seated the confessor, Father Marc. Could he have been there long? If so, he must have heard more than it was expedient he should, and St. John bit his lips with vexation.

"I did not know you were so near, father."

"I have this instant sat down, my son. I am no longer young, and my legs pain me when I stroll far my walk this evening has been a long one.'

"He may have come up but now," was the mental conclusion of Mr. St. John.

The plan of the getting away was this. On the following night Adeline was to retire to her chamber early, under the plea of headache, or some other slight indisposition; and, after dismissing Louise, to habit herself as she deemed suitable for her journey. She was then to steal down stairs and out of the house, before it was locked up for the night, into the garden, where Mr. St. John would be waiting for her. The same light vehicle, half cart, half gig, which had once before taken Mr. St. John, would be in readiness to convey them to Odesque. There they would take the night-train, which passed from Amiens to Boulogne, and go at once on board the Folkestone steamer, Mr. St. John having ascertained that the tide served and the steamer started at a suitable hour for them, very early in the morning. By these means they hoped to get a whole night's start before the absence of Adeline was discovered. The scheme appeared feasible enough in theory, but-in practice? That remained to be proved.

What a day it was for Adeline! She was in wretched spirits, frequently in tears. She was a bad one to carry on a deception: if she could but have changed places with Rose Darling for a day! The evening arrived, and the family were sitting in the western drawingroom, when Mr. St. John came in. Some of them looked up in surprise, his visits had of late been so rare. A spirit of dulness seemed to overhang the party. M. de Castella proposed chess to his sister-in-law, and Rose opened the piano and began to sing. Now of all songs, what should she choose on that identical night but "Kathleen Mavourneen!" Talk of fatality and ominous coincidences, I am sure there exist such things. Rose had not sung that song for months, nay, for years, and yet she must hunt it up then. Had any one asked her for it, she would have refused, with many a sarcasm at old-fashioned taste," " English ideas," and have commenced some Italian or German or Spanish rubbish, and screamed it through in defiance. She came to the words, "To think that from Erin and thee I must part, it may be for years, or it may be for ever," when deep sobs startled her.

Adeline had listened-leaning back in her grandmamma's fauteuil, for Madame de Beaufoy was knitting, and had taken her seat on a chair near the lamp-listened to the song with an oppressed heart. The words seemed singularly applicable to her: she was leaving her country, her home, and her dear parents, it might be for years, or it might be for ever. Her sobs burst forth unchecked, and the whole room looked up in amazement. Rose brought her song to a sudden stand-still.

Mr. St. John, who was near the piano, strode suddenly forward towards Adeline, but arrested his steps half-way, and strode as suddenly back again. Anxious inquiries were pressed upon Adeline, and her

mother laid down her embroidery, rose and went to her. Adeline declared it was nothing; a sudden fit of low spirits that would pass away, and Mr. St. John whispered Rose to continue her song. When it was over, he wished them good night, and soon afterwards, Adeline, pleading fatigue, said she would go to bed.

"Do, dear child," acquiesced her mother; "you don't seem very well."

"Good night, dear, dear mamma," she said, clinging round her mother's neck, while the rebellious tears again streamed from her eyes. She would have given half the anticipated happiness of her future life for her mother to have blessed her, but she did not dare to ask it. She approached her father last, hesitatingly; kissed him—a most unusual thing, for he was not a man to encourage these familiarities, even from his daughter-and left the room, struggling convulsively to suppress her sobs.

After sitting in her chamber a few minutes, to recover serenity, she rang for Louise. Up came that demoiselle, in open surprise that her young lady should have retired so early. Adeline said she had a headache, let her take off her dress, and then dismissed her.

Adeline bolted the door and began to look around her. Shock the first her wardrobe was locked and the key gone. The dress and bonnet she meant to wear were in it; so she had to ring again.

"I want the key of the wardrobe," she said, when Louise entered. "It is locked."

Louise felt in her pocket, brought forth the key, and threw the doors back on their hinges. "What should she give to mademoiselle?"

This was a poser. At any other time Adeline would have ordered her to leave the wardrobe open, and go. But her self-consciousness and

dread of discovery caused her to hesitate then.

"I want-a-pocket-handkerchief," stammered Adeline.

Sharp flung the doors to again, were locked, and the key returned to Louisa's pocket. "Parbleu, mademoiselle," was her exclamation, turning to a chest of drawers, "as if your handkerchiefs were kept in the wardrobe!"

Adeline knew they were not as well as Louise, but just then she had not her wits about her. She was growing desperate.

"One would think we had a thief in the house, by the way in which you keep places locked," she exclaimed. "Leave the wardrobe open, Louise."

