Its contents ran thus:—

For some minutes Mr. Greenwood appeared to be absorbed in thought.

He then questioned Marian relative to the particulars of Ellen's accouchement; and she detailed to him every particular with which the reader is already acquainted.

"You managed the matter admirably," said Greenwood. "There are two points to which Miss Monroe directs my attention in this note. In the first place, she speaks of your most disinterested services. Accept this as a trifling mark of my gratitude:"—and he placed six Bank-notes for ten pounds each in Marian's hand.

"I do not desire any remuneration, sir," said the kind-hearted woman. "I will take my forty pounds; but the other two notes I must beg to return."

"No—keep them," exclaimed Greenwood.

"I thank you, sir, most sincerely," said the servant firmly; "but I would rather not. I rendered Miss Monroe that service which one female should afford another in such a case; and I cannot think of accepting any recompense."

With these words she laid two of the notes upon the table.

"You are really a most extraordinary woman," cried Greenwood, who was perfectly astonished at the idea of any one in her class of life refusing money. "Will you not permit me to offer you a ring—a watch—or some trinket—"

"No, sir," replied Marian, with severe firmness of tone and manner. "Miss Monroe is so kind—so good—so gentle, I would go to the end of the world to serve her."

"Well—you must have your own way," said Mr. Greenwood. "The next point in Miss Monroe's letter is a provision for her child. What sum do you suppose would content the surgeon and his wife who have taken care of it?"

"They are poor people, sir—struggling against difficulties—and having their way to make in the world—"

"Suppose we say forty pounds a year for the present," interrupted Greenwood.

"Oh! sir—that will be ample!" exclaimed Marian: "and Miss Monroe will be so rejoiced! Ah! sir—what consolation to the poor young lady!"

"What is the address of the surgeon?" demanded Greenwood.

"Mr. Wentworth, Lower Holloway," was the reply.

"My servant shall call upon that gentleman this very evening, and carry him the first quarter's payment," continued Greenwood. "You can say to Miss Monroe—but stay: I will write her a few lines."

"Oh! do, sir. Who knows but it may console her?" ejaculated the kind-hearted Marian.

Mr. Greenwood wrote as follows:—

Marian, prompted by that inherently kind feeling which had influenced her entire conduct towards Ellen, hesitated for a few moments, after receiving this letter, and seemed anxious to speak. She would have pleaded in behalf of the young mother: she would have implored Greenwood to make her his own in the sight of heaven, and acknowledge their child. But her tongue clave to the roof of her mouth;—and she at length retired, unable to give utterance to a single word in favour of poor Ellen.

As soon as she was gone, Greenwood rang for his faithful French valet.

"Lafleur," said he, "you will take these ten pounds, and proceed without delay to the house of Mr. Wentworth, a surgeon residing in Lower Holloway. You will say to him, 'The father of the child which was entrusted to you last night in so mysterious a manner, will allow you forty pounds a year for its support. As it grows older, and the expenses it incurs augment, this allowance will be proportionately increased. But should you endeavour to find out who are the parents of that child, it will instantly be removed to the care of others who may possess less curious dispositions.'—You will pay him those ten pounds: you will tell him that every three months you will call with a similar sum; and you will see the child. Remember, you will see the child. If it have any peculiar mark about it, notice that mark: at all events, study it well, that you may know it again. You will moreover direct that its Christian name be Richard: its surname is immaterial. In a word, you will neither say nor do a whit more nor less than I have told you."

"I understand, sir," answered Lafleur. "Any further commands?"

"No—not at present. Be cautious how you conduct this business. It is delicate."

"You may depend upon me, sir."

And Lafleur retired.

"Thus far it is well," said Greenwood to himself, when he was again alone. "I am relieved of a subject of frequent annoying reflection and suspense. Ellen's shame is unknown to those from whom I was most anxious it should be concealed. It can never transpire now!"

The clock struck six; and Mr. Greenwood repaired to his dressing-room to arrange his toilet for dinner.

