my very soul believe that you are as good as you are beautiful. But, dearest, I do not despair of obtaining the consent of Colonel Beauchamp, and even of your mother, Annie, angry as she is with me at this moment. I have romance enough about me, I confess, to rejoice at having heard the precious words you have uttered, while you were still ignorant of my fortune and position in the world, and as those dear words are recorded where they will endure as long as life and memory are lent me, I may now tell you freely, that my estate, and the settlement I shall propose to your father, are not such as to offer a reason for his rejecting me. My family is honourable and very nobly connected; and what I think will weigh far more with you, dearest Annie, than either, I flatter myself I can refer with honest confidence to the guardians who have had charge of me from the death of my father to the time of my coming of age, as well as to Eton and Oxford, where I received my education, for testimony that my actions have hitherto brought no disgrace upon my name."

"Ah, Mr. Egerton," returned Annie, with both a sigh and a smile, "all this would have gone very far yesterday towards obtaining such an answer as you wish. But I fear that as yet you have no idea of the anger conceived against you, both for your unfortunate parley with the slaves in the rice-grounds, and your accusatious against the husband of that terrible Mrs. Barnaby. Indeed, indeed, I fear that you would not be listened to upon such a subject for a single instant.

"Neither will I venture to ask it, dearest Annie," he replied. "I feel perfectly certain of being able to bring evidence of the truth of all I have said respecting this major, and if I do so, my motives for having warned your father of his practices, must surely be justly appreciated; and as to the other offence imputed to me, a very short time must surely suffice to prove that I have at least done nothing productive of any mischievous result."

"You speak so hopefully, Mr. Egerton," she replied, "that you make me think you must know better about it all than I do. But you will allow that time must be given, both for your inquiry about the major, and for the negative proof of your innocence respecting the poor slaves. But this last imputation will, I doubt not, die away, if they all remain quiet."

"And time shall be patiently given by me, sweet Annie, provided you promise that I may now and then hear from you. Of course I shall leave this place to-night, as it certainly would look like plotting and planning mischief were I to be found, lurking here, after the scene of this morning. How I bless the speaking paleness of your fair face, dearest, which gave me courage to ask our kind friend here, for this interview! How different will be my departure now, from what in that first dreadful moment I feared it would have been! And you will write to me, Annie? First addressed to the post-office at New York; for it is thither, as I understand, that my precious countryman has taken himself, and it is thither that I shall immediately follow; but you will write to me, and promise to receive my letters in return?"

Annie looked in the face of Miss Perkins, and would at that moment have given a good deal, if the kind feelings she so plainly saw written there, had been more mingled with the tougher quality of good

sense. Poor girl! She longed for an English opinion that might have been trusted, as to the propriety of complying with the request of Egerton. To refuse him seemed almost beyond her strength; yet, conscious of her total ignorance of English etiquette in such matters, she shrunk from the idea of consenting to do what was unusual. Egerton saw the struggle, and understood it.

"Are you not my affianced wife, Annie? Conditionally, it is true; but still you are pledged to me. And am I not, still more, your affianced husband? For I have offered my vows unshackled by any condition whatever. Think you, then, that I would ask you to do any thing that I would not sanction in my own sister, were I happy enough to have one?"

"I will write to you," said Annie, gently, "if you desire me to do it."

"And will you answer my letters, dearest ?" he rejoined, after once again fervently kissing her hand.

"Yes, Mr. Egerton, I will," she replied, with something almost approaching to solemnity in her manner. "But in both cases it must be done by the assistance of Miss Perkins; for it must not be from me, that my parents first learn what has passed between us."

It will easily be believed that the good Louisa raised no difficulties upon this point, and Frederic Egerton looked quite as happy as it was possible for a man to do who was on the very eve of parting with his beloved.

All this had passed in a shady and obscure retreat in a rustic summer-house, at no great distance from the entrance to Mrs. Whitlaw's grounds, into which Annie, who knew it well, had almost unconsciously entered, immediately after Miss Perkins had rejoined her. And now she rose to leave it, saying to that excellent person as she did so,

"I cannot visit Mrs. Whitlaw now, Miss Louisa-I should not comprehend a single word she said to me. Farewell, Mr. Egerton !" and she held out her hand to him, "Farewell!"

Before this sad word was uttered between them for the last time, the eyes of the whole party bore witness that they did not separate with indifference; for on seeing the emotion of her young friends, the tender-hearted Louisa wept for company.

But part they must, and part they did at last; but not till the lovers had confessed to each other, that despite the obstacles which thus drove them asunder, that hour was the happiest of their lives.

ANSWER TO "AN OLD MAN'S PEAN."

(In the Magazine for March.)

WRITTEN AT THE INSTIGATION OF J. H.

THOU graybeard gay! whose Muse-(perchance In second childhood's ignorance,)

Inspired-" An Old Man's Pæan," Hear how a brother senior sings

Sexagenarian sufferings,

In strains antipodean!

Young, I could take a morning's sport,
Play matches in the Tennis Court,

So strong I was and plastic ;—
Dine out, and yet with spirit light,
And body unfatigued, at night,
Could sport the toe fantastic.

Behold me now !--my limbs are stiff,
An open door, an east-wind's whiff,

Brings sharp rheumatic touches.

A chamber-horse, my only nag,
I mope at home, or slowly drag
My gouty feet on crutches.

Once I devour'd whatever came,

And never knew, except by name,

The heartburn, bile, dyspepsy. Now I must fast-eat what I hate, Or all my ailments aggravate,

From ache to epilepsy.