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TINSEL.

away, but she could not do it, for he was in the

room.

He must have had a great deal to say to her, for he stayed at least two hours, (perhaps, though, he was only looking at her embroidery and her drawings all that time,) and before he left, he asked to see Lady de Courcy, and he stayed about half an hour with her; and at the end of that time he looked very happy, and on taking leave of Florence, instead of just shaking her haud, he kissed her forehead, and he had a right to do it, for she had given herself to him, and had promised to be his wife as soon as she could leave off her sable garments, and don something more becoming to a bride.

And the ball! what advice did he give her? None; he gave her no advice, but he asked her to stay away; not for his own sake, but he spoke of her dead father, and in reverence for his memory, he urged her to give up this scene of revelry. She willingly acceded to the request, and when the evening came, and she heard the carriages rolling past, although she would much have liked to be there with Harry, she consoled herself with the idea that she had won his approbation, and would be rewarded by his smile on the following day.

Twelve months have passed; and the bells of St. Mark's ring merrily, as a fair young bride steps into the carriage waiting for her at the church door. Her husband springs in after her, and as he looks at her lovely face, and removes the long white veil that he may see it more clearly, he clasps her to him, and thanks God for having given him such a wife. And she looks so trustingly at him. He is the only friend she has on earth, and she loves him with all her heart and soul.

The beautiful Mrs. Vane became an attractive feature in Jersey society. Her husband was rich, and he only thought of employing his money for her pleasure; perhaps he was too indulgent to her, for he could deny her nothing-he literally worshipped her. Several months of happiness passed, and then the first frown of fortune fell on them. Harry's father died, and died poor; he had not only lived up to, but exceeded his income, and he left his son nothing but his debts and a mortgaged estate..

Harry sold the latter advantageously; paid off the mortgage, discharged the debts, and then found that he had only about two hundred a-year to live on besides his pay. It was a great blow to him, for he had been cruelly supplied with money by his father; and had been taught to believe that father's wealth, which, of course, would descend to him, enormous, so it was a dreadful blow. He did not care for himself, but he could not bear to think of economy in regard to his wife. And Florence, how did she bear it? At first she was frightened, and she had strange visions of being

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obliged to wear cotton gowns, and eat her dinner with a steel fork; but these pictures vanished, and then when she heard that two hundred a-year still remained to them, she went to the other extreme, and believed there was no cause for uneasiness. Poor Harry! She was no companion for him in his distress. He wished she had some practical earnestness of feeling, but she had none; so he bore his griefs alone. Even the ayah, who was housekeeper, cashier, and everything else in a domestic point of view, was more sympathetic, and could help him now better than his wife. But another trial awaited him; his regiment was ordered to India. He thought his heart would have broken, for Florence could not go with him. He was only to remain three years, and during that time he would be far up the country; besides, he was now obliged to think of the expense; so he felt that he must leave her behind him.

He went; and the young wife was left alone. At first she could do nothing but weep; but in a little time her tears were dried; and the enemy of her better self, Lady de Courcy, again came forward, and proposed their living together once more. Florence knew that Harry would have said, "no," had he been present, for he did not like Lady de Courcy; but he was not present, so Florence said “yes,” and, in accordance with that "yes," she soon after gave up her own house, and took up her abode with Lady de Courcy. Harry had placed the two hundred a-year at the disposal of Florence, and Lady de Courcy kuowing this, had her own reasons for wishing Florence to live with her. Time passed on; eighteen gay and giddy months flew away, and Florence became more and more heedless. Led away by excitement, she lived on the admiration of the moment; and slander at last raised its voice against her, and coupled her name with that of the greatest roué of St. Helier's, Sir Edward Bellinghame, who, always with her, always by her side, gloried in that report, which, gratifying to him, was ruin, disgrace to her. Christmas came, and Christmas bills-tradesmen were pressing. Besides her debts contracted jointly with Lady de Courcy, she had large bills of her own. She wrote to her husband's lawyer (at Lady de Courcy's request) for money; the demand was refused, with the intimation that her account was already so very much overdrawn that he could not advance her anything more at present. She took the letter to Lady de Courcy, who, on reading it, looked horror-struck.

"Good Heavens, Florence!" she exclaimed, "what are we to do? We must have money, or the furniture will be seized before the week is out; you must borrow some in St. Helier's."

Florence started.