THAT same evening Mr. Chichester dined with his friend Sir Rupert Harborough, at the dwelling of the latter in Tavistock Square.

Whenever her husband invited this guest, Lady Cecilia invariably made it a rule to accept an invitation elsewhere.

"This is awkward—very awkward," said Chichester, when the cloth was removed, and the two gentlemen were occupied with their wine.

"Awkward! I believe you," exclaimed the baronet. "Upon my honour, that Greenwood ought to be well thrashed!"

"He is an insufferable coxcomb," said Chichester.

"A conceited humbug," added the baronet.

"A self-sufficient fool," remarked Chichester.

"A consummate scoundrel," cried Sir Rupert.

"So he is," observed Chichester.

"But all this will not pay my bill," continued the baronet; "and where to obtain six hundred pounds, the deuce take me if I can tell."

"No—nor I either," said Chichester; "unless we get a couple of horses and ride down towards Hounslow upon a venture."

"You never can be serious, Chichester? What! turn highwaymen!"

"I was only joking. But do you really think that Greenwood will press you so hard?"

"He will send the bill to Lord Tremordyn's banker's to-morrow. Oh! I can assure you he was quite high about it, and pretended to forget all the circumstances that had led to the transaction. To every word I said, it was 'I don't recollect.' May the devil take him!"

"And so he has got you completely in his power?"

"Completely."

"And you would like to have your revenge?"

"Of course I should. But what is the use of talking in this manner? You know very well that I can do him no injury!"

"I am not quite so sure of that," said Chichester.

"What do you mean?" demanded the baronet. "I can see that there is something in your mind."

"I was only thinking. Suppose we accused him of something that he would not like exposed, and could not very well refute—an intrigue with any particular lady, for instance—"

"Ah! if we could—even though it were with my own wife," exclaimed the baronet. "And, by the bye, he is very intimate with Lady Cecilia."

"Of course he is," said Chichester drily. "Have you never noticed that before."

"It never struck me until now," observed the baronet.

"But it has struck me—frequently," added Chichester.

"And when I think of it," continued Sir Rupert Harborough, "he has often been here for an hour or two together; for I have gone out and left him with Lady Cecilia in the drawing-room; and when I have come back, he has been there still."

"Greenwood is not the man to waste his time at a lady's apron-strings for nothing."

"Chichester—you do not mean—"

"Oh! no—I mean nothing more than you choose to surmise."

"And what would you have me surmise?"

"I do not suppose," said Chichester, "that you care very much for Lady Cecilia."

"You are well aware of my feelings with regard to her."

"And out of all the money she has had lately—an affluence that you yourself have noticed more than once—she has never assisted you."

"No—never. And I have often puzzled myself to think whence came those supplies."

"You cannot suppose that either Lord or Lady Tremordyn replenish her purse?"

"Yes—I have thought so."

"Oh! very well; you know best;" and Chichester sipped his wine with an affected indifference which was in itself most eloquently significant.

"My dear fellow," said the baronet, after a pause, "I feel convinced that you have got some plan in your head, or else that you know more than you choose to say. In either case, Lady Cecilia is concerned. I have told you that I care not one fig about her—on my honour! Have the kindness, then, to speak without reserve."

"And then you may be offended," said Chichester.

"How absurd! Speak."

"What if I was to tell you that Lady Cecilia—"

"Well?"

"Is Greenwood's mistress!"

"The proof! the proof!" ejaculated the baronet.

"I myself saw them in each other's arms."

Sir Rupert Harborough's countenance grew deadly pale, and his lips quivered. He now revolted from the mere idea of what he had just before wished to be a fact.

"You remember the day that Greenwood called to acquaint us with his success at Rottenborough in March last?" said Chichester, after a pause. "You and I had been practising with the dice and cards; and we went out together."

"I recollect," exclaimed the baronet; "and you returned for the dice-boxes which you had left behind."

"It was upon that occasion. Greenwood followed me out of the drawing-room, and gave me a hundred pounds to keep the secret."

"True! you produced a hundred pounds immediately afterwards; and you said that Greenwood had lent you the amount. Why did you never tell me of this before?"

