took alarm; be followed her immediately, and with a forced laugh told her, that he knew as well as she did who would take her to the review.

"Who?" angrily asked Fanny.

"Myself," replied her humble swain, "and we will walk together to the heath on which it is to be, it is, you know, only three miles off."

"Walk!" exclaimed Fanny, "Walk! and be melted with heat, and our clothes covered with dust when we get there no indeed! fine figures we should be!"

"I should not like you the worse, Fanny, if I thought you went to see, and not to be seen," said Llewellyn. "However, just as you please; I suppose you have thought of some other way of going."

"O yes, we can borrow your cousin John's cart and horse; Mary can drive me, and you can hire a pony and ride by the side of us."

Llewellyn with a deep sigh consented to the proposal, and even assisted Fanny to conquer Mary's aversion to perform her part of the plan.

"I hate war and all that belongs to it," cried Mary; "I shall have no pleasure if I go."

"But you will give others pleasure by going," said Llewellyn, and Mary consented directly.

The important day arrived, and Fanny appeared at her aunt's window ready dressed, long before the hour appointed for them to set off. "How beautiful she looks!" "thought Llewellyn," and how smart she is, too smart for her situation; yet had she been dressed so to please me I should not have cared for that; but she would not have taken such pains with her dress to please me."

Llewellyn was only too much in the right; and though she looked so handsome, that he could not help gazing on her as they went along the road, at the hazard of riding against posts and carriages, this look had something in it so sad and reproachful, that Fanny, she knew not why, perhaps wished to avoid it; and when he ventured to say, "You would not have made yourself so smart to walk alone with me, Fanny," a self accusing blush spread itself over her cheek, and for the first time in her life she wished herself less smart.

Eager, therefore, to change the subject of Llewellyn's thoughts, she asked Mary whence arose her extreme aversion to soldiers. "You must own the dress a very becom ing one," she said.

"I cannot think that dress becoming," replied Mary, gravely, "which I have heard our curate say he thought the livery of blood."

"Bless me, how you talk Mary!" replied Fanny: "well; but it is very strange that you should hate reviews, though you may battles."

"I hate all that belongs to war," said Mary.

"But if there were no wars there would be no soldiers and no parades," cried Fanny; " and what a pity that would be! But why should you hate war?"

"I will tell you," said Mary, impatiently, "and then I desire you to question me on this subject no more. My father was a soldier, my mother followed him to battle; I was born on a baggage waggon, bred in the horrors of a camp, and at ten years old I saw my father brought home mangled and dying from the field, while my mother was breathing her last of the camp fever. I remember it as if it were only yesterday," continued Mary, shuddering and deeply affected; and her volatile companion was awed into silence.

At length they arrived on the review ground, and Llewellyn, afraid lest the horse should be frightened at the firing, made them leave the cart, and then leaning on his arm they proceeded to the front of the ranks. But the crowd was soon so great, that Fanny began to find she was not likely either to see or be seen, and was almost tempted to join Mary in regrets that she had given herself the trouble of coming, when she was seen and recognised by one of her quondam lovers, who, since she had rejected him, had become a serjeant in the militia of the town. Immediately this 'gallant hero made his way through the crowd; and forcing a poor boy to dismount from a coach-box conveniently situated for overlooking the field, he seized Fanny's unreluctant hand, led her along the ranks, and lifted her to the place, crying out-" Make way for a lady."

Surprise, and the suddenness of Fanny's removal, prevented Llewellyn's opposing it, but, as soon as surprise gave way to jealousy and resentment, he prepared to follow them; but it was impossible, the review was begun, and Llewellyn could not leave Mary, lest he should expose her to the risk of being run down by the horses, though his own danger he would have disregarded; he was therefore obliged to content himself with watching the conduct of Fanny at a distance, who, placed in a conspicuous situation, and taught

by coquetry to make the most of it, attracted and charmed all eyes but those of her lover.

In vain did Fanny cast many a kind glance towards her deserted companions. She received none in return; Mary did not, and Llewellyn would not, see them; and the pleasure she experienced was at length, in spite of the continual attentions of her military beau, completely damped by the expectations of the reproaches which she knew she should receive when she returned to her lover, and which her conscience told her she had but too well deserved.

The review ended, and Fanny was re-conducted by the young serjeant to the friends whom she had quitted. Llewellyn upbraided, Fanny cried, Mary mediated, and they parted the best friends in the world; Llewellyn promising to drink tea at Fanny's aunt's that afternoon, and even to behave cordially to the young serjeant, whom Fanny thought it incumbent on her to ask, in return for his civility.

"But if I come, Fanny, you promise not to make me uncomfortable again by your attentions to him?"

"Oh yes, I promise faithfully to behave just as you wish me; I will be rude to him if you like it."

