consulted upon it, and can assure you the reason I have assigned was the only one that prompted that part of it which terrifies you. Still I am in no condition to unveil the real heart of Bertha in regard to her cousin, which, if even known to Honora, is locked up in the letters I have mentioned, as if hermetically sealed."

I was bewildered with this sort of half-information, but with which, such was my love, I was willing to be content until I might gather fuller intelligence from these interesting letters; and as I aftewards was favoured with them without any breach of confidence, that my reader may not feel trifled with, but understand the action of my story with more satisfaction, I think it better to present them to him at once ;promising to explain, in its proper place, how they came into my_possession.

They consist of a series of epistles to her darling friend, and almost mother, describing her situation with the prince on his arrival at the Park, in the capacity of her betrothed, which had, it seems, belonged to them both ever since the dying request of her mother, the princess, and a consequent arrangement with the duke, his father, had invested them, almost unknown to themselves, with that character.

All but one of these letters had been written just about the time of my last conversation with Lady Hungerford, which as may be remembered, so puzzled me, when she protested against being entangled by words growing cut of the difficulties of an embarrassing situation. The last, however, containing an interesting narrative by the prince himself, was received after that conversation; indeed it was only delivered to Lady Hungerford on her return to the Park, a day sooner than was expected. This I mention, because, had she seen the narrative before the conversation alluded to, her language to me had possibly been different. With these explanations I set forth the letters in the following chapters.

CHAPTER XXII.

LETTERS OF BERTHA TO LADY HUNGERFORD.

How like you the young German,

The duke of Saxony's nephew?

SHAKSPEARE.-Merchant of Venice

LETTER I.

"Foljambe Park. "I WRITE to you, as you desire me, without concealing a thought. Was it necessary to desire me to do so, who never yet concealed one from you? And yet, if ever I could be tempted to be silent towards my best friend, it would be on an occasion where all seems mystery and secret pressure, amounting to almost sadness.

"Far from that ardour and rush of pleasure you supposed, his first address was formality itself. His really fine features, which you know I allowed they were when you admired them in his picture, seemed quite altered, and the sparkle of cheerful frankness which you used to praise, and I tried to think of with more than a cousin's regard, seemed changed into gloom, fearfulness, and suspicion.

"How different this from what I was told to expect, when at sixteen years of age my father announced to me that, at the request of my dying mother, he had betrothed me to my cousin Adolphus, the son, as you know, of Prince Frederick of Saxony, who, my father assured me, was devoted to the alliance.

"I will own, at the time, this cost me bitter pangs, as I had no idea of marriage where there had been no opportunity for mutual knowledge. But my good father assuring me that his honour was pledged, and that if, on acquaintance, I should object, it should not be pursued, I agreed to keep my self disengaged, and, as you know, strictly fulfilled that agreement.

"How long has the acquaintance been deferred? Why, I know not; yet now that it has taken place, what have I to notice? The most obsequious duty to my father, and the

most correct politeness to me: no more.

These character

ize every moment of our meetings; yet there seems little soul in them; not that soul which look for and adore in those I am told I ought to lose, and which I do so adore in you, my dear adviser, sweet pattern, and darling friend. Oh, how differently does his countenance and manner impress me from yours! And when I reflect that he may be my husband -awful, and sacred name!-all my fears of the disappointment and misery which may attend the dedication of myself to the dying commands of one parent, and the urgent wishes of the other, revive, and I fear I am not more cheerful than himself.

"And yet he is certainly handsome, and has the air distingue which belongs to his rank and profession, and, could he banish the sort of mournfulness which bangs about him, he probably might be all we used to think him in his picture. Then his manner, however cold, is to me most respectful; surely I ought not to complain, because in a first interview there is some stiffness. A German, too!

"He addressed me in French, which he speaks fluently, and English, but not so well. My father tried to remember his German, and for a moment there was a smile-not unbecoming; but all soon relapsed into solemnity, and almost sadness; and though, by degrees, he began to look at me (for at first he seemed afraid of doing so), it did not enliven him, and what much struck me, several sighs escaped him.

