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 . 5, 1861.] “My dear child, is it true you have seen Mr. Westby to-day?”

“I have!”

“I’ll never forgive that Mrs. Vernon and her daughter; they have acted most shamefully.”

“There’s no harm done, mamma! I did see Mr. Westby. He wished to know, for certain, whether I was engaged. If you had only written to him as I wanted—”

“But what did he say?”

“I told him I was engaged.”

“And then?”

“He left me, mamma; you surely don’t imagine he would ask me to forfeit my word.”

“I really had feared—”

“You need have no fear, mamma, I shall be perfectly ready to tell Frank about it; but not to-night—not to-night.”

“Lilian, dear, I’m sure you’re not well; your face burns, and your hands—”

“Perfectly well, mamma!—perhaps not quite myself, but I shall be quite right again in the morning, when I have had some sleep.”

And Lilian’s sleep was fitful, broken; she kept dreaming that horrible dream of the accident at Interlachen; falling from some frightful height, with cries, painful cries, awaking her mother, for Karlo Magno to save her.

The doctor declared that Miss Temple was very seriously ill. Fever! it was quite possible that she had caught the infection in attending on her cousin, though it had remained latent for a time.

They cut off her golden hair to save her life.

“There is something on your daughter’s mind, madam,” said the physician bluntly to Mrs. Temple; “and if you are aware of what it is, the sooner it is set right, the greater the chance we shall have of saving her. We succeed in getting her up to a certain point, and there we stop.”

Frank Scott was well and strong again, and Mrs. Temple, with tears in her eyes, told him of the sacrifice he could make for Lilian if he really loved her; he had often said he could never repay her kindness, and it was now in his power to cancel the debt.

When the whole truth of the case was placed before him, Frank Scott acted in a noble way. He went himself to Westby, and spoke with the greatest generosity, not concealing the deep sorrow which he felt, yet expressing his satisfaction that by his act of resignation he was enabled to save the life of the woman he loved.

He would have wished to see Lilian once again; but the doctor particularly requested him to forego an interview with her in her then very critical condition; and he consented, but he wrote to her the kindest and most truly affectionate letter, assuring her of his perfect esteem, and expressing his deep gratitude for her devoted care of him at a period when such care was so very needful. Yet he did see her once again; they took him to her room while she slept, and he pressed his lips to her unconscious hand.

And Frank Scott went abroad.

“Karlo Magno, I can perfectly understand why I love you” (it was the first day Lilian had been allowed to come down to the drawing-room), “but I can’t think why you should love me.”

“With regard to thinking,” replied Westby, smiling, “I once met a very sensible young lady who recommended me never to think.”

“Ah, yes! and a very wise and learned man doubted whether a mental vacuum would be conducive to happiness. Yet really, Karlo Magno, when I do think how utterly weak and foolish I have been, how at the very times when I have had the greatest faith in myself, and strove to act properly, but—”

“But!”—that word “but,” symbol of human imperfection—but Charles Westby silenced her with a kiss.

are constantly hearing that ours is the age, as Americans always say that theirs is the country, for self-made men. But it may be questioned whether there ever was an age or country in which a man of force of character and ability could not open out a career for himself, pretty much according to his will. Under rank despotisms there are two ways at least open to adventurers of the humblest origin. They can rise by executing public improvements, and by the favouritism of the despot—that favour being usually won by political aptitude. The history of all despotisms tells of wonderful men of plebeian rank who built cities, or made roads or canals, after obtaining the patronage of the Court; or who gained the ear of the monarch, and directed his counsels. In Eastern empires a large proportion of the most successful statesmen and generals have been slaves by birth. In Turkey and Egypt we see such things now; and one reason of the willingness of Circassian, Georgian, and Cashmerian parents and children to keep up the supply of slaves in Egypt and Turkey is, that a great career may be before the slave of the Sultan or Pasha, or any of their chief officers. Under Western despotisms there is always some circumstance of the time which favours the rise of lowborn ability. In a military period, the able soldier or engineer is recognised, without any question of his birth. Under the French empire, when, as Napoleon said, every private soldier carries a Marshal’s baton in his knapsack, there has always been plenty of military ability, because ambition has been hopeful in that direction. In every empire where the aristocracy is the weak element, there would always be a profusion of lowborn genius at work in all departments of life, but for the depressing and stifling effects of despotic government. It is the stereotyped boast of society in modern despotisms that that régime is the golden age of the lower orders, because the light of the monarch’s countenance shines impartial, while universal suffrage gives equal citizenship to all, as a fair starting-point in life’s career. Practically, however, the chance is impaired by the hardships and depressions inflicted by arbitrary government. The lower orders do