e, and opposite their hostess; the two young ladies
in the middle. All the guests had been seated without Glastonbury and
Henrietta recognising each other; and, as he sat on the same side of
the table as Miss Temple, it was not until Lord Montfort asked Mr.
Glastonbury to take wine with him, that Henrietta heard a name that
might well indeed turn her pale.

Glastonbury! It never entered into her head at the moment that it was
the Mr. Glastonbury whom she had known. Glastonbury! what a name! What
dreadful associations did it not induce! She looked forward, she caught
the well-remembered visage; she sunk back in her chair. But Henrietta
Temple had a strong mind; this was surely an occasion to prove it. Mr.
Glastonbury's attention was not attracted to her: he knew, indeed, that
there was a lady at the table, called Henrietta, but he was engrossed
with his neighbours, and his eye never caught the daughter of Mr.
Temple. It was not until the ladies rose to retire that Mr. Glastonbury
beheld that form which he had not forgotten, and looked upon a lady
whose name was associated in his memory with the most disastrous and
mournful moments of his life. Miss Temple followed the duchess out of
the room, and Glastonbury, perplexed and agitated, resumed his seat.

But Henrietta was the prey of emotions far more acute and distracting.
It seemed to her that she had really been unacquainted with the state
of her heart until this sudden apparition of Glastonbury. How his image
recalled the past! She had schooled herself to consider it all a dream;
now it lived before her. Here was one of the principal performers in
that fatal tragedy of Armine. Glastonbury in the house, under the same
roof as she? Where was Ferdinand? There was one at hand who could tell
her. Was he married? She had enjoyed no opportunity of ascertaining it
since her return: she had not dared to ask. Of course he was married;
but was he happy? And Glastonbury, who, if he did not know all, knew
so much. How strange it must be to Glastonbury to meet her! Dear
Glastonbury! She had not forgotten the days when she so fondly listened
to Ferdinand's charming narratives of all his amiable and simple life!
Dear, dear Glastonbury, whom she was so to love! And she met him now,
and did not speak to him, or looked upon him as a stranger; and he--he
would, perhaps, look upon her with pity, certainly with pain. O Life!
what a heart-breaking thing is life! And our affections, our sweet