pression. Jeannette, at the sight of features she remembered so fondly, experienced it fully. At Langham Court she had seldom ventured to draw aside the curtain with which the portrait of Mrs. Langham, after her demise, had been there veiled. Now she gazed, and wept, and passionately kissed this beautiful representation of her adored mother. It almost seemed to Jeannette that she was for a moment reunited to her, for she had that in her heart which could give to the silent canvass the power of life and speech. She did not say, "O that those lips had language!" For a time, to her excited imagination, they breathed and spoke.

Jeannette forgot, while thus interestingly occupied, the lapse of time, till she found herself surrounded by her guests: she then endeavoured to still her emotion; but, as each separately admired the beauty of her mother, tears of gratitude forced their way from her eyes in spite of herself. She naturally wondered that her husband had not been near her; and on her first hint, Henry Milman went to summon him. He came; but the sight of the portrait was to him the reverse of pleasurable. It had been painted in Mrs. Langham's youth, and was strikingly like Jeannette. The likeness was in a high degree displeasing to Bathurst; and it unfortunately happened that every body insisted upon this resemblance, with what appeared to him peculiar and troublesome emphasis: but he could see how much Jeannette had been distressed, and advancing towards her, he took her hand. This first return of kindness affected her powerfully she mistook the sadness expressed in his countenance for sympathy with her, and interpreted as favourably the words, "most injudicious of Hamond!" which she overheard him make use of to Henry Milman.

:

"You wish it, my love, to be placed in your dressingroom," he said to her in the kindest voice.

"I did wish it," she said, "but it must be placed in the drawing-room, for neither door nor window in my dressingroom will admit it."

Lindsay Bathurst would have razed his whole mansion to the earth, rather than that portrait should have been in any but a private apartment in it. His eager reply therefore of "They can be made to do so," might well sound to Jeannette considerate, delicate, and kind. In a few hours, workmen were employed to effect the object proposed, and

Jeannette more than forgave the temporary unkindness of Bathurst, in contemplating what she considered so high a proof of his regard.

CHAPTER XLIII.

The ample proposition that hope makes
In all designs begun on earth below

Fails in its promised largeness.-SHAKSPEARE.

MORE than a twelvemonth elapsed before Jeannette saw her sister or father. When she did see them again, she was a mother. She had called her little girl Matilda; and it might with truth be said of her, that this new being carried an integral part of herself along with it in her love.

With what deep, what hallowed joy had she greeted its existence, and hailed its first faint and feeble cry! How many sensations, unknown to her before, and unexpected, sprang up in her warm and fertile heart! Hour after hour, with what devoted, and often needless anxiety, did she watch over it! Ever musing on its necessities; through its sleep her vigilance was as unwearied as when during its waking moments she hung over it enamoured, blessing Heaven for the dear and precious boon.

ours.

To Matilda, the marriage of her sister, though a joyful event in itself, had been a source of much melancholy anticipation. She will be happy, she said, but she is no longer She will be absorbed by new and stronger affections, and we shall never be again to her what we have been. But, in so saying, Matilda did her sister injustice. It was, however, an error easily and eagerly abjured when she saw Jeannette again.

And tears of generous affection filled her eyes, as she first remarked to her father her persuasion that Jeannette loved him, and herself, and Hamond, better than ever.

And so she did, with more entire devotedness of heart, with yet more thrilling interest. So true it is, that the affections and virtues strengthen each other.

But a London life, even where people are rational enough to prefer friendly intercourse to crowds and indifference, is not so favourable to domestic habits as young and affectionate mothers desire. Jeannette knew, before her father reminded her of it, that the duties of a wife ought not to be neglected for those of a parent. Yet she was sometimes tempted to make them yield, and always regretted that in the society in which she moved they were not more compatible with each other.