"The deuce! Is it a pleasant thing to communicate to a friend, Harborough? Besides, it always struck me that the discovery would one day or another be of some use."

"Of use indeed!" ejaculated the baronet. "And Lady Cecilia is Greenwood's mistress! Ah! that explains the restoration of her diamonds, as well as the improved condition of her finances. The false creature!"

"You must admit, Harborough," said Chichester, "that you have never been over attentive to your wife; and if—"

"Nonsense, my good fellow," interrupted the baronet sharply. "That is no excuse for a woman. A man may do what he chooses; but a woman—a wife—"

"Come, come—no moralizing," said Chichester. "It is all your own fault. Not one woman out of fifty would go wrong, if the husband behaved properly. But now that I have told you the secret, think what use you can make of it."

"I cannot see how the circumstance can serve me, without farther proof," remarked the baronet. "Ah! Lady Cecilia—what duplicity! what deceit!"

"Why not search her drawers—her boxes?" said Chichester. "She is absent; no one can interrupt you; and perhaps you may find a letter—"

"Excellent thought!" cried Sir Rupert; and, seizing a candle, he hurried from the room.

Twenty minutes elapsed, during which Mr. Chichester sate drinking his wine as comfortably as if he had done a good action, instead of revealing so fearful a secret to his friend.

At length Sir Rupert Harborough returned to the dining-room.

"Well—any news?" inquired Chichester.

"No proof—not a note, not a letter," answered the baronet. "But I have found something," he added, with an hysterical kind of laugh, "that will answer my purpose for the moment better still."

"What is that?" asked his friend.

"Lady Cecilia's diamonds and other trinkets—presents, most likely, from Greenwood—together with ninety pounds in notes and gold."

"Capital!" cried Chichester. "You can now settle with Greenwood."

"Yes—I will pay him his six hundred pounds, renew for the remainder for three or four months, and then devise some plot to obtain undeniable proof of his amour with Lady Cecilia. But when I think of that woman, Chichester—not that she is any thing to me—still she is my wife—"

"Nonsense! It is fortunate for you that I told you of the affair, or else you would never have thought of using her property for the purpose of raising the sum you require."

"Ah! I will be revenged on that Greenwood!" cried Sir Rupert, in whose mind one idea was uppermost, in spite of his depraved and selfish disposition: "I will have the most signal vengeance upon the seducer of my wife! But remember, Chichester—I care nothing for her;—still the outrage—the dishonour—the perfidy! Yes—by God!" he added, dashing his clenched fist upon the table; "I will be avenged!"

"And in the mean time convert the diamonds and jewels into money," said Chichester. "It is only seven o'clock; we have plenty of time for the pawnbroker's."

"Come," cried the baronet, whose manner continued to be excited and irritable; "I am ready."

The two friends emptied their glasses, and took their departure, the baronet having carefully secured about his person the booty he had plundered from his wife. They then bent their steps towards the pawnbroking-establishment of Mr. V——, in the Strand.

What a strange type of all the luxury, dissipation, extravagance, profligacy, misery, ruin, and want, which characterise the various classes of society, is a pawnbroker's shop! It is the emporium whither go the jewels of the aristocrat, the clothes of the mechanic, the ornaments of the actress, and the necessaries of the poor. Genteel profligacy and pining industry seek, at the same place—the one the means for fresh extravagance, the other the wherewith to purchase food to sustain life. Two broad and direct roads branch off from the pawnbroker's shop in different directions; the first leading to the gaming-table, the second to the gin-palace; and then those paths are carried onwards, past those half-way houses of destruction, and converge to one point, at which they meet at last, and whose name is Ruin.

Two working men have been seen standing at the corner of a street, whispering together: at length one has taken off his coat, gone to the pawnbroker's, come out with the proceeds, and accompanied the other to the nearest gin-shop, where they have remained until all the money raised upon the garment was expended. Again, during the absence from home of the hard-working mechanic, his intemperate wife has collected together their few necessaries, carried them to the pawnbroker's, and spent the few shillings, thus procured, on gin. The thief, when he has picked a pocket of a watch, finds a ready means of disposing of it at the pawnbroker's. Hundreds of working-men pledge their Sunday garments regularly every Monday morning, and redeem them again on Saturday night.

