early vice had hastened a mother's death, and whose continued dissipation had doomed a father to an untimely grave, omitted no opportunity to increase her sorrows: his sister he hated for that she was loved, and his father was a clog on his free-will. But, despite all this, Kate Westrill ever remained the same mirthful favourite; and although she now met her friends with a bright tear-drop glistening in her eye, which caused many an old man to shake his head with ominous compassion, and many a youth in honest anger to knit his brows, yet, when the token of sorrow fell upon her bosom, no other rose to replace it, and her voice was mirthful still, as she greeted the admiring villagers.

Seated now on her rustic throne, with the other maids of the village forming a mimic and merry court around her, Kate assumed the duties of her office. Having made a hurried apology for delay, choked by a rising sob that told of what her words hinted not at, she at once commenced her task of distributing the rural favours. With short, but highly-prized and treasured, compliments to the successful candidates, as, one after the other, with confused step and burning cheek, they came before her, she had distributed to each one the prizes he had earned, when the last and principal victor of the day stepped forward to receive his due. Bonnet in hand, and resting upon one knee before her, he waited, in humble attitude, to receive from her hands the valued tokens, to hear from her lips the soothing accents of woman's flattery. But Kate Westrill was silent. She placed in his hand the crossbow-prize of the archery ground; she crowned him with a laurel wreath, as the victor of the day; but still no word escaped her of compliment or of praise: yet her silence thrilled through Heringford's breast, and raised a pleasure there far greater than words could have afforded.

It was the custom of the village to conclude these revels with song and dance, in which latter the hand of their queen was the victor's due. In obedience to this practice, Edward, having risen, advanced towards his mistress, and led her, blushing, to the awarded post; the dance commenced, and gracefully did the happy couple perform their part in it: not even the evolutions of Willie Bats, who had succeeded in obtaining a temporary partnership with his "charming Cicely," could rob them of the general applause.

Willie, however, was not unnoticed; for, next to the hero of the day and his happy partner, none engrossed more attention than

himself and the maid of his choice. Cicely, the maid in question, requires little description; she was, in fact, a feminine edition of Willie himself, a faithful servant to old Westrill, and rivalled her young mistress, in good humour at least, if not, perhaps, to an over-scrupulous eye, in personal attractions ;-of these latter, however, we can say no more than that, to those who considered Willie Bats extremely handsome, she must have appeared a paragon of beauty. We have said Cicely was good-tempered, and we are almost inclined to wish that the truth had been otherwise, in order that we might have made it a plausible excuse for Willie's extreme bashfulness. The approach of a cannon ball could not alarm him more than the appearance of his charmer; and he would have preferred staring at the sun in its meridian splendour, for an unlimited time, to a hasty glance at Cicely's face, with the attendant risk he encountered of meeting her eyes half way. In fact, had their streams of love already mingled in the turbulent ocean of matrimony he could not possibly have feared her more. With such feelings as these, did Willie Bats take Cicely's hand in the dance, and, at the touch, melted-not with love, but perspiration. Behold him now, in turn, at the head of the troop, preparing to conduct his graceful partner, in measured step, to the end of the lines. With what steady, what becoming gravity, do they run their course! how timidly does he touch her ample zone! and see how stedfastly he averts his face, red hot with exercise, from the danger of incineration, to which a view of her charms would expose him! Now, amid the cheers and laughter of the assembled village, they have reached the goal, and, thoroughly exhausted with the exercise, retire from the dancers ;-side by side sit the turtle-doves, each looking resolutely forwards, not daring to encounter the other's gaze.

No sooner had the retirement of this pair afforded the villagers opportunity for noticing other matters, than they discovered that Willie and his charmer were not the only deserters. Heringford and Kate Westrill were no longer on the green. Willie Bats nothing doubted of the true cause-Edward had promptly attended to his wishes, and his roundabout declaration of love was now going through its first stage. The thought tempted him to steal a glance at its object: slowly and cautiously he turned his head slightly towards the side on which Cicely was seated, and then, straining his eyes to their extremest obliquity, perceived-oh, dire confusion shall we not devote a new chapter to the discovery?

No; be it said at once- -that she also was stealing a glance at him: their eyes, despite their former precautions, now met, and who shall say what would have ensued between the blushing pair, if Edward and Kate had not that moment appeared, and, by diverting their attention, stopped all further proceedings? If Willie had before guessed at the cause of Edward's absence, his belief was now confirmed. What but a conference upon the important subject that absorbed all Willie's faculties, could occasion the meaning glances which passed between the returned absentees? What could account for the unusual manner in which Kate's little hand was squeezed, unless Edward wished to remind her of the promise he had obtained in favour of Cicely and her devoted swain? And Willie was right, for Edward had indeed obtained a promise; but he had forgotten Cicely, and it was only in favour of himself.

CHAPTER THE THIRD.

ELLERTON CASTLE-FAMILY RECORDS-A MIDNIGHT MEETING, AND
ITS RESULT.

