proof of her husband's desire of making her happy; and Adeline sighed for virtuous love and Glenmurray, as all that was wanting to complete her fascination.

Sir Patrick, meanwhile, was not blind to the impressions made on Adeline by the beauty of the spot which he had chosen, though he was far from suspecting the companion she had pictured to herself as most fitted to enjoy and embellish it; and pleased because she was pleased, and delighted to be regarded by her with such unusual looks of complacency, he gave himself up to his natural vivacity; and Adeline passed a merry, if not a happy, evening with the bride and bridegroom.

But the next morning she arose with the painful conviction as fresh as ever on her mind, that day would succeed to day; and yet she should not behold Glenmurray: and that day would succeed to day, and still should she see O'Carrol, still be exposed to his noisy mirth, to his odious familiarities, which, though she taught herself to believe they proceeded merely from the customs of his country, and the nearness of their relationship, it was to her most painful to endure.

Her only resource, therefore, from unpleasant thoughts was reading; and she eagerly opened the cases of books in the library, which were unlocked. But, on taking down some of the books, she was disappointed to find none of the kind to which she had been accustomed. Mrs Mowbray's peculiar taste had led her, as we have before observed, to the perusal of nothing but political tracts, systems of philosophy, and Scuderi's and other romances. Scarcely had the works of our best poets found their way to her library; and novels, plays, and works of a lighter kind she was never in the habit of reading herself, and consequently had not put in the hands of her daughter. Adeline had, therefore, read Rousseau's Contrat Social, but not his Julie; Montesquieu's Esprit des Loix, but not his Lettres Persanes; and had glowed with republican ardour over the scenes of Voltaire's Brutus, but had never had her mind polluted by the pages of his romances.

Different had been the circumstances, and consequently the practice, of the owner of Sir Patrick's new abode. Of all Rousseau's works, he had in his library only the New Heloise and his Confessions; of Montesquieu, none but the glowing letters above-mentioned; and while Voltaire's chaste and moral tragedies were excluded, his profligate tales attracted the eye by the peculiar elegance of their binding