l. "Shall we
lock her up, or starve her?"

"No, General, something better than that."

"What, my love? flog her?"

"She's too old for that, brother; we'll marry her."

"Marry her!"

"Yes, to Mr. Glumford; you know that he has asked her several times."

"But she cannot bear him."

"We'll make her bear him, General St. Leger."

"But if she marries, I shall have nobody to nurse me when I have the
gout."

"Yes, brother: I know of a nice little girl, Martha Richardson, your
second cousin's youngest daughter; you know he has fourteen children,
and you may have them all, one after another, if you like."

"Very true, Diana; let the jade marry Mr. Glumford."

"She shall," said the sister; "and I'll go about it this very moment:
meantime I'll take care that she does not see her lover any more."

About three weeks after this conversation, Mordaunt, who had in vain
endeavoured to see Isabel, who had not even heard from her, whose
letters had been returned to him unopened, and who, consequently, was in
despair, received the following note:--

This is the first time I have been able to write to you, at least to get
my letter conveyed: it is a strange messenger that I have employed, but
I happened formerly to make his acquaintance; and accidentally
seeing him to-day, the extremity of the case induced me to give him a
commission which I could trust to no one else. Algernon, are not the
above sentences written with admirable calmness? are they not very
explanatory, very consistent, very cool? and yet do you know that I
firmly believe I am going mad? My brain turns round and round, and my
hand burns so that I almost think that, like our old nurse's stories of
the fiend, it will scorch the paper as I write. And I see strange faces
in my sleep and in my waking, all mocking at me, and they torture and
aunt met and when I look at those faces I see no human relenting, no!
though I weep and throw myself on my knees and implore them to save me.
Algernon, my only hope is in you. You know that I have always hitherto
refused to ruin you, and even now, though I implore you to deliver me, I
will not be so selfish as--as--I know not what I write, but if I cannot
be your wife--I will not be his! No! if they drag me to church, it shall
be to my grave, not my bridal. ISABEL ST. LEGER.

When Mordaunt had read this letter, which, in spite of its incoherence,
his fears readily explained, he rose hastily; his eyes rested