"You must borrow some," continued her ladyship, "Sir Edward Bellinghame would lend you any amount."

Florence turned deadly pale. "Sir Edward Bellinghame," she replied; "why him of all others ?"

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"Because you have influence over him; because he lives on your words, your looks, because he is infatuated by you; nay, Florence, I will speak plainly; the desperate circumstances in which we are placed need a desperate remedy; so I say go to him, because he loves you, and would lose his soul to help you."

Florence stood as in a dream, cold and colourless as a marble statue. Lady de Courcy continued "Go to him; tell him how we are circumstanced; tell him that ruin, disgrace stare us in the face; tell him he can save us, you, from this."

But Florence still seemed deaf to her words. Again Lady de Courcy addressed her, grasping her arm as she did so.

"Florence, will you save me? I have brought this ruin on me for your sake," [what lying sophistry]" will you not help me out of it ?"

One word, only one word, fell from the pale lips of Florence; it sounded like the voice of the dead, so hollow was its tone.

"Yes," was that word, which crushed Florence to the earth, raised her worthless companion to the skies. Lady de Courcy began to utter her thanks, but Florence stopped her.

That evening, a closely veiled and graceful figure drove to Sir Edward's house. On inquiry he proved to be at home; she entered and was shown to the drawing-room.

Sir Edward rose as she came in, and a surprised look of delight lit up his face, as he recognised her. "To what am I to attribute the unexpected pleasure of this visit, my dear Mrs. Vane;" he said, as taking her hand he lead her to a seat.

"To necessity," she replied, as, refusing to be seated, she remained standing before him, "to an humiliating necessity, the consequence of a thoughtless, almost vicious career. Sir Edward, I come at the express request of Lady de Courcy to borrow money of you. Do not interrupt me if you please, hear me to the end; let my shame be complete, the measure of my disgrace filled up. This affair must be a mere business transaction between us; nay, no protestations I beg, I deem them insulting-I am little versed in such matters, but you will probably inform me what acknowledgment you would take from a stranger for a sum of money borrowed ?"

"I will have no acknowledgment from you, none but such as will live in your memory; none but your gratitude," he replied.

"Then," she said, and her look expressed her unalterable determination; "then, I can accept no aid from you; the world would be disposed to interpret my gratitude uncharitably; my busband's name demands, that you receive from me such a receipt or promise of payment as will mark the nature of this transaction, prove its purity. Now Sir Edward I ask you on these terms to lend me the sum Lady de Courcy named as sufficient to defray all immediate claims; will you do

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"If you will accept my help on no other conditions, I will; but why are you so changed tonight ?-so different to yourself, so stern, so proud, so cold; now do yield, let me feel thatShe silenced him.

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"I will tell you why I am changed," plied, "because to-day, for the first time in my life, I have felt the need of change; 'stern' because the cirumstances in which I am placed require to be sternly dealt with; cold,' because that feeling which you misinterpreted, misunderstood, a mere buoyancy of heart, a heedless flow of spirits, which was misconstrued, perhaps, by you into something worse, is gone-gone for ever. Thoughtlessness and vice, although frequently wearing the same garb, are not necessarily always found together. Gay and wild I have been-inexcusably, culpably so; but vicious I am not. Men of the world, such as you, whose notions of purity have been gradually worn down by that world's experience, flatter themselves that they understand woman's nature, and judging our sex thus, do us vile injustice. Sir Edward, we shall not meet after this night; my attorney will repay you the sum I have borrowed; but as my parting charge I tell you, when you see some poor silly moth fluttering round the glitter of the world, when you hear the voice of slander raised against her, have the courage to dissent from that voice, and think, even thus once men spoke of Florence Vane, yet she stood firm in the hour of trial. Now then, the notes if you please, two hundred will be sufficient. Will you be kind enough to draw up a promise of payment ?" He did so, and she signed it. "You will give me the duplicate of this promise, with a statement that the original is in your possession; your copy may be lost, in which case, this will remain, proving that in a mere business light I have asked this sum. Thank you, and now, good-night."

She held out her hand to him-he took it, and wrung it with a far more intense and better feeling than he wouid have done a few minutes before. He had learnt to esteem, to reverence the woman, whom he had hitherto considered a mere baublea beautiful toy.