Are pawnbrokers' shops a necessary evil? To some extent they are. They afford assistance to those whom some pressing urgence suddenly overtakes, or who are temporarily out of work. But are not the facilities which they thus present to all classes liable to an abuse more than commensurate with this occasional advantage? Decidedly. They supply a ready means for drink to those who would hesitate before they sold their little property out-and-out; for every one who pawns, under such circumstances, entertains the hope and intention of redeeming the articles again. The enormous interest charged by pawnbrokers crushes and effectually ruins the poor. We will suppose that a mechanic pledges his best clothes every Monday morning, and redeems them every Saturday night for wear on the Sabbath: we will presume that the pawnbroker lends him one pound each time:—they will thus be in pawn 313 days in each year, for which year he will pay 3s. 8d. interest, and 4s. 4d. for duplicates—making a total of 8s. Thus he pays 8s. for the use of his own clothes for 52 days!

If the government were really a paternal one—if it had the welfare of the industrious community at heart, it would take the system of lending money upon deposits under its own supervision, and establish institutions similar to the Mont de Piété in France. Correctly managed, demanding a small interest upon loans, such institutions would become a blessing:—now the shops of pawnbrokers are an evil and a curse!

Sir Rupert Harborough entered the pawnbroker's shop by the front door, while Mr. Chichester awaited him in the Lowther Arcade. The baronet was well known in that establishment; and he accordingly entered into a friendly and familiar chat with one of the young men behind the counter.

"That is a very handsome painting," said Sir Rupert, pointing to one suspended to the wall.

"Yes, sir. It was pledged fifteen months ago for seven pounds, by a young nobleman who had received it along with fifty pounds in cash the same morning by way of discount for a thousand pound bill."

"And what do you expect for it?"

"Eighty guineas," answered the young man coolly. "But here is one much finer than that," continued the pawnbroker's assistant, turning towards another painting. "That expired a few days ago. It was only pledged for thirty guineas."

"And how much have you the conscience to ask for it?"

"One hundred and twenty," whispered the young man. "There is something peculiar connected with that picture. It belonged to an upholsterer who was once immensely rich, but who was ruined by giving credit to the Duke of York."

"To the Duke of York—eh?"

"Oh! yes, sir: we have received in pledge the goods of many, many tradesmen who were once very wealthy, but who have been reduced to absolute beggary—starvation—by his late Royal Highness. We call the pillar in Saint James's Park the Column of Infamy."

"What! the diamonds again?" exclaimed the assistant.

"Oh! yes—they come and go, like good and bad fortune—'pon my honour!" said Sir Rupert.

"Like the jewels of many others at the West-End," added the assistant; and, having made out the duplicates, he handed Sir Rupert over the sum required.

On the following morning the baronet paid Mr. Greenwood the six hundred pounds, and gave a new bill for a thousand at four months, for which the capitalist was generous enough not to charge him any interest.

There was nothing in the baronet's conduct to create a suspicion in Mr. Greenwood's mind that his intrigue with Lady Cecilia was detected; but when the transaction was completed, Sir Rupert hastened to consult with his friend Chichester upon some plan for obtaining positive evidence of that amour.

AT the expiration of ten days from the mysterious accouchement of Ellen Monroe, Richard Markham returned home.

It was late at night when he alighted at his dwelling; but, as he had written two days previously to say when his arrival might be expected, Mr. Monroe and Whittingham were sitting up to receive him.

Richard's countenance was mournful; and he wore a black crape round his hat.

"You have lost a kind friend, Richard," said Mr. Monroe. "Your hasty letter acquainted us with the fact of Mr. Armstrong's death; but you gave us no details connected with that event."

