; but Camilla, now looking up with tears
in her eyes, again caught his gaze: he had heard all.

"And they ill-treat her," he muttered: "that divides her from them!--she
will be left here--I shall see her again." As he turned to depart,
Lilburne beckoned to him.

"You do not mean to desert our table?"

"No: but I am not very well to-night--to-morrow, if you will allow me."

"Ay, to-morrow; and if you can spare an hour in the morning it will be a
charity. You see," he added in a whisper, "I have a nurse, though I have
no children. D'ye think that's love? Bah! sir--a legacy! Good night."

"No--no--no!" said Vaudemont to himself, as he walked through the
moonlit streets. "No! though my heart burns,--poor murdered felon!--to
avenge thy wrongs and thy crimes, revenge cannot come from me--he is
Fanny's grandfather and--Camilla's uncle!"

And Camilla, when that uncle had dismissed her for the night, sat down
thoughtfully in her own room. The dark eyes of Vaudemont seemed still
to shine on her; his voice yet rung in her ear; the wild tales of daring
and danger with which Liancourt had associated his name yet haunted her
bewildered fancy--she started, frightened at her own thoughts. She took
from her bosom some lines that Sidney had addressed to her, and, as she
read and re-read, her spirit became calmed to its wonted and faithful
melancholy. Vaudemont was forgotten, and the name of Sidney yet murmured
on her lips, when sleep came to renew the image of the absent one, and
paint in dreams the fairy land of a happy Future!

CHAPTER VI

"Ring on, ye bells--most pleasant is your chime!"
WILSON. Isle of Palms.

"O fairy child! What can I wish for thee?"--Ibid.

Vaudemont remained six days in London without going to H----, and on
each of those days he paid a visit to Lord Lilburne. On the seventh day,
the invalid being much better, though still unable to leave his room,
Camilla returned to Berkeley Square. On the same day, Vaudemont went
once more to see Simon and poor Fanny.

As he approached the door, he heard from the window, partially opened,
for the day was clear and fine, Fanny's sweet voice. She was chaunting
one of the simple songs she had promised to learn by heart; and
Vaudemont, though but a poor judge of the art, was struck and affected
by the music of the voice and the earnest depth of the feeling. He
paused opposite the window and called her by her name. Fanny looked
forth joyously, and