Florence appeared to have suddenly changed her nature. No longer the butterfly of society, she tried to understand the tenour and extent of her embarrassments; but alas! the evil consequences of the whole system of her life (or rather the want of system), could not be undone in a single day. Think as she would, she could see nothing except that her debts amounted to many hundreds, and she had only two to discharge them.

A month passed-a month of misery; people began to talk of the pecuniary difficulties of the beautiful Mrs. Vane and the gay Lady de Courcy. The visit of the former to Sir Edward had by some means transpired, and sneers, and hints, and cold looks were bestowed on Florence, who, no longer able to entertain, now seemed to be considered a legitimate mark for the envy and ill nature which her beauty bad all along excited.

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TINSEL.

She was now "forgotten" in invitations; unavoidably left out of parties of pleasure; she did not regret the parties, but she felt the intended slight. At last, one day the post brought her an Indian letter. She tore it open; it announced her husband's return-sick-ill almost unto death; he sought his native country as the last hope of life. With an aching heart she read the letter. What a home for him to come to; what a tale for him to hear! Harry Vane, one of the most honourable men in the world, to find his wife an outcast, her name sullied, overloaded with debts, -not the consequence of misfortune, but of folly! -it was horrible to think of.

She read the letter over again; his words were, "I am off for England; almost as soon as this arrives, I shall be with you."

She dreaded his return! And that it should come to this, that she should now fear to meet him from whom, only two years since, it had been agony to part! Sad evidence of the world's transmuting power.

And now, day by day, she expected him. Another letter came; it was from England-he was there, and the next packet would bring him to Jersey; it did so. The morning was cold and rainy, and the wind screamed away as the packet rounded the pier. Florence stood there in all the wind, and rain, and storm; she cared for none, the tumult of her own mind was greater than all. Her straining eyes were bent on the deck of that vessel. There, wrapped up in a large grey cloak, stood he whom she had come to meet, looking so pale and ill.

The cables are thrown to the shore; the packet grates against the side of the pier. She waits no longer; her rapid feet fly down those slippery steps, across the plank, scarcely yet steadied by the sailor's hands, on to the deck; in another moment she is clasped in her husband's arms. She remembers only that she is with him; she clings to him as if from some hidden danger-answers none of his questions, but clings, and sobs, and clings again.

Harry knew the truth. He loved his wife more dearly than aught on earth, but he looked on her with altered feelings; his trust in her was over. Friends whispered to him of her faults, and told him of her errors; "for her good and his happiness," they spoke of Sir Edward Bellinghame; and, while expressing their perfect belief in the lady's innocence, advised him to forbid her even speaking to the gay baronet. All these whispers told on Harry. But now came the last blow. Florence had never confessed to her husband her debt to Sir Edward. The duplicate of the receipt which he had given her still remained in her possession. Instead of sending it to the attorney, she had placed it in her workbox; there it lay, forgotten for a while, now to appear and, vampire-like, suck the remaining drop of comfort from that heart-broken

man.

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He was sitting by his wife, as usual, silent and brooding, when his fingers unconsciously turning over the contents of the workbox, this paper, from some cause or other, attracted his attention, and he took it up. With an eager, hasty movement, Florence attempted to snatch it from him; but he held it tightly in his grasp, as he scanned its contents.

"Florence, what does this mean ?" he said, as he pointed to the name of Sir Edward; "Florence, in the name of God, I command you to tell me the truth-Was this the price of your guilt?"

"Harry," she cried, as she knelt before him; "Harry, for Heaven's own love, in Heaven's own charity, believe me; I have been most culpably thoughtless, but never guilty. No, not even in thought has my faith ever for one moment wandered from you; and any vicious act, you dare not impute to me." She raised her face and looked at him; there was the dignity of truth in those eyes; he believed her.

"Florence," be answered, "I am thankful for those words; your debts, your extravagance, I can forgive; your infamy would have killed me. Nevertheless, this, (and he pointed to the paper) is a grave affair. The terms of intimacy between my wife and this man must have been great, ere she could have sought and accepted help from him. I must see him on this subject-must redeem my honour which has been pawned to him. words, Florence; it shall be so. To-morrow morning I go to England to obtain the means of liquidating that debt."

No

She was going to say something, but he silenced her. "No remonstrance, Florence, I beg; you only add to my misery by each word you utter. It is late, go to your bed; you look jaded-and well you may."

