quit the library, even with the
stipulation of first visiting the squirrel. He walked through a saloon,
entered the conservatory, emerged into the garden, and at length found
himself in the long summer-room. At the end of the room a lady was
seated, looking over a book of prints; as she heard a footstep she
raised her eyes, and Ferdinand beheld Henrietta Temple.

He was speechless; he felt rooted to the ground; all power of thought
and motion alike deserted him.

There he stood, confounded and aghast. Nor indeed was his companion
less disturbed. She remained with her eyes fixed on Ferdinand with
an expression of fear, astonishment, and distress impressed upon her
features. At length Ferdinand in some degree rallied, and he followed
the first impulse of his mind, when mind indeed returned to him: he
moved to retire.

He had retraced half his steps, when a voice, if human voice indeed it
were that sent forth tones so full of choking anguish, pronounced his
name.

'Captain Armine!' said the voice.

How he trembled, yet mechanically obedient to his first impulse, he
still proceeded to the door.

'Ferdinand!' said the voice.

He stopped, he turned, she waved her hand wildly, and then leaning her
arm on the table, buried her face in it. Ferdinand walked to the table
at which she was sitting; she heard his footstep near her, yet she
neither looked up nor spoke. At length he said, in a still yet clear
voice, 'I am here.'

'I have seen Mr. Glastonbury,' she muttered.

'I know it,' he replied.

'Your illness has distressed me,' she said, after a slight pause, her
face still concealed, and speaking in a hushed tone. Ferdinand made no
reply, and there was another pause, which Miss Temple broke.

'I would that we were at least friends,' she said. The tears came into
Ferdinand's eyes when she said this, for her tone, though low, was now
sweet. It touched his heart.

'Our mutual feelings now are of little consequence,' he replied.

She sighed, but made no reply. At length Ferdinand said, 'Farewell, Miss
Temple.'

She started, she looked up, her mournful countenance harrowed his heart.
He knew not what to do; what to say. He could not bear her glance; he in
his turn averted his eyes.

'Our misery is--has been great,' she said in a firmer tone, 'but was it
of my making?'

'The miserable can bear reproaches; do not spare me. My situation,
however, proves my sincerity. I have erred certainly,' said Ferdinand;
'I cou