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tear which stood in the corner of her eye, said, with a look of alarm and solicitude

"What do you mear?”

The Count took her hand, and smiling a little more expressively than before, said

"Don't be frightened: I only fancy that there is no wound in your grief which may not be easily cured. Come, confide in your father. It must not be that you sit sighing here alone, and perhaps, at the same time, by your seclusion breaking another heart."

"Ah!" exclaimed Adelaide; and stooping her head to hide her blushes, she affectionately kissed his hand.

"I thought it was so," said the Count, cheerfully; "Pray, for whom are all these tears so tenderly shed. May I guess?" "You cannot," replied she in a tone of hopeless pathos. "He for whom they fall shall never know of them. Ask me no more, and I will try to subdue a sentiment that is hopeless." "Why hopeless ?" inquired the Count, with some degree of earnestness, touched by her candour and sensibility. Who is there among all the gallants of the court that might not be proud to win this gentle hand?”

Adelaide answered only with a sigh, which told still more expressively the dejection of her heart.

"Ave Maria," exclaimed the Count, "

protect my child! Hast thou then unworthily placed thy affections? I beseech thee, sweet Adelaide, to make no more concealment !" "No," was her firm reply, "but nevertheless there is no hope for me.

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"It must be so then," cried the Count, anxiously; wedded to another."

"he is

"Oh no,” cried Adelaide, with an eager and terrified tone, "I could not be so guilty."

"Then he is engaged to another," said the Count, compassionately.

Adelaide made no answer, but rising, which the Count also did at the same time, she wiped her eyes, and appeared for a moment thoughtful.

"What would you, Adelaide ?"

"You have come, my lord, when I should not have been seen, and I have told you more than befits maidenly diffidence. yet I wish not to recall what I have said. It is true that my heart hath gone away from me, but hath not taken my reason with it. I forget not my birth, nor the dignity of the lessons I received from the Lady Beatrice in Normandy: and therefore,

though my love is hopeless yet it shall be free from shame. I will conquer it if I can, and if I cannot I can die."

"Come, come," said the Count, laughing, "not so fast; you may change. But to leave this common version of true love's fond tale, I have come to tell you news. Your father, Knock whinnie, is in Edinburgh."

"I know no father but yourself," replied Adelaide; "of Knock whinnie I have heard but the name; and it was not spoken by those who used it with much kindness. Tell me something of him. Ah me! I hope I am not much undutiful; but now I do remember that my mother told me that he was a brave and gallant knight, though wilful in his humour, by which he bred to her many sorrows. Will he come here to see me? Methinks I should like to see my father. Alas, I

can never love him as I do you!"

The Count caressed her affectionately, and bidding her be again seated, related to her so much of the story of her parents as prepared her to understand that her father was in a state of outlawry.

"Then," said Adelaide, "that will soon be reversed." "How?" inquired the Count, a little gloomily. "Because it will give me pleasure," said she; " and you have been always so kind you cannot but for my sake solicit his pardon."

The Count avoided the with which this was said. her.

earnestness of the entreating look She observed it, and it overawed

"I fear," she cried with anxiety, "that you have not told me all. Has my father done you any wrong, that you are so averse to extricate him from his present perilous state ?"

"Let us speak no more of it at present," said the Count; "we shall talk of it another time."

"It must not be so," exclaimed our gentle heroine, with more than the wonted energy of her meek character; "I will myself go straight to the Queen, and beseech the grace of her pardon.'

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"You said but now," replied Dufroy, "that you felt but little for your father, and that you loved me in his stead."

"True; but you had not then told me of his danger. What should I be, were I not to help my father? If he hath made himself your enemy it is to me a great misfortune; and if you are his, it is still greater; for I can never look on you as I should do on my father's enemy.

The Count was greatly moved; he could not but acknow. ledge the justness of her sentiments; still he thought that such a blight had fallen on his happiness by Knockwhinnie, that to seek the reversal of his outlawry was a thing that lay not within the scope of his duties.

Adelaide, however, was not to be repulsed by the coldness of his manner, and she again expressed her persuasion that he would aid her to procure the pardon. Before he had time however, to make any reply, the voice of Chatelard, passing beneath the window, was heard humming the air he had sung the knight before to the Queen. It caused Adelaide to pause abruptly in her solicitation, and covered her face with blushes. The Count observed her emotion; in the same moment he rightly conjectured that Chatelard was the object of her attachtachment, and looked at her sharply as he said,

"What hath overcome you? You were speaking of your father."