"I will now tell you all that has occurred," said Richard. "You need not leave the room, Whittingham: you knew Mr. Armstrong, and will be, no doubt, interested in the particulars of his last moments."

"I knowed him for a staunched and consisting man in his demmycratical opinions," answered Whittingham; "and what's more comportant, he thought well of you, Master Richard."

"He was an excellent man!" observed Markham, wiping away a tear.

"Worth a thousand Ilchesters, and ten thousand wulgarians which calls butlers tulips," added Whittingham, dogmatically.

"I will tell you the particulars of his death," continued Richard, after a pause. "You remember that I received a letter from Mr. Armstrong, written in a hurried manner, and desiring me to repair to him in Boulogne, where he was detained by an accident which, he feared, might proved fatal. I posted to Dover, which town I reached at about five in the evening; and I found that no packet would leave for France until the following morning. The condition of my friend, as I judged of it by his note, seemed too serious to allow me to delay: I accordingly hired a vessel, and proceeded without loss of time to Boulogne, where I arrived at eleven that same night, after a tolerably rough passage. I hurried to the hotel at which my friend was staying, and the card of which he had enclosed in his letter. I found him in bed, suffering from a fearful accident caused by the overturning of the chaise in which he had arrived at Boulogne from Paris, on his way to England. No limbs were broken: but he had sustained internal injuries of a most serious nature. A nurse was seated at his bed-side; and his medical attendant visited him every two or three hours. He was delighted to see me—wept—and said frequently, even up to the moment of his decease, 'Richard, this is very—very kind of you.' I sate up with him all that night, in spite of his entreaties that I would retire to rest; and from the first moment that I set my eyes upon him in that room, I felt convinced he would never leave it alive. I need not tell you that I did all I could to solace and render comfortable the man who had selected me, of all his acquaintances, to receive his last breath. I considered myself honoured by that mark of friendship; and I moreover remembered that he had believed in my innocence when I first told him my sad tale within the walls of Newgate. I never left him, save for one hour, from the instant I arrived in Boulogne until that of his death."

"Poor Master Richard," said Whittingham, surveying the young man with affectionate admiration.

"Good old man!" exclaimed Whittingham, applying his snow-white handkerchief to his eyes.

"According to the French laws," continued Richard, "interments must take place within forty-eight hours after death. The funeral of Thomas Armstrong was humble and unostentatious as he desired. The physician and myself alone followed him to the tomb. I then inspected his papers; but found no will—no instructions how his property was to be disposed of; and yet I knew that he was possessed of ample means. Having liquidated his debts with a portion of the money I found in his desk, and which amounted to about a hundred pounds, I gave the remainder to an English charity at Boulogne. And now you are no doubt anxious to know the contents of that packet so mysteriously delivered to me. When I broke the seal of the envelope, I found a letter addressed thus:—'To my dear friend Richard Markham.' This letter was sealed. I then examined the envelope. You shall yourselves see what was written within it."

Markham took a paper from his pocket, and handed it to Monroe, who read its contents aloud as follows:—

"How very extraordinary!" ejaculated Monroe. "Nevertheless, I have a presentiment that these mysterious instructions intend some eventual good to you, Richard."

"It's a fortin! a fortin! depend upon it," said the old butler.

"Upon that head it is useless to speculate," observed Richard. "I shall obey to the very letter the directions of my late friend, be their tendency what it may. And now that I have told you all that concerns myself, allow me to ask how fares it with you here. Does Ellen's health improve?"

"For the last ten days she has been confined to her bed," answered Monroe, tears starting to his eyes.

"Confined to her bed!" cried Markham. "I hope you have had proper medical advice?"

"I wished to call in the aid of a physician," said Monroe, "but Ellen would not permit me. She declared that she should soon be better; she assured me that her illness was produced only by the privations and mental tortures which she had undergone, poor creature! previous to our taking up our abode in your hospitable dwelling; and then Marian was so kind and attentive, and echoed every thing which Ellen advanced, so readily, that I suffered myself to be over-persuaded."

