'Gone! for ever gone from me!' said Lord Colambre to himself, as the carriage drove away.

'Never shall I see her more--never WILL I see her more, till she is married.' Lord Colambre went to his own room, locked the door, and was relieved in some degree by the sense of privacy; by the feeling that he could now indulge his reflections undisturbed.

He had consolation--he had done what was honourable--he had transgressed no duty, abandoned no principle--he had not injured the happiness of any human being--he had not, to gratify himself, hazarded the peace of the woman he loved--he had not sought to win her heart.

Of her innocent, her warm, susceptible heart, he might perhaps have robbed her--he knew it--but he had left it untouched, he hoped entire, in her own power, to bless with it hereafter some man worthy of her.

In the hope that she might be happy, Lord Colambre felt relief; and in the consciousness that he had made his parents happy, he rejoiced.