On one occasion, after her child had been slightly indisposed, she sat up the whole night watching its tranquil slumbers. The unreasonableness of this conduct was condemned by all who had any right to find fault with her. Even Mr. Langham.spoke in the tone of reproach as he said, "Why did you do this, Jeannette?" But her touching and motherlike answer,-" For fear she would waken," disarmed him in a moment. It was thus that in matters apparently of no consequence Jeannette increased her influ-. ence over the minds of all who loved her, and unfortunately at the same time established the habit of acting too entirely on her own judgment. Many instances might be selected prior to the one about to be related; but as they led to no immediate consequences, they are omitted. It may however be needful to remark, that Jeannette, by the habit of acting implicitly on her own will, whenever to do so did not militate against her prescribed duties, had greatly increased the failing in her character to which she was the most prone. She was naturally firm of purpose, and had been so from childhood; and this quality would rise in a moment to heroism, in any cause in which her heart was deeply interested. She neither feared nor thought of consequences to herself, if they were pointed out to her. Of those interested calculations which are so apt to make cowards of us all, she knew little or nothing. None could witness this abandonment of self and not love her; and few, if any, suspected that even. a shade of evil could result from it. It proved the dark thread in the web of her life.

Lindsay Bathurst loved goodness, and adored in his wife that high disinterestedness which he felt he did not possess. It was therefore natural that his views, in many instances, should yield to hers.

Mrs. Grant, from the time of their marriage, had been a

subject of dispute between them: even the arrival of her letters was displeasing to Bathurst; and when she herself came to town, he considered the event as a serious evil. He at first said" Remember, Jeannette, she is my aversion ;— let us have no visiting, if possible."

"It is well, my dear Lindsay, that you have qualified your wish!-I promise there shall be none that I can avoid. But intimate as you have of late grown with Sir William Sherrard, and intimate as I have been with Mrs. Grant, you must sometimes meet; and do, Lindsay, whenever this may happen, be a little more like yourself,-a little more agreeable."

"I am Chesterfield himself, at all times, to Mrs. Grant." "Yes, I should say Chesterfield upon stilts, and every thing, I am sure, that she dislikes most."

"Possibly, my dear Jeannette; but that is unimportant tome. I am sorry to say it, but I have a bad opinion of your friend, et pour cause.'

"Oh, Lindsay, do not wrong her, because you dislike her that is unjust.'

"True, if it were so-but it is precisely the reverse: I dislike her, because-but no, I will not tell you why to-day, Jeannette-you would be so terribly indignant against me, for I could give you no actual proof of what you term injustice."

Jeannette did not pursue the subject farther: there was a thoughtfulness in her husband's manner that deterred her. Her curiosity was excited, but she too much dreaded what she might be told, to seek its gratification. The words and countenance of Lindsay, as he uttered them, came back frequently to her mind, and gradually created in her not only the wish to avoid Mrs. Grant, but the determination to do so. The fulfilment of this intention was not so easy as she had supposed it.

Mrs. Grant called on her the morning after she had formed it, and, after sitting with her a length of time, urgently beg ged her to drive with her in the Park. Jeannette strove to decline; but Mrs. Grant had evinced such pleasure in seeing her again-her words, looks, and manner, had been all so full of affection towards her-that she at first found it difficult to refuse, and next impossible. Jeannette saw too that her friend was not in her usual spirits, and found a resistless

appeal to her kindness in the depression of one apparently formed only for gladness.

During their drive, she exerted herself to cheer and animate her, and hoped she had in some measure succeeded; but, as they were making slow progress down the drive, a gentleman on horseback, with whom Jeannette was unacquainted, kept pace with them; and, while conversing with Mrs. Grant, kept his eyes somewhat rudely fixed on Mrs. Bathurst. For relief, Jeannette turned towards the pedestrians, and among them gladly hailed her husband. She put herself forward, bowed and smiled to him, but her bows only were returned; and she felt her colour mount to her cheek as she recollected who was at that moment her companion. Her confusion was increased by overhearing Mrs. Grant say to the stranger already mentioned, in the lowest whisper-" Pray, leave me!" The request was granted. Mrs. Grant then sank in her carriage, and, with visible and uncontrollable emotion, exclaimed-"O that I had never seen him!"

Jeannette was cruelly distressed: she wished to relieve, but dreaded being confided in. She said gently—" Do not weep." But Mrs. Grant, seizing both her hands and weeping over them, exclaimed-" Oh, never desert me! Promise me, Jeannette, that, come what may, you never will desert me!"

"Never, never, my dear Katherine!" were words easily pronounced; and Jeannette uttered them instinctively, not considering their extent..