Her answer was confused, and the crimson of her countenance deepened.

"Ah," said Dufroy, "I need no one now to tell me who is the cause of your disquietude!"

"Is it not natural," said she, "that a child should be disquieted for a father so unhappy as mine?"

The Count looked archly at the little address with which she had thus parried his remark, and added without seeming to have noticed her answer,—

"I do not say it is an ill-placed attachment; but he hath lived too lightly in the world to value properly the warmth and faithfulness of such a heart as yours.

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Adelaide perceived that he had discovered her secret; but rallying her spirits, she evaded his scrutiny with that instinctive address with which even the most innocent maiden knows how, in similar circumstances, to extricate herself. She reverted with increased zeal to the unfortunate conditon of her father ;' and the Count, to avoid her importunity, hastily promised to consider the matter when he had more leisure, and left the

room.

CHAPTER XXVII.

"Religion harsh, intolerant, austere,

Parent of manners like herself severe,

Drew a rough copy of the Christian face,

Without the smile, the sweetness, or the grace."

COWFER.

THE day, as we have already described, was sunny and inheart. spiring. The spirit of universal gayety pervaded every The city rung with cheerfulness, music, and preparation. Every countenance was lighted up, and even the solitary royal Mary partook of the gladness around her, and the joy that her own presence awakened.

At the moment when the Count Dufroy came from the apartment of Adelaide, her Majesty was passing through the gallery, attended by her ladies, to receive some of the reformed clergy, who, in disregard of the established etiquette of the court, had obtruded themselves at that early hour upon her attention, and had requested an audience with rather more pertinacity than exactly befitted their business, or the respect due to their young Queen. Mary, on seeing Dufroy, gayly invited him to come with her, and laughingly remarked to him, how soon she had been summoned to recant her

errors.

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Mary Livingstone here," said she, pointing to one of her ladies," saw them come into the court, and she has described them to me as grim carles, whose visages are so knotted with godly displeasure that no blandishment, she is sure, can untie them to a smile; but we shall be gracious, and see what influence we may possess when we would subdue or tame;" and with these words she presented her hand to the Count, who led her into the apartment of state, where the reformed ministers awaited her appearance.

On her entrance, these venerable men regarded her, for a moment, with a predetermined severity of aspect, but she approached them with an air of such filial deference that they were suddenly discomposed, and looked confusedly at one an

other. In the same moment she cast her eyes towards the Lady Mary Livingstone and the Count Dufroy, with a side-look of conscious triumph.

She happened to wear at her girdle a rosary and cross of gold. This soon attracted the attention of the reverend divines, and Dr. Glossar who was of the party, stepping forward, took hold of it, and said,

"What is the use of this bauble ?"

Mary smiled, and withdrawing it from his hand, said, "It is a remembrancer. It reminds me that meekness and humility are the weapons with which I can best hope to resist the rudeness of this world."

Mr. Glossar was rebuked, and retired.

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Mary then addressed herself to another of the party, an old, gray-haired, venerable-looking man, with a pale and thoughtful countenance, which indicated a mild and gentle disposition.

"But that I see you here," said she, "and with these worthy men, I should have thought, father, you were too old to be of the new faith !"

The divines looked a little sullenly at one another, but Mr. Allison, the old man, pleased to have been so distinguished, replied with great courtesy, but with firmness, "that heaven's grace never came too late, when it came at all.'

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"Alas!" said the Queen, with one of her most fascinating smiles, "how changed I must become, if age be merit, before I can hope to share the grace that has fallen on you."

"Say not so," replied Mr. Allison, " grace cannot but be soon mingled with such graciousness. It would have been too much had your Highness been so early adorned with heaven's holiness as well as with such temporal beauty!"

Mary appeared delighted with his adulation, and presented her hand, which the old man, bending his knee, respectfully kissed.

“Brother Allison," cried Dr. Glossar, "we came not here for purposes so idolatrous !" and turning to the Queen, whose countenance had changed at his austerity, he said, "Madam, we have come hither to tender unto your Highness our willing service to unbind the errors wherein you have been swaddled from the womb.

Mary looked at the Count, as if to ask him what answer to make, or to request his assistance to put an end to the audience; but she saw that he was burning with indignation, and

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