when the parties had
actually met, we at once announce disappointment. Neither the lover of
amorous adventure, nor the admirer of witty dialogue, should dive into
these pages. Room for the exercise of the invention might, it is true,
be found; but ours is a tale of sad reality, and our heroes and
heroines figure under circumstances that would render wit a satire upon
the understanding, and love a reflection upon the heart. Within the
bounds of probability have we, therefore, confined ourselves.

What the feelings of the young Baronet must have been, from the first
moment when he received from the hands of the unfortunate Captain
Baynton (who, although an officer of his own corps, was personally a
stranger to him,) that cherished sister of his friend, on whose ideal
form his excited imagination had so often latterly loved to linger, up
to the present hour, we should vainly attempt to paint. There are
emotions of the heart, it would be mockery in the pen to trace. From
the instant of his first contributing to preserve her life, on that
dreadful day of blood, to that when the schooner fell into the hands of
the savages, few words had passed between them, and these had reference
merely to the position in which they found themselves, and whenever Sir
Everard felt he could, without indelicacy or intrusion, render himself
in the slightest way serviceable to her. The very circumstances under
which they had met, conduced to the suppression, if not utter
extinction, of all of passion attached to the sentiment with which he
had been inspired. A new feeling had quickened in his breast; and it
was with emotions more assimilated to friendship than to love that he
now regarded the beautiful but sorrow-stricken sister of his bosom
friend. Still there was a softness, a purity, a delicacy and tenderness
in this new feeling, in which the influence of sex secretly though
unacknowledgedly predominated; and even while sensible it would have
been a profanation of every thing most sacred and delicate in nature to
have admitted a thought of love within his breast at such a moment, he
also felt he could have entertained a voluptuous joy in making any
sacrifice, even to the surrender of life itself, provided the
tranquillity of that gentle and suffering being could be by it ensured.

Clara, in her turn, had been in no condition to admit so exclusive a
power as that of love within her soul. She had, it is true, even amid
the desolation of her sh