"You did wrong—you did wrong, Mr. Monroe," exclaimed Markham. "Your daughter should have had medical advice; and she shall have it to-morrow."

"She appears to be mending in health, though not in spirits," observed Monroe. "But my dear young friend, you shall have your own way; and I thank you sincerely for the interest you show in behalf of one who is dear—very dear to me."

Richard pressed the hand of the old man, and retired to his chamber, to seek that repose of which he stood so much in need after his journey. But ere he sought his couch, he sate down and wrote the following note to Count Alteroni, that it might be despatched to Richmond without delay in the morning:—

IN the morning, when Ellen awoke at about eight o'clock, the first news she heard from Marian's lips was the return of Richard Markham.

The first sentiment which this announcement excited in the mind of the young lady, was one of extreme joy and thankfulness that her accouchement should have occurred so prematurely, and thus have happened during his absence; but this feeling was succeeded by one of vague alarm and undefined dread, lest by some means or other her secret should transpire.

This fear she expressed to Marian.

"No, Miss—that is impossible," said the faithful attendant. "The child is provided for; and the surgeon is totally ignorant of the house to which he was brought the night the poor infant was born. How could Mr. Markham discover your secret?"

"It is perhaps my conscience, Marian, that alarms me," returned Ellen; "but I confess that I tremble. Do you think that Mr. Wentworth is to be relied upon, even if he should suspect or should ever discover—"

"Mr. Greenwood has purchased his silence, Miss. Do not be down-hearted. I declare you are quite white in the face—and you seem to tremble so, the bed shakes. Pray—dear Miss—don't give way to these idle alarms!"

"I shall be more composed presently, Marian."

"And I will just step down stairs and get up your breakfast."

When Ellen was alone, she buried her face in the pillow and wept bitterly; and from time to time her voice, almost choked with sobs, gave utterance to the words—"My child! my child!"

Oh! how happy would she have been, could she have proclaimed herself a mother without shame, and have spoken of her child to her father and her friend without a blush.

In a few minutes Marian returned to the room; and Ellen hastened to assume an air of composure. She wiped away her tears, and sate up in the bed, supported by pillows—for she was yet very weak and sickly—to partake of some refreshment.

"Mr. Markham is up and has already gone out," said Marian, as she attended upon her lovely young patient. "He left word with Whittingham to tell me that he should come up, and see you on his return in half an hour."

"So you said, Miss, in the morning after your accouchement, when your father was coming up to see you; and yet all passed off well enough."

"Yes—but I felt that I blushed, and then grew deadly pale again, at least ten times in a minute," observed Ellen.

Marian said all she could to re-assure the young mother; and when the invalid had partaken of some tea, the kind-hearted servant left her, in order to attend to her own domestic duties down stairs.

Ellen than fell into a mournful reverie, during which she reviewed all the events of the last two years and a half of her life. She pondered upon the hideous poverty in which she and her father had been plunged in the court leading out of Golden Lane; she retrospected upon the strange services she had rendered the statuary, the artist, the sculptor, and the photographer; she thought of the old hag who had induced her to enter upon that career;—and then she fixed her thoughts upon Greenwood and her child.

She was thus mentally occupied when she heard footsteps ascending the staircase; and immediately afterwards some one knocked at her door.

In a faint voice she said, "Come in."

The door opened, and Richard Markham entered the apartment; but, as he crossed the threshold, he turned and said to some one who remained upon the landing, "Have the kindness to wait here one moment."

He then advanced towards the bed, and took the young lady's thin white hand.

"Ellen," he exclaimed, "you have been very ill."

"Yes—very ill, Richard," returned the invalid, casting down her eyes; "but I am better—oh! much, very much better now; and, in a day or two, shall be quite well."

"And yet you are very pale, and sadly altered," said Markham.

"I can assure you that I am recovering fast. Indeed, I should have risen to-day; but Marian persuaded me to keep my bed a short time longer."

"And you have had no medical advice, Ellen. I told your father that he had done wrong—"

"Oh! no, Richard," interrupted Ellen eagerly; "he was anxious to call in the aid of a physician; but I was not so ill as he thought."

