My letter from Dumbarton she had never received. So this imaginary neglect, which had stung me so deeply, was at once explained away.

And what of poor Iola? Was my love for her forgotten quite?

Here, in my own extenuation, I cannot do better than quote a paragraph from one of the most pleasing of our female writers—one alike charming for the brilliancy of her style and the beauty of her person, when referring to a man's first and other loves:—

'He spoke no more than truth when he told you that you were his ideal of love and loveliness. The woman who is so beloved may have successors, as she may have had predecessors; but rivals—properly so called—she can have none. Lone and different as the moon in a heaven full of stars, she remains in the world of that man's heart. He has known other women and he has known HER. It may be the love of his youth, or the wife of his old age—first love, or last love—it matters not. The love—the one love that fulfils all the exigencies of illusion, all the charms of sense, and all the pleasures of companionship, comes but once in a man's life-time. The rest are substitutes, make-shifts for love. To them in vain he shall affirm or deny that which they desire or dread to hear. In his heart a shadow sits enthroned, who for ever bends down to listen—to watch those who would approach him—and bar them out, with whispers of sorrowful comparison, and the delight of remembered days.'

During my passion for Iola I believed that Laura's marriage had freed me from every tie to her—a bitter freedom certainly.

The story of Clavering's horrid fate had been told to her long since by Jack Belton, and on my recovery, her natural sorrow was one of the first things that piqued and galled me, the more so as poor Tom's miniature, done in Thorburn's best style, seemed to be constantly winking at me out of a brooch on Laura's breast. I referred to this, and she gave me a sad smile.

'Poor Clavering was well worthy of all my esteem,' said she; 'that sentiment he possessed to the full, Allan, but my love—never! Oh, never! for it was yours, and yours only, dear Allan,' she added, sobbing on my shoulder. 'He knew that he possessed my purest esteem when he married me, and hoped that love would follow the marriage into which papa's impetuosity hurried me—a vain and too often a wicked hope. Advised by some, cajoled by others, quizzed by a few, seriously urged by the many, and overawed by papa, I consented to become his wife, and no time was given for reflecting or retracting. You were lost to me, and other love I had none; so the day came at last which was to make your Laura Everingham his Laura Clavering—the fatal day came and the hour! The vows were said; the mute assent was given; this gold ring was placed upon my finger—there was a kissing of friends to undergo—a murmur of voices, and a hum of congratulation. I heard the marriage-bells jangling overhead and felt myself lifted into a carriage. I had fainted, and remember no more of that day—but that poor Clavering was all tenderness and kindness.'

I sighed bitterly at this description; and then felt something of joy and triumph as Laura placed her cheek caressingly to mine, while with her sweet eyes the very sunshine seemed to brighten as she smiled with the same smile that first shed a light upon my path in life, and taught me that I had a heart to lose.

'Ah, Laura,' I exclaimed, 'I have but one request to make of heaven.'

'And it is——'