimed Isabella, as she paced Mary's chamber, whose return she impatiently desired; "all we have done for him will go for nothing—his long journey, his painful absence, all we have both suffered in order to restore him, will"
At this moment Glentworth rang his bell violently, and she heard him giving rapid orders to his valet; in the next he entered Mary's room, and clasping her to his bosom, laid his head on her shoulder, and wept as man seldom weeps, save when his wife is a beloved one, and his only witness.
"I cannot wonder you are thus affected, my dear Glentworth, and it would ill become me to seek to"
"Yes, yes, I know, Isabella, you feel and see all that I would say and that I must do. But be comforted, my dearest; I have given orders for post horses; Williams is packing my valise, I shall get to Civita Vecchia as soon as possible, and then hire a felucca for Marseilles—the weather is calm, you have nothing to fear—but mind my words! Should