THERE is a strange and undefined feeling excited in the breasts of most men at the sight of a ruined edifice. When we behold the spot on which have dwelt generation after generation crumbling to the dust, the scene of human hopes, and fears, and pride, and sorrow, following the fate of those who tenanted it,—a sad conviction of the perishable nature of earthly circumstance is, unconsciously, implanted within us, and leads us from the ruins of time to a vague contemplation of eternity. The more glorious the pile that lies mouldering before us, the more deeply are we oppressed by these sensations; and we turn away from the spot with a subdued step, and a sentiment of awe that the pride of the most imposing structure could never succeed in awakening.

When, in addition to this, the stillness of night reigns around, and the wavering light of the moon casts its flickering shadows; when no sound, no object arises to divert the attention; there can, surely, be few men so callous as not to feel some portion of the depression that these scenes convey.

But there were more causes than these that combined to weigh

upon the mind of the solitary stranger that paced the chapel of Ellerton Castle on the night following the village feast. He looked not with a stranger's eye upon the ruined columns and fire-burnt walls; he saw not with unconcern the prostrate monuments of the dead, against which his foot struck at every step. The moon, high in the starry firmament, poured its light into the roofless enclosure; it illumined a tomb, of all others most unwelcome to his sight,a plain, unsculptured tomb, fissured along its whole extent by the flames that had consumed less solid objects. Oh, that the moon would hasten its course, and, by varying its shadows, cast that sad object into obscurity! But there it stood in the white light, and on it was distinctly legible the single name that formed the only inscription—

BEATRICE.

BEATRICE! To an unconcerned eye, there would have been nothing in that name to awaken such emotions as those by which the midnight visitor was mastered. To him the wellknown sound had once been rapture, but now,-no matter what it was. Suffice it that they had loved and wedded; he had hated, she had died. There, in the tomb that opposed itself so prominently to his gaze, there were her remains deposited, and there also was prepared his own last resting-place when his life of turmoil should have ceased. Let us leave the stranger, whom we may introduce as Sir Richard Ellerton, while we take a slight view of the ruins among which we find him, and learn as much as was then commonly known concerning the affairs of Ellerton Castle. Of the Castle itself there is little to be said; nothing was presented to the eye but the bare and blackened outline of what had been a solid monument of feudal splendour. Its situation, half way up the hill, and, as it were, in one of nature's parks, overlooking the village below, has already been mentioned. On the lower side was a massive archway, once protected by gates which now stood constantly open on the broken hinges. The court-yard, where formerly the sound of the clarion and the shouts of collected vassals had resounded, was now deserted, overgrown with weeds, and choked with blackened fragments that had fallen from the burning pile. The castle itself, with its lofty entrance and small portals, loopholes and gothic windows, mossgrown turrets and ivy-clad walls, was such as the reader, expert in ruins, may easily picture to himself. The family to which the

castle, with its estate and appended title, had belonged, was ancient and honourable. The barons of Ellerton were famed in story for every heraldic virtue; had died and received the burial rites in due succession, until a short time previous to the period of our story, when the lady of Ellerton was united to another noble house; the result of this marriage was a daughter, Beatrice, who in early life inherited the baronial honours. Beatrice, baroness of Ellerton, having married for love one Richard Benstone, the latter received, by courtesy, the title of Sir Richard Ellerton. After this marriage, the villagers knew little of affairs at the castle; a child was born, that lived but a short time, and Sir Richard left Ellerton soon afterwards. His wife, thus deserted, sent to her half-brother, who attended her summons, and remained in the castle until his sister's death, which occurred not many days after her husband's departure. She was buried in the chapel, in the tomb which we have already seen, raised by her husband in their days of love for himself and Beatrice. Her name only was inscribed on the marble; her virtues were already indelibly graven in the hearts of her sorrowing vassals. Her half-brother, Sir Hubert de St. Fay, then (although the estate and title fell to the crown) assumed, by royal warrant, the direction of affairs, which he retained for a period of more than ten years, until, about twelve years prior to the date of our story, the castle was burned to the ground, and he, as was supposed, perished in the flames. From that time forth nothing more was heard of the Ellerton family.

Returning to Sir Richard, whom we now find, after being lost for more than twenty years, within the walls of his former dwelling, it will be necessary to delay our narrative while we slightly describe him.

His age, at the period to which we now refer, was about fifty; his features were defaced by time and care, still more, however, by a malignant scowl, that no art could conceal; his hair was grey; and, contrary to the usual custom, his upper lip was clothed by moustaches. A cap, adorned with a single plume, was on his head; and his whole body was wrapped in a cloak of grey fur, that concealed the armour in which he was cased.

Such was Sir Richard Ellerton, in whose character few good traits prevailed, and whose whole soul was tinged by a superstition, common to the age, that now, as he paced the lonely chapel, worked violently upon him.

"Would that these men were here," cried he, 66 or that they