He kissed her forehead tenderly; led her to the door; and then, when he had watched her upstairs, returned to the drawing-room, and sat down to decide, not only on the arrangements of the journey of the following day, but also on the course of his future life.

The dawn found him still there; in another two hours he was on his road to England.

He lingered long in the British island. Florence heard from him occasionally, but his letters were short and cold. At length he came back, without giving her any notice of his return. Not choosing to enter the house of the worn out votary of the world, who had been the ruin of his wife, he went to an hotel, and desired Florence to join him there. She did so.

She was very much changed in appearance since he had seen her before; had become sad, and pale, and weak; and her beautiful face had an anxious, care-worn look. He placed his arm round her waist, and drew her towards him; and she leant her head on his shoulder, and rested there, as a child might lie on its mother's breast.

There was an unusual weight on her spirits,-a

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dread, a fear of something, she knew not what,presentiment that she would not be with him long. She tried to speak, but there was a choking sob in her throat. And Harry-his lips quivered, and tears rolled down his manly cheeks. But time was fleeting, and he had much to say to her.

"Florence" he began "look here ;" and he drew a paper from his pocket, and placed it before her. I have seen Sir Edward; there is your receipt (pointing to the paper); your debt to him is paid. Now, you must heed well all I have to say, for I am going to speak to you of your future life. Your debts, those in which that woman has involved you, amount to a large sum; this pocket book contains money for the purpose of liquidating them. That money is taken from the little I saved out of my father's estate. I need not tell you that the withdrawal of this amount takes considerably from your income; but you will have enough to live on respectably, not extravagantly. Let the past be a warning for the future."

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He stopped there seemed to be something which he could not utter lingering on his mind,— twice he tried to speak, but his voice failed him. At last, with a great effort he conquered his emotion. "Florence," he continued, "there is one circumstance connected with this painful business which you have to learn yet. The diminution in our income to a rich man would be nothing; to me it is a serious affair. I cannot afford to live an idle life; I must work again. I am going to leave you. I have applied for-have obtained an appointment; I leave for India within a fortnight." She clung to him; she looked into his face with a wild vacant stare, as if she did not understand him; "Harry," at length she exclaimed, when she could find utterance, "you are going to leave me; going to India again-you, sick and ill, and needing care; why not take me with you? Harry! for the love of Heaven, by the affection you once bore me, I implore you to let me be your companion! don't leave me, Harry; don't leave me here again!" She threw her arms round his neck, and clung frantically to him.

"My poor, erring wife!"—and he looked on her beseecbing face-"Florence, loved as dearly now, as if you had never sinned against me, I would give this right hand to have you by my side; the thought of parting from you has well nigh cost me my life; but I have battled with my resolution, conquered myself. I cannot, dare not, will not, my darling, expose you to the dangers of the station to which I am appointed. The climate is unhealthy, the whole district is the scene of bloodshed; no Englishwoman could face such a life as would await her there. If you love me still, and would spare me pain, cease to urge me; turn away those dear beseeching eyes; they unman me"and he wiped the drops from his own cheeks. "One word more, Florence, not as a reproach, but as something which selfishness prompts me to place in your mind, that it my dwell there. During the years I was away from you, your image never left

my heart. Oh! could you only know how I have longed to be with you again; how I counted the days, hours, minutes, till I should reach you; the rapture with which I clasped you to my heart on that cold, wet deck, you would realise the agony of this hour, when I must part from you for ever; you would understand the terrible, heart-rending sacrifice I make in leaving you. I tell you this, my wife, to prove that my affection for you is as deep, as lasting, as ever."

He ceased. Hour after hour passed, and she lay there in his arms, so still, so calm, so quiet, that had it not been for her quick and hurried breathing, and the almost painful grasp of her tightening hand, he might have thought her dead.

She neither spoke nor wept-he fancied she slept-but when he looked at her, her eyes were wide open, and fixed with a glassy stare: the lips were compressed, and her nostrils dilated.

Suddenly she roused herself, and tried to smile at him.

"Harry!" she began—and she spoke with eager restlessness," Harry! the vivid pictures which have been chasing each other through my brain, have made me forget time. You will tell me the name of the ship you sail in, my husband? I shall watch her course'

"She is called the Water Lily."
"Does she sail from London ?"
"No; from Southampton."
"Have you taken your passage ?"
"Yes."

There was a long pause, and then she spoke again. "Harry; will you grant me one last favour?" "If I can, I will."

