ng, apparently paying no attention to
what was going on. He regarded her for a considerable time with an
expression of admiration; but Adelaide, though she was conscious of his
gaze, calmly pursued her studies. "Come, you positively must do
something to signalise yourself. I assure you it is expected of you that
you should be the soul of the company. Here is Adelaide waltzes like an
angel, when she can get a partner to her liking."

"But I waltz like a mere mortal," said Lord
Lindore, seating himself at a table, and turning over the leaves of a
book.

"And I am engaged to play billiards with my uncle," said Adelaide,
rising with a blush of indignation.

"Shall we have some music, then? Can you bear to listen to our croakings
after the warbling of your Italian nightingales?" asked Lady Emily.

"I should like very much to hear you sing," answered her brother, with
an air of the most perfect indifference.

"Come then, Mary, do you be the one to 'untwist the chains that tie the
hidden soul of harmony.' Give us your Scotch Exile, pray? It is
tolerably appropriate to the occasion, though an English one would have
been still more so; but, as you say, there is nothing in this country to
make a song about."

Mary would rather have declined, but she saw a refusal would displease
her cousin; and she was not accustomed to consult her own inclination in
such frivolous matters. She therefore seated herself at the harp, and
sang the following verses;--

THE EXILE.

The weary wanderer may roam
To seek for bliss in change of scene;
Yet still the loved idea of home,
And of the days he there has seen,

Pursue him with a fond regret,
Like rays from suns that long have set.

"Tis not the sculptor's magic art,
"Tis not th' heroic deeds of yore,
That fill and gratify the heart.
No! 'tis affection's tender lore--
The thought of friends, and love's first sigh,
When youth, and hope, and health were nigh.

What though on classic ground we tread,
What though we breathe a genial air--
Can these restore the bliss that's fled?
Is not remembrance ever there?
Can any soil protect from grief,
Or any air breathe soft relief?

No! the sick soul, that wounded flies
From all its early thoughts held dear,
Will more some gleam of memory prize,
That draws the long-lost treasure near;
And warmly presses to its breast
The very thought that