"But did you not tell me that the blow that had fallen on our house had
stricken from you all thoughts of love--had divided us for ever? And
what, Ellinor, was England or home with out you?"

"Ah!" said Ellinor, recovering herself, and a deep paleness succeeding
to the warm and delighted flush that had been conjured to her cheek, "Do
not revive the past--I have sought for years--long, solitary, desolate
years, to escape from its dark recollections!"

"You speak wisely, dearest Ellinor; let us assist each other in doing
so. We are alone in the world--let us unite our lot. Never, through all
I have seen and felt,--in the starry nightwatch of camps--in the blaze
of courts--by the sunny groves of Italy--in the deep forests of the
Hartz--never have I forgotten you, my sweet and dear cousin. Your
image has linked itself indissolubly with all I conceived of home and
happiness, and a tranquil and peaceful future; and now I return, and
see you, and find you changed, but, oh, how lovely! Ah, let us not part
again! A consoler, a guide, a soother, father, brother, husband,--all
this my heart whispers I could be to you!"

Ellinor turned away her face, but her heart was very full. The solitary
years that had passed over her since they last met, rose up before her.
The only living image that had mingled through those years with the
dreams of the departed, was his who now knelt at her feet;--her sole
friend--her sole relative--her first--her last love! Of all the world,
he was the only one with whom she could recur to the past; on whom she
might repose her bruised, but still unconquered affections.

And Walter knew by that blush--that sigh--that tear, that he was
remembered--that he was beloved--that his cousin was his own at last!

"But before you end," said my friend, to whom I shewed the above pages,
originally concluding my tale with the last sentence, "you must, it is a
comfortable and orthodox old fashion, tell us a little about the fate
of the other persons, to whom you have introduced us;--the wretch
Houseman?"--

"True; in the mysterious course of mortal affairs, the greater villain
had escaped, the more generous and redeemed one fallen. But though
Houseman died without violence, died in his bed, as honest men die, we
can scarcely believe that his life was not punishment enough. He lived
in strict seclusion--the seclusion of poverty, and maintained himself by
dressing flax. His life was several times attempted by the