"What all this means, or what he thinks of me, I know not, and what I think of him becomes a more serious question than ever. But I am resigned, and firm in my resolution, if possible, to conform to my dearest father's engagement for me to my mother, made, indeed, when I had no power of choice, and was unable even to be consulted, but confirmed afterwards when I had that power, from devotion to a father I adored, and who said his honour, dearer to him than life, was pledged. Alas?—but retrospect is too late.

"The character of the prince is amiable and estimable ; and though, under the circumstances, to feel, or profess love at once, is impossible, yet love, as you have often consoled me by saying, may come, and with it happiness. Certainly, in regard to person, there is nothing in my illustrious cousin to forbid it, and then the reflection of the duty I have shewn

my father will only enhance it. After all, I am only in the situation of many other females, whose marriages have been made for them by their families, and who yet (some of them) have been happier than many who have sacrificed filial duty, and every thing else, to affection.

And yet but it is in vain to look back, though in doing so I feel requitted for what my firmness of purpose cost me, by the thought of my dear father's content with me; and very much am I pleased that I had decision enough to remain here, the nun I ought to be in my singular situation. Had I not resisted your temptations to come to you in London, my task might have been more difficult; besides, that I feel I am more than ever necessary to my beloved parent, who, I grieve to say, is visibly worse. The will of Heaven now, as ever, be done; but it is evident to my fears, I cannot enjoy him long. What will then become of me among strangers, in a foreign land? is a fearful question,-as, unless the prince gives up the army, which he can hardly do, he cannot remain here.

Upon the whole, as you may perceive, I am not happy, though an expectant bride. Love me, however, chere maman;-love me as you always have done, and whatever happens, it will be a consolation to your devoted

"BERTHA."

LETTER II.

"We go on just in the same way we did. My prince cousin is still, I may say, most reverential to me, as well as to my father his attentions unremitting, yet still cold; as if to fulfil a duty of etiquette, rather than prompted by the heart. Perhaps this is German, but I am sure it is not English. And yet there is something in his eye, and, though stately and military, a sort of possibility of softness in his manner, which wins my good will, and, perhaps might win more, but for this strange constraint.

"To-day we walked alone in the wilderness where poor Mr. Clifford met his misfortune. The prince offered me bis arm, but with such formality that I was loth to take it. Yet

excuse.

I did, and with frankness; for I was resolved, if he persisted in his ceremonious manner, he should not plead mine as an Did I do wrong, dearest mamma? or only comply, as I meant to do, with your advice in this regard? If I am to be united to him-and, though only to gratify duty-if I have kept my heart for him, as I have been told he has for me, he shall not say it is a cold or repulsive heart. He shall at least have the refusal of it.

"Hence, I refused not his arm, and I thought I felt it press mine; but to my astonishment, he suddenly gave a deep sigh, and I could not help saying,

"Prince, I am afraid you are not well?'

"Oh, yes;' he answered, in imperfect English; 'impossible not, when you are so good-so full of amabilite! "Amiableness, you should say,' observed 1.

"Ha; you will teach me the English as I will you the German,' said he. He then bowed, and tried to smile; but the smile was too marked with melancholy to be like any smile I had ever seen. Our walk then assumed a solemnity which never relapsed on either side, for he seemed incapable of cheerfulness, and any appearance of it in me became so much an effort, that I at last abandoned the attempt, and when we returned home, I sought my room, and only found relief in tears.

"But this is not all. The post, which you know comes in before we rise from dinner, brought him a letter with the foreign post mark, and I observed, he colored extremely on receiving it, and, without opening it, put it hastily into his pocket. My father asked if it was from Berlin, and begged him to open it without ceremony. No, he said, it was not of the least consequence; but I discovered afterwards, with no small concern, that this could not be, though the discovery was merely accidental. For Margaret, my maid, going into a little cabinet allotted to him adjoining his chamber up stairs, thinking him below, found him poring over a letter, as she says, with tears in his eyes, and that he looked odd, by which I found she meant displeased, as he hurried the letter into his portfolio.

"You, as well as I, know how easily Margaret is excited, and I never count much on her authority; but here were at