his heart upon seeing Margaret once more, and, when that was over, the rest of his life was a matter of perfect indifference to him.

Trumbull, compelled to relinquish a project, by which he had hoped to secure a new lion for the gaze of his admiring countrymen, with a side view to the popularity of his contemplated book, in which he intended to give a circumstantial narrative of the duel, turned the conversation to other topics. He was a speculator on a large scale. He never missed a chance of picking up a trifle of information; and, if he could not procure extensive data, which, indeed, he seldom took the trouble to go in quest of, he made no scruple in drawing general inferences from particular facts, without being very particular in testing their correctness. Whatever he happened to see or hear, he took for granted as an illustration of universal modes and customs; so that his book, from which he read a variety of singular specimens, might have been appropriately designated "Curiosities from the Social Experiences of a Gobe-mouche."

Winston's anxiety to obtain intelligence about Lord Charles made him rather impatient of Mr. Trumbull's criticisms on England and the English; and, after an hour or two wasted upon subjects

extremely nuinteresting to him, and especially distasteful under existing circumstances, he reminded Costigan of his promise to ascertain how Lord Charles was going on. A difficulty presented itself which, in the eagerness of his feelings, Costigan had not thought of before. The second was as much compromised as the principal, and it would have been hazardous in Costigan to present himself in person to make such inquiries. The difficulty, however, was removed by Trumbull, who, volunteering his services, started at once with Costigan for Portman-square.

Henry Winston was again left alone. An hour passed away, which he contrived to fill up with a multitude of ingenious self-tortures. The future shaped itself before him in a wild phantasmagoria of gloomy pictures, brightened here and there by rays of hope, that vanished as quickly as they came; and long before his reveries were interrupted by the return of his friends, he had succeeded in working himself into a most dreary and uncomfortable mood. The news he received operated beneficially on these morbid feelings, by at least resolving all doubt into certainty, and awakening him, with electric force, to the necessity of action.

It had been arranged between Trumbull and Costigan that the latter should announce the intelligence they had obtained; and he began with an exordium which so painfully delayed, while it betrayed the truth, that Winston, unable to endure the suspense, sprang from his chair, and appealed to Trumbull to relieve him, by telling him the worst at

once.

It was told in one word. Lord Charles Eton was dead!

CHAPTER VIII.

THE LAST TRIAL.

DEATH, even when it has given long notice of its approach, is a dismal thing in a house; but more dismal still when it comes suddenly and violently in the midst of health, and in the confidence of manhood. Although the dead be one who had not drawn around him a solitary affection, he is missed when he is gone; his loss severs some ties, breaks up the routine of old habits, and leaves a blank behind which time alone can fill with new associations and altered prospects.

Lord Charles Eton had not cultivated one ardent friendship; and in his own home, where love might have grown had he cared to nurture it, the air was too cold for hearts to flower in. His uncle alone was strongly attached to him; but it was less a feeling of affection than a sentiment of pride, cherished

and dwelt upon in solitude, till it became a sort of necessity of his existence. Yet, unloveable as he was in his life, his death was a trouble in the small circle which it deprived of a familiar face and an accustomed footstep.

Abroad in the world, through which he had moved with such a show of graciousness, there was a slight sensation-hardly of regret, rather of surprise and curiosity; people thought it very shocking; got up a story about the quarrel-which occupied them more than its issue,-and then something else started up, and they forgot him in a week.

To Margaret, there was an undefined terror in the event, which fascinated her reason. She was stunned by its suddenness. There wasn't time to think clearly, or to test her own feelings. The first impulse was self-examination. Had she been just to him? Had she made allowances for his temper? Had she estimated his character truly? Was there no fault at her side? Could she have averted that alienation which had recently divided them? Could she have reconciled the family feud in the heat of which he was struck down? A hundred such hurried questions and half-accusations thronged upon her mind. She looked back upon her marriage,