"No, I would not have you absolutely rude, but-"
"Why do you ask him ?" said Mary abruptly.
"In return for his civilities," replied Fanny.

"And a pretty return it will be," cried Mary, "if you behave rudely to him; it would surely have been more civil not to have asked him at all."

The evening came, and the young serjeant, accompanied by a friend, repaired to the house of Fanny's aunt, where Llewellyn already was, and Mary also, who to oblige Llewellyn, had consented to be of the party. Fanny, to make her peace with Llewellyn, had changed her dress, which he thought in the morning too fine for her situation, and was attired with even quaker simplicity; her manner too was all the most apprehensive lover could wish. In vain did the young serjeant endeavour to follow up the advantage which he thought he had in the morning gained over Llewellyn. Fanny had no eyes but for him, and the consciousness of being beloved added brilliancy to the complexion and the eyes of Llewellyn.

But the aunt tried, by her attentions, to make amends to the mortified soldier for the neglect of the niece, and amongst other things she expatiated on the great improvement inade by regimentals in his appearance.

"Improvement indeed!" cried Fanny; "regimentals are so becoming. Dear Llewellyn, (turning to him) how handsome you would look in a soldier's dress! Would he not, Mary"

"He looks handsome enough in his own dress," replied Mary, unguardedly.

"Yes, but regimentals would be so becoming to his complexion. I should so like to see him in your coat," addressing the serjeant.

"You shall, if you desire it," replied the serjeant, coldly; and Llewellyn, the complaisant Llewellyn, was soon arrayed in the scarlet coat of his rival.

Fanny, on being thus pleased, threw one of her arms round his neck, and leaning her face on his shoulder, whispered, "I never saw you look so well in my life;" and for the first time seemed to court the ready kiss of her lover.

Poor Llewellyn thought that the happiest moment of his life; certain it is, it was the most fateful, as all his future hours took their colour from it.

Llewellyn, after wearing the coat longer than propriety warranted, perhaps, returned it to the soldier, but had, at the same time, the mortification of seeing Fanny's eyes continue to the coat, when on his rival's back, the glances of admiration which they bestowed on it when on his. Nay, the capricious girl, not content with the review in the morning, would accompany her military guests to the parade in the evening; and when there, the serjeant's attention in making way for her through the crowd, and requesting the band to play such tunes only as she chose, diverted once more her attention from her lover, and restored to his heart all the pangs of jealousy and disappointment, but then he recollected the tenderness with which she had courted and received his caresses when he wore the serjeant's dress; he still felt the pressure of her head against his shoulder, and he owned, in the fulness of his love, that to purchase such another moment, he would himself be a soldier.

Day succeeded to day, and week to week, and Fanny continued to receive the visits of the serjeant and other soldiers, though she still professed to look on herself as the betrothed wife of Llewellyn, and though he disapproved, in the most earnest manner, not only her associates, but the eagerness with which she followed every thing connected with military affairs.

At last, the uneasiness of Llewellyn's mind shewed itself

G 2

in his countenance. He became pensive, pale, and thin, and every thing about him bespoke some inward struggle; he neglected his business, he spoke little, and ate less; and one evening, in which he had been unusually agitated while Fanny was talking and laughing at her window with one of her military beaus, he started up, and exclaiming, "It shall be so!" seized his hat and rushed out of the room. " I shall lose her for ever," cried he, passionately, "if I do not!" The thought was madness; he hastened along the street, and in a few moments enlisted himself into the regulars, then quartered in the town. "Now," said he to himself, as he returned home, "she cannot fail of loving me again. But then, to please her, I have assumed a garb hateful to myself and parents. O Fanny! I feel I have purchased your love very dearly."

As he said this he found himself at his own door. "No, I dare not tell them to night what I have done," said he, and with a trembling hand he opened the door of the sitting room.

"How pale you look!" exclaimed Mary, running to meet him.

"My dear child, you are not well," cried his mother. "We must send for advice for him," said his father, the poor lad has looked ill some days, and bad fevers are about. If we should lose you, Llewellyn, what would become of us in our old age?"

Llewellyn tried to speak, but his voice died away, and leaning on the arm of his father's chair, he sobbed aloud. Alarmed at his distress, but quite unsuspicious of the cause, his mother hung about his neck; his father walked up and down the room, exclaiming, "What can have happened what can this mean?" and Mary, motionless as a statue, stood gazing on him in silence; when, as he took his handkerchief out of his pocket, he pulled out with it the cockade which he had just received from the recruiting serjeant.

Mary, eagerly seized it, and in an instant the truth burst on her mind. "Oh! what does this mean?" cried she, in a tone of agony, "how comes this here? surely, surely, Llewellyn, you have not been so rash as to enlist for a soldier !"

"Is the girl mad," exclaimed the old man," to suppose Llewellyn would do what he knew would break my heart ?"

Llewellyn hid his face, and again sobbed aloud.