at he had overheard between
Mary and her brother, and what had subsequently happened. Godfrey
listened with intense interest until he came to that part of the
narrative where Mary, in her wandering mood, had confounded him with
Anthony; and there, at the very circumstance which had occasioned his
cousin such acute anguish, and when he expected from him the deepest
sympathy, how were his feelings shocked as, throwing himself back upon
his pillow, Godfrey burst into a loud fit of laughter, exclaiming in a
jocular and triumphant tone, "By Jove, Anthony, but you are an unlucky
dog!"

This was too much for the excited state of mind under which Anthony had
been laboring for some hours, and with a stifled groan he fell across
the bed in a fit. Godfrey alarmed in his turn, checked his indecent
mirth, and dressing himself as quickly as he could, roused up his valet
to run for the surgeon. The fresh air and the loss of a little blood
soon restored the unfortunate young man to his senses and to a deep
consciousness of his cousin's ungentlemanly and base conduct.

Instead of being sorry for this unfortunate mistake, Godfrey secretly
congratulated himself upon his singular good fortune, and laughed at the
strange accident that had miraculously transferred the shame of his own
guilt to his cousin.

"This will destroy for ever what little influence he possessed with
Juliet, and will close the Captain's doors against him. If I do not
improve my present advantage, may I die a poor dependent upon the bounty
of a Hurdlestone!"

Again he laughed, and strode onward to the Lodge, humming a gay tune,
and talking and whistling alternately to his dog.

He found Miss Dorothy and her niece at work; the latter as pale as
marble, the tears still lingering in the long dark lashes that veiled
her sad and downcast eyes. The Captain was rocking to and fro in an easy
chair, smoking his pipe and glancing first towards his daughter, and
then at her starch prim-looking aunt, with no very complaisant
expression.

"By Jove, Dorothy! if you continue to torment that poor child with your
eternal sermons, you will compel me to send you from the house."

"A very fitting return for all my services," whimpered Miss Dorothy;
"for all the love and care I have bestowed upon you and your ungrateful
daughter! Send _me_ from the house--turn _me_ out of doors! _Me_, at my
time of life;" using that for argument's sake which, if addressed to her
by another, would h