one

Elma interrupted him. "Let me tell you all while I can. My parents chose for me a husband; whom they loved, one for whom I have the profoundest esteem. My dying mother placed my hand in his; my father clings to him with the devotion of a parent. I could not, would not rob that infirm and grief-worn father of this chosen staff of his age.'

But, dearest, if his consent could be obtained-" "It is not possible! But, if it were, an insuperable barrier still divides us. He to whom I was betrothed, Gerald Mortimer, as he is called, loves me with all the uncontrollable ardor of his strong nature. There is a mystery attached to him that I have not endeavored to penetrate; he will unfold it himself in good time. But sometimes I have fancied that there must be hereditary insanity in the family to which he belongs. All painful excitements appear to unsettle his mind. I have exerted a calming influence over him which no one else seems to possess. Think you I could now purchase my happiness at the price, perhaps, of his reason?"

"You are then engaged to him? I thought you told me you were free!"

"I was engaged to him, but, the moment he had cause to doubt my affection he generously released me. He now holds my written promise that I will never bestow my hand, while he lives, unsanctioned by him. His consent I well know would be granted at a single word of mine; but that word, which must seal his misery, will never pass my lips! Be content with the confession I have so frankly made, that you are dearer to me than all else upon this earth; though I will not wring my father's heart,

I will not wreck Mortimer's happiness, by becoming your wife never! never!"

At this moment a groan, so full of mortal anguish that it seemed the severing of a soul from its earthly tenement, reached their ears.

They turned. Elma recognized the kingly robes of Lear. No face was visible, for the clenched hands were pressed upon the brow. The figure passed silently on its way to the green-room.

"It is Mortimer!" exclaimed Elma, in accents of consternation. "He must have heard my words! Leave me, I pray you! Let me go to him at once, else some terrible conséquence may ensue."

"One word more, Elma! I honor, yes, with my whole soul, I reverence your motives. I will not, even in thought, seek to alter your heroic resolution. I would be unworthy of you, if I could do so. Only grant me the privilege of sometimes seeing you still as the dearest of friends. But, come what may, even if we never behold each other again upon this earth, there is a realm where we must meet; and, until the day of that blessed reünion, be sure that my heart is true to yours."

"As mine will ever be!" answered Elma, in a scarcely audible tone.

With one confiding clasp of their hands they parted.

Elma sought Mortimer in vain. She feared that, in the rash madness of the moment, he had rushed from the theatre.

Just as the curtain rose, to her great relief, he joined the group who stood ready to take their situations on the stage in King Lear's hall of audience.

His mien was placid, his thoughts were apparently engrossed in his part.

When the act concluded, Elma approached, and addressed him. He answered mildly. His manner was even calmer than usual.

Elma began to doubt that he had overheard her words; but she could not rest without assuring herself, and timidly asked,

"Was it not you whom I saw, a few moments ago, when I was conversing with-with Mr. Edmonton ?"

Mortimer regarded her in amazement; then answered, with forced composure:

Probably; I was near you for a few seconds. O, Elma! Elma! why is it so hard for me to say

• Yield up, O love, thy crown and hearted throne ' ?

Why are you so dear that the strength of a giant will cannot tear you from my thoughts? But do not fear; do not look so troubled. You have nothing to dread from me."

"I know it, Gerald."

“You have made a noble choice, Elma. His love is not a mere 'toy in the blood,' as was the fanciful passion of Lord Oranmore. I have heard the praises of Leonard Edmonton from tongues that delight only in censure."

Could Elma prevent the dawning smile that unconsciously stole over her countenance? Could Mortimer help the icy pang that smile shot through his heart?

"Do not say 'my choice,'" rèplied Elma, recover

ing herself. "Mr. Edmonton is aware expects nothing from me."

Mortimer made no rejoinder, and Elma was at a loss in what manner to continue the conversation, or to construe his silence.

Lear was called to the stage.

When the play concluded, Mortimer returned with Elma and Mr. Ruthven to their hotel.

Elma could trace nothing unusual in the tragedian's conduct; no changeful fits and starts, no evidences of the great convulsion of spirit which she had cause to anticipate.

When they parted, there was so much tenderness in his adieu, so much confiding affection in hers, that the aged parent, who sat contentedly gazing upon them, drew happy auguries from their mutual cordiality.

As he pressed his lips on Elma's forehead, and bestowed his nightly benediction, he said:

"Best of daughters! what a source of unmingled joy you have ever been to me! a joy that is ever increasing. You leave none of my wishes unfulfilled. It makes me glad at heart when I see you so kind to Gerald. You will not keep him much longer in suspense; even these old eyes can see that plainly."

'My father! my father!" exclaimed Elma, in a tone of deep anguish, as she clung to him, and hid her face upon his shoulder.

"What does that mean, Elma?"

"God only knows the future!" she answered, as she released her hold, and, with slow steps, retired to her chamber.

CHAPTER VII.

The Tragedy of Bertram. Rehearsal.- Elma's Astrologer.An Enigma.- Performance of Bertram. A Rash Deed and Terrible Reality. The Contract Annulled. The Tragedian's Closing Scene. Mystery that remains Unsolved. A Year Later. - Farewell of an Actress. — Picture in a Parish Church.

THE tragedy of Bertram, by the Rev. Charles Maturin, of St. Peter's, Dublin, was the play selected for representation on the ensuing evening. The thrilling personations of Edmund Kean first imparted to this highly-wrought drama a decided but transient popularity. The more fastidious taste of audiences. at the present day rarely demands its performance,

Mortimer and Elma met as usual at rehearsal. The anxious, questioning eyes she raised to his countenance were withdrawn with an expression of grateful content. Mortimer's face was unruffled, as on the night previous. It was fixed, almost rigid, in its placidity.

While a scene in which she was not concerned was rehearsed, Elma sat beside the prompter's table, her head leaning upon her hands, her eyes half-closed. She was thinking of her father, and of the stormy grief and displeasure which would be conjured up by the knowledge that she could never become the wife of Mortimer. She was asking herself whether waywardness and selfishness were not largely inter