"Not ill!" ejaculated Markham. "You must have been very—very ill."

"But Marian was so kind to me."

"No doubt! Nevertheless I have no confidence in the nostrums and prescriptions of old servants and nurses; and human existence is too serious a thing to be tampered with."

"I assure you, Richard, that Marian has treated me most judiciously; and I am now very nearly quite well."

"Ah! Ellen," cried Markham, "I can read your heart!"

"You, Richard!" exclaimed the young lady, with a cold shudder that seemed to terminate in a death-chill at the heart.

"Yes," continued Markham, his voice assuming a tone of melancholy interest; "I can well appreciate your motives in combating the desire of your father to procure medical aid. You were afraid of burdening me with an expense which you feared my restricted means would not permit me to afford;—Oh! I understand your good feeling! But this was wrong, Ellen; for I did not invite you to my house to deny to either yourself or father the common attentions which I would bestow upon a stranger who fell sick under my roof. No—thank God! I have yet enough left to meet casualties like these."

"Ah! Richard, how kind—how generous you are," said Ellen; "but I am now really much better;—and to-morrow—to-morrow I shall be quite well."

"No—Ellen, you are very far from well," returned Markham; "but you shall be well soon. I have been myself this morning to procure you proper advice."

"Advice?" repeated Ellen, mechanically.

"Yes: there is a medical gentleman now waiting to see you."

With these words Richard hastened to the door, and said, "Miss Monroe, sir, is now ready to receive you. I will leave you with her."

The medical man then entered the chamber; and Markham immediately retired.

The votary of Æsculapius was a man of apparently five-and-twenty years of age—pale, but good-looking, with light hair, and a somewhat melancholy expression of countenance. He was attired in deep black. His manners were soft and pleasing; but his voice was mournful; and his utterance slow, precise, and solemn.

Approaching the couch, he took the hand of the invalid, and, placing his fingers upon the pulse, said, "How long have you been ill, Miss?"

"Oh! sir—I am not ill now—I am nearly well—I shall rise presently—the fresh air will do me good," exclaimed Ellen, speaking with a rapidity, and almost an incoherence, which somewhat surprised the medical man.

"No, Miss," he said calmly, after a pause, "you cannot leave your bed yet: you are in a state of fever. How long have you been confined to your couch?"

"How long? Oh! only a few days—but, I repeat, I am better now."

"How many days, Miss?" asked the medical man.

"Ten or twelve, sir; and, therefore, you see that I have kept my bed long enough."

"What do you feel?" demanded the surgeon, seating himself by the side of the invalid with the air of a man who is determined to obtain answers to his questions.

"I did feel unwell a few days ago, sir," said Ellen; "but now—oh! now I am quite recovered."

"Perhaps, miss, you will allow me to be the judge of that. You are very feverish—your pulse is rapid. Have you been taking any medicine?"

"No—that is, a little cooling medicine which the servant who attends upon me purchased. But why all these questions, since I shall soon be well?"

"Pardon me, Miss: you must have the kindness to answer all my queries. If, however, you would prefer any other medical adviser, I will at once acquaint Mr. Markham with your desire, and will relieve you of my presence."

"No, sir—as well you as another," cried Ellen, scarcely knowing what she said, and shrinking beneath the glance of mingled curiosity and surprise which the surgeon cast upon her.

"During your illness were you at all delirious?" inquired the medical adviser.

"Oh! no—I have not been so ill as you are led to suppose. All I require is repose—rest—tranquillity——"

"And professional aid," added the surgeon. "Now, I beg of you, Miss Monroe, to tell me without reserve what you feel. How did your illness commence?"

"And you say that you have been confined to your bed nearly a fortnight?"

"Oh! no—not so long as that," said Ellen fearful of confirming the surgeon's impression that she had been very ill, and consequently stood greatly in need of professional assistance: "not so long as that! Ten days exactly."

