brother! beloved, ill-fated Adrian! how speak of your misfortunes?  Doubtless you have both heard the current tale; perhaps believe the slander; but he is not mad!  Were an angel from the foot of God’s throne to assert it, never, never would I believe it.  He is wronged, betrayed, imprisoned—­save him!  Verney, you must do this; seek him out in whatever part of the island he is immured; find him, rescue him from his persecutors, restore him to himself, to me—­on the wide earth I have none to love but only him!”

Her earnest appeal, so sweetly and passionately expressed, filled me with wonder and sympathy; and, when she added, with thrilling voice and look, “Do you consent to undertake this enterprize?” I vowed, with energy and truth, to devote myself in life and death to the restoration and welfare of Adrian.  We then conversed on the plan I should pursue, and discussed the probable means of discovering his residence.  While we were in earnest discourse, Lord Raymond entered unannounced:  I saw Perdita tremble and grow deadly pale, and the cheeks of Idris glow with purest blushes.  He must have been astonished at our conclave, disturbed by it I should have thought; but nothing of this appeared; he saluted my companions, and addressed me with a cordial greeting.  Idris appeared suspended for a moment, and then with extreme sweetness, she said, “Lord Raymond, I confide in your goodness and honour.”

Smiling haughtily, he bent his head, and replied, with emphasis, “Do you indeed confide, Lady Idris?”

She endeavoured to read his thought, and then answered with dignity, “As you please.  It is certainly best not to compromise oneself by any concealment.”

“Pardon me,” he replied, “if I have offended.  Whether you trust me or not, rely on my doing my utmost to further your wishes, whatever they may be.”

Idris smiled her thanks, and rose to take leave.  Lord Raymond requested permission to accompany her to Windsor Castle, to which she consented, and they quitted the cottage together.  My sister and I were left—­truly like two fools, who fancied that they had obtained a golden treasure, till daylight shewed it to be lead—­two silly, luckless flies, who had played in sunbeams and were caught in a spider’s web.  I leaned against the casement, and watched those two glorious creatures, till they disappeared in the forest-glades; and then I turned.  Perdita had not moved; her eyes fixed on the ground, her cheeks pale, her very lips white, motionless and rigid, every feature stamped by woe, she sat.  Half frightened, I would have taken her hand; but she shudderingly withdrew it, and strove to collect herself.  I entreated her to speak to me:  “Not now,” she replied, “nor do you speak to me, my dear Lionel; you can say nothing, for you know nothing.  I will see you to-morrow; in the meantime, adieu!” She rose, and walked from the room; but pausing at the door, and leaning against it, as if her over-busy thoughts had taken