"Indeed, and we have something as bad as a thief," answered Louise, grumblingly. "If Susanne wants anything for madame, and thinks she can find it here, she makes no scruple of coming and turning about mademoiselle's things. Only three days ago it took me an hour to put them straight after her."

"Well, leave the wardrobe open for to-night," said Adeline, "you can lock it again to-morrow, if you will." And Mademoiselle Louise swung the doors back again, and quitted the room.

Adeline proceeded to dress herself. She put on a dark silk dress, a light, thin, cashmere shawl, and a straw bonnet trimmed with white ribbons. She also threw over her shoulders a costly silk travelling cloak, lined and trimmed with ermine. It had been a present to her from Madame de Beaufoy against her journey to the South. She was soon ready, but

it was scarcely time to go. She was pale as death; so pale that the reflexion of her own face in the glass startled her. Her head swam round, her limbs trembled, and she felt sick at heart. She began to doubt if she should have strength to go. She sat down and waited.

The minutes passed rapidly, and it would soon be time, if she went at all. She felt in her pocket: all was there. Her purse, containing a few Napoleons, her handkerchief, a small phial of Cologne water, and a little case containing his gifts and letters.

She arose and placed her hands upon the lock of the door, but, too ill and agitated to proceed, turned round, drank a glass of water, and sat down again. The longer she stopped the worse she grew, and, making a desperate effort, she extinguished the light, opened the door, and glided to the top of the stairs.

All seemed quiet. She could hear the murmur of the servants' voices in their distant apartments, nothing else, and she stole noiselessly down the staircase, and across the lighted hall. As she was opening the front door, some one came out of the western drawing-room, and Adeline, with a quick, nervous effort, passed through, before whoever it was should be in sight, pulling the door gently after her.

Oh, misery! oh, horror! Planted at the bottom of the steps, right in front of her, as if he had stopped on the spot and fallen into a reverie, was the priest, Father Marc. He glided up the steps, and seized her arm, and Adeline cried out, with a shrill, startled cry.

It was heard by Mademoiselle de Beaufoy, as she crossed the hall, and she came running out. It was heard by Mr. St. John from his hidingplace, behind one of the lions of the fountain, and he hastened forward.

"Oh, Adeline, mistaken child, what is this?" exclaimed her aunt. "You would leave your home clandestinely! you, Adeline de Castella !” "Aunt! aunt! have mercy on me! I-I do believe I am dying! I would rather die than go through what I have gone through lately!" "And better for you," was the stern repl "Death is preferable to

dishonour."

She was interrupted by Mr. St. John, who now neared them. Adeline broke from her aunt and the priest, and fell forward in his arms, shrieking out, "Oh, Frederick! Frederick! protect me in this dreadful hour!"

Agnes de Beaufoy flew into the drawing-room, crying out that Mr. St. John was running away with Adeline, and they all went flocking out. St. John's first effort was directed to Soothe Adeline: his second to bear her into the house. The priest went away in the direction of his chapel.

For some time all was astonishment and confusion. Every one seemed to be talking at once, reproving Mr. St. John. She still clung to him, as if to part with him would be to part with life, and he protected her valiantly. The first distinguishable words were from Signor de Castella. "So this is the recompense we receive from you! basely to betray her! to lead her to dishonour!"

St. John was paler than Mary Carr ever remembered to have seen him, but his voice and bearing were perfectly calm. "I was leading her away to happiness," he answered; "ere many hours had elapsed she would have been my honoured wife. Had my mother been well, she would have received her at Folkestone, but she is unable yet to quit her room, and Lady Anne Saville, than whom one of higher character and consideration does not exist, is there awaiting her. My brother vacates

Castle-Wafer for her reception; the settlements, as they were proposed to you, are drawn up, waiting for our signatures; and until the marriage could have taken place-had there been but an hour's delay-Adeline would have remained under my mother's roof and protection, conducted to it by Lady Anne. There are the vouchers for what I assert," he added, throwing some letters on the table. "I lead her to dishonour! Had you, Signor de Castella, evinced the consideration for her happiness, that I have for her honour, there would not be this dispute now."

"And you, shameless girl, thus to disgrace your name!"

Reproach her not," interrupted Mr. St. John; "I will not suffer a harsh word to her in my presence. For this step I alone am to blame. Adeline was resolute in refusing to listen or accede to it, and she never would have done so but for the countenance afforded to her in it by my family. M. de Castella, this is no moment for delicacy: I therefore tell you openly she shall be my wife. Our plans of to-night are frustrated, and should we be able to carry out no other for her escape, Adeline must renounce at the altar the husband you would thrust upon her."