"Ten days!" repeated the medical man, as if struck by the coincidence of this statement with something which at that moment occurred to his memory; then glancing rapidly round the room, he started from his chair, and said, "Ten days ago, Miss Monroe! And at what hour were you taken ill?"

"At what hour?" repeated the unhappy young lady, who trembled for her secret.

"Yes—at what hour?" demanded the surgeon, the slow solemnity of his tone changing to a strange rapidity of utterance: "was it not a little before midnight?"

"Sir—what do you mean? why do you question me thus?"

"On that night," continued the surgeon, gazing fixedly upon Ellen's countenance, "a man with his eyes blind-folded—"

"His eyes blindfolded?" repeated Ellen mechanically, while a fearful shudder passed through her frame.

"Led by a servant wearing a black veil—"

"A black veil?"

"Entered this room—"

"Ah! my God—spare me!"

"And delivered a lady of a male child."

"How do you know it, sir? who told you?"

"That man was myself!" cried the surgeon emphatically.

"Oh! kill me—kill me!" exclaimed Ellen; and covering her face with her hands, she burst into an agony of tears and heart-wrung sobs.

"Yes," continued the surgeon, pacing the room, and glancing rapidly on all sides: "there is the chest of drawers against which I dashed my foot—here stood the bed—here the table—I sate down in this chair—Oh! now I remember all!"

And for some moments he walked up and down the room in profound silence.

Suddenly Ellen started up to a sitting posture in the bed, and exclaimed, "My child, sir? Tell me—have you taken care of my child?"

"Yes—Miss—Madam," replied Mr. Wentworth; "the little boy thrives well, although deprived of his natural nourishment."

"Thank you, sir—thank you at least for that assurance," said Ellen. "Oh! sir—you cannot understand how deeply a mother feels to be separated from her child!"

"Poor girl," said the surgeon, in a compassionate tone; "you have then suffered very much?"

"God alone knows what I have endured for months past, mentally and bodily!" cried Ellen, clasping her hands together. "And now you know all, sir—will you betray me? say, sir—will you betray me?"

Mr. Wentworth appeared to reflect deeply for some moments.

Ellen awaited his reply in a state of the most agonising suspense.

"Miss Monroe," at length said Mr. Wentworth, speaking in his usual solemn and grave tone, "you know your own affairs better than I; but would it not be well to confide in those friends by whom you are surrounded?"

"I would die first—die by my own hand!" answered Ellen emphatically. "If you tell me that you will betray me—if you leave this room to communicate my secret to Mr. Markham, who brought you hither, or to my father—I will not hesitate a moment—I will throw myself from the window—"

"Calm yourself, Miss Monroe. Your secret is safe in my hands."

"Oh! thank you, sir—a thousand times I thank you," exclaimed Ellen. "There are circumstances which render it necessary that this secret should not transpire—circumstances, not altogether connected with my own shame, which I cannot, dare not reveal to you."

"Enough, Miss Monroe—I do not seek to penetrate into those mysteries. Your child is with me—I will be a father to him!"

"And heaven will bless you!" said Ellen pressing the surgeon's hand with the warmth of the most fervent gratitude.

"In time you will be able to call at my house," observed Mr. Wentworth; "and you can see your son—you can watch his growth—mark his progress—"

"How kind you are! Oh! now I am rejoiced that you know all!"

"And no one will ever suspect the real motive of your visits," continued the surgeon. "Mrs. Wentworth shall call upon you in a few days; and thus an acquaintance may be commenced. With reference to my visit of this morning, I shall inform Mr. Markham that you will be convalescent in a few days."

Ellen once more expressed her sincere and heartfelt thanks to the surgeon, who shortly took his leave of her, after strictly recommending her to take the medicaments which he should send in the course of the day.

And now the recovery of the young invalid progressed rapidly; and her own mind, relieved of many sources of anxiety and alarm, aided nature in conducting her to convalescence; for she longed to behold and caress her child!

A FEW days after the incidents just narrated, the following letters were opened in the Black Chamber of the General Post-Office.

The first was from the Under Secretary for Foreign Affairs of Castelcicala to the representative of that state at the British court:—