nected with the affections—fanciful, perhaps, at first, but grown into painful reality by the imagination constantly dwelling upon it—can tell the relief which Isabella found in the mingled kindness and plain good sense of Mrs. Palmer. She blamed herself for morbid indulgence in what she now held was a vain and selfish regret, while she had not been sufficiently thankful for the actual blessings of her lot. Moreover, for the buoyant eye of youth always turns to the future, she looked forward to securing the attachment of her husband, by constant care for his happiness, her tender and anxious affection.
The day of the wedding came at last—a day of disappointment to Lady Anne, who found all her plans, of an elegant breakfast, a bishop to perform the ceremony, a special license, and a select party of friends—that is, those of her acquaintance whose names would look best in a paragraph; all this was "blighted in the bloom" by Mr. Glentworth's rigid determination that the marriage should be strictly private. Mrs. Palmer was the only guest whom he would allow to be invited; "and but for Lord Rotheles passing, by chance, through London, I verily believe," said Lady Anne, indignantly, "he would have asked Mr. Palmer to give you away."
While bills are being brought into the House of Commons to regulate every thing, from the sweeps crying "sweep," to "emancipation, vote by ballot, and free trade," is there no county member whose