"You are insolent, sir," said M. de Castella.

"Not insolent," he replied, "but determined."

There is no time to pursue the discussion. It was long and stormy. Madame de Castella cried all the while, but old Madame de Beaufoy was a little inclined to favour St. John. Not that she approved of the attempted escapade, but he was so wondrous a favourite of hers, that she could not remain in anger with him long, and she kept rapping her stick approvingly on the floor at many things he said, something after the manner of a certain house of ours, when it cries out "Hear, hear!" Adeline stood by Mr. St. John, shaking with convulsive sobs, her white veil covering her face, and the costly cloak falling from her shoulders and sweeping the ground. Her father suddenly turned to her.

"Adeline de Castella, are you determined to marry this man?" "Speak out, Adeline," said Mr. St. John, for no answer came from her. "I-cannot-marry-De la Chasse," she faltered.

"And

you are determined to marry him—this Protestant Englishman?" "If I may," she whispered, her sobs growing violent.

"To-morrow morning I will discuss with you this subject," proceeded M. de Castella, still addressing his daughter. "At the conclusion of our interview, you shall be free to choose between-between the husband I marked out for you, and him, who now stands by your side."

"On your honour?" exclaimed Mr. St. John, surprised out of the remark.

"My word, sir, is valuable as yours," was the haughty reply. "When my daughter shall have heard all I have to say, she shall then be free to follow her own will. I will not further influence her."

"You will permit me to receive her decision from her own lips ?" "I tell you I will not further control her. She shall be as free to act as I am. And now, Mr. St. John, good night to you."

"Would to heaven we were married, that I might remain and watch over you this night!" he whispered, as he reluctantly released Adeline, and bid her adieu. "You need all soothing consolation, and there are none to offer it. Yet be comforted, my dear love, for if M. de Castella shall keep his word, it is our last parting."

"He is a noble fellow, with all his faults," mentally ejaculated Agnes

de Beaufoy, as she watched Mr. St. John's receding form. And "all his faults," what were they? That he would have interfered in another's marriage contract, and stolen away the bride, and made her his own.

"I did not think Adeline had got it in her!" whispered Rose, in a glow of delight, to Mary Carr. Rose had stood in a rapture of admiration the whole time. Adeline and Mary could not cast old scores at her,

now.

II.

THE dreaded interview with M. de Castella was all but over, and Adeline leaned against the straight-backed chair in the cabinet, more dead than alive, so completely had her father's words bereft her of hope and energy.

When Mr. St. John first opened the affair, Signor de Castella had felt considerably annoyed, and would not glance at the possibility of breaking the contract with De la Chasse. But M. de Castella, cold as he was in manner, was not, at heart, indifferent to Adeline's happiness. And when he found how entirely she was bound up in Mr. St. John, and the latter brought forth his munificent proposals and departed for England to get them triumphantly confirmed, then M. de Castella began in secret to waver. But now stepped in his confessor.

now.

Those who read this, are of course aware that in many Roman Catholic families, especially foreign ones, the confessor exercises much influence over temporal matters as well as spiritual. And though the confessor to the Castellas, Father Marc, had not hitherto seen cause to put himself forward in such affairs, he thought he was bound to interfere You must not think he is going to be described as one of those vicious priests, half serpent, half-anything else that's bad-sometimes represented in works of history. That such characters have existed there is no doubt, or that there are still bad Romish priests, like there are some bad Protestant clergymen, but Father Marc was not one. He was a good man, but a rigid Romanist, and he acted for what he deemed the true interest of Adeline, of whom he was very fond, for he had watched her grow up from infancy. He honestly believed that to suffer Adeline to marry an Englishman and a heretic, and make her home in Protestant England, would be to consign her to perdition. He therefore placed his veto upon it, a veto that might not be gainsaid, and forbid the contract to be interrupted with De la Chasse. If he interfered with, what may appear to us, desperate measures, he believed the cause to be desperate which justified them; and he acted in accordance with the dictates of his own conscience, and with what he deemed his duty to Adeline, to his religion, and to God.

She knew it all now: the secret of her father's obstinacy, and why she must give up Mr. St. John and marry De la Chasse. She knew that if her father consented to her heretical marriage, or if she of herself persisted in contracting it, the Curse of the Church was to alight upon her, and upon her father's house. The Curse of the Church! Adeline had been reared in all the belief and doctrines of the Romish faith, and she could no more have dared to act in defiance of that awful curse, than she would have dared to raise her hand against her own life. She leaned her head back on the uncomfortable chair, and moaned aloud in her overwhelming anguish.