"Will you take Fazia with you? her country; indeed, indeed, you happy by saying yes."

"Do you really mean this ?"
"I do."

"Then I will take her."

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CIRCUMSTANTIAL EVIDENCE.

was absorbed in the idea of the ayah returning again to her native land.

And, once more, he hears the great packet bell toll; it sounded like the knell of his departing happiness. One more clasp of the hand; one more kiss; one more uttered prayer to Heavenand he was gone. She watched him as long as her straining eyes could see him; and when she could no longer distinguish him from the other passengers, she watched the packet which contained hin; then, when that was lost in the distant horizon, she turned with a deep and heavy sigh to the Indian.

"Home now, dear nursie," she said, as she drew the dark hand within her arm, "home now, and prepare for your departure. But first to Dr. Gage, for I have work for him." The next fortnight was a busy one-for the ayah had to prepare for her departure, and Florence, to whom inactivity now seemed insupportable, occupied herself with, and (through the help of Dr Gage) succeeded in understanding, her various debts. She seemed to have become a complete woman of business. At the end of the week, every account had been examined and discharged. Florence was clear of the Jersey world -and a good round sum still remained comfortably in the pocket-book.

It was a warm July evening; one of those glowing sunsets, when the sky is a blaze of glory; when a misty languor fills the air, and the buzzing of the insect world seems to add to the lulling feeling of the moment.

The Water Lily, every sail set, every rope in order, lay on the unruffled bosom of the Southampton river. Like a graceful thing of life, she moved to the gentle ripple of the tide.

And now a cheer arises from the shore as, her sails catching the breeze, she glides slowly onwards, and takes her first step on her long, long, southern course. On, and on, down that wide river, past the wooded coast of Hampshire and the rocky Isle of Wight-on still, till the dangerous Needles are passed-on again, until all sight of land is lost and —she is fairly off to sea.

The sun had set; but there was that streak of light in the horizon which often lingers, as if he

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| were loth to withdraw all his glory from a darkened world. The moon was in her infancy, and her pure crescent rose apparently from the ocean, while the stars-Heaven's own diamonds-glit tered on the deep blue canopy of the sky. There was stillness, silence round-for the hour was late, and the passengers, all save one, had gone to rest. He, with folded arms and heaving breast, still paced that vessel's deck. He seemed in deep misery, for occasionally a sigh,-and such a sigh,—would burst from him.

"If I could only have brought her with me," he said, as, resting in his weary walk, he leant against the side of the vessel; "If I could only have kept her dear face before me; shielded her from want, and care, and misery, but it would have broken her heart, poor child, to have taken her away from all and asked her to share my dismal home." There was a sob, and then a little hand was placed on his shoulder. He turned. Florence stood beside him. Once more she was clasped to his heart; once more she rested on his breast; she was with him again, never to be parted from him, except by death.

The manuscript was finished; but a note attached to it ran thus:

"I told you, some weeks since that the present story would exemplify a principle. Now, as I entertain a vivid remembrance of a certain lady's obtusity, as to why the "Daisy" of Grouville was called the "Daisy," I fear the exemplification of the principle I mention in the foregoing tale may remain a mystery. I shall offer one remark, prefer one question, which may lead to the solution of the same. What was the cause of Florence Vane's almost insane conduct? And did she obtain the object for which she sacrificed her husband's happiness ?"

"Two questions, and no remark," I soliloquised. However, I am not going to destroy the poetry of the tale by appending to it a moral treatise.

But the "moral treatise" thrust itself before my mind, and, clinging there, gave rise in the end to a train of thought, which at last induced me to say to the pleasant little Island of Jersey-Farewell!

CIRCUMSTANTIAL EVIDENCE.

A Few weeks since a railway train in the neighbourhood of London was run into by the engine of a succeeding train, and twelve or thirteen persons were killed. An additional number were grievously injured. The accident occurred to a number of Sunday excursionists, and arose probably from the officials being overworked on that day.

They were to return by a bridge of boats. The centre boat gave way, and ten or more persons who had been engaged in a commendable manner, only to a late hour, were drowned.

Nearly at the same time, a steamer left Quebec for Montreal, with nearly four hundred passengers, who crossed the Atlantic in search of Canadian In the succeeding week a number of individuals homes, chiefly from Scotland. The steamer had had formed a party to an island on the Severn. I made only short progress on the broad St. Law

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