trees, and darkened on the sides for a space around by a great
and lively growth of copse-wood and bushes.

"And here, Isabella," said Mr. Vere, as he pursued the
conversation, so often resumed, so often dropped, "here I would

erect an altar to Friendship."
"To Friendship, sir!" said Miss Vere; "and why on this gloomy

and sequestered spot, rather than elsewhere?"
"O, the propriety of the LOCALE is easily vindicated," replied

her father, with a sneer. "You know, Miss Vere (for you, I am
well aware, are a learned young lady), you know, that the Romans

were not satisfied with embodying, for the purpose of worship,
each useful quality and moral virtue to which they could give a

name; but they, moreover, worshipped the same under each variety
of titles and attributes which could give a distinct shade, or

individual character, to the virtue in question. Now, for
example, the Friendship to whom a temple should be here

dedicated, is not Masculine Friendship, which abhors and despises
duplicity, art, and disguise; but Female Friendship, which

consists in little else than a mutualdisposition on the part of
the friends, as they call themselves, to abet each other in

obscure fraud and petty intrigue."
"You are severe, sir," said Miss Vere.

"Only just," said her father; "a humble copier I am from nature,
with the advantage of contemplating two such excellent studies as

Lucy Ilderton and yourself."
"If I have been unfortunate enough to offend, sir, I can

conscientiously excuse Miss Ilderton from being either my
counsellor or confidante."

"Indeed! how came you, then," said Mr. Vere, "by the flippancy
of speech, and pertness of argument, by which you have disgusted

Sir Frederick, and given me of late such deep offence?"
"If my manner has been so unfortunate as to displease you, sir,

it is impossible for me to apologize too deeply, or too
sincerely; but I cannot confess the same contrition for having

answered Sir Frederick flippantly when he pressed me rudely.
Since he forgot I was a lady, it was time to show him that I am

at least a woman."
"Reserve, then, your pertness for those who press you on the

topic, Isabella," said her father coldly; "for my part, I am
weary of the subject, and will never speak upon it again."

"God bless you, my dear father," said Isabella, seizing his
reluctant hand "there is nothing you can impose on me, save the

task of listening to this man's persecution, that I will call, or
think, a hardship."

"You are very obliging, Miss Vere, when it happens to suit you to
be dutiful," said her unrelenting father, forcing himself at the

same time from the affectionate grasp of her hand; "but
henceforward, child, I shall save myself the trouble of offering

you unpleasant advice on any topic. You must look to yourself."
At this moment four ruffians rushed upon them. Mr. Vere and his

servant drew their hangers, which it was the fashion of the time
to wear, and attempted to defend themselves and protect Isabella.

But while each of them was engaged by an antagonist, she was
forced into the thicket by the two remaining villains, who placed

her and themselves on horses which stood ready behind the copse-
wood. They mounted at the same time, and, placing her between

them, set of at a round gallop, holding the reins of her horse on
each side. By many an obscure and winding path, over dale and

down, through moss and moor, she was conveyed to the tower of
Westburnflat, where she remained strictly watched, but not

otherwise ill-treated, under the guardianship of the old woman,
to whose son that retreat belonged. No entreaties could prevail

upon the hag to give Miss Vere any information on the object of
her being carried forcibly off, and confined in this secluded

place. The arrival of Earnscliff, with a strong party of
horsemen, before the tower, alarmed the robber. As he had

already directed Grace Armstrong to be restored to her friends,
it did not occur to him that this unwelcome visit was on her

account; and seeing at the head of the party, Earnscliff, whose
attachment to Miss Vere was whispered in the country, he doubted

not that her liberation was the sole object of the attack upon
his fastness. The dread of personal consequences compelled him

to deliver up his prisoner in the manner we have already related.
At the moment the tramp of horses was heard which carried off the

daughter of Ellieslaw, her father fell to the earth, and his
servant, a stout young fellow, who was gaining ground on the

ruffian with whom he had been engaged, left the combat to come to
his master's assistance, little doubting that he had received a

mortal wound, Both the villains immediately desisted from farther
combat, and, retreating into the thicket, mounted their horses,

and went off at full speed after their companions. Meantime,
Dixon had the satisfaction to find Mr. Vere not only alive, but

unwounded. He had overreached himself, and stumbled, it seemed,
over the root of a tree, in making too eager a blow at his

antagonist. The despair he felt at his daughter's disappearance,
was, in Dixon's phrase, such as would have melted the heart of a

whin stane, and he was so much exhausted by his feelings, and the
vain researches which he made to discover the track of the

ravishers, that a considerable time elapsed ere he reached home,
and communicated the alarm to his domestics.

All his conduct and gestures were those of a desperate man.
"Speak not to me, Sir Frederick," he said impatiently; "You are

no father--she was my child, an ungrateful one! I fear, but
still my child--my only child. Where is Miss Ilderton? she must

know something of this. It corresponds with what I was informed
of her schemes. Go, Dixon, call Ratcliffe here Let him come

without a minute's delay." The person he had named at this moment
entered the room.

"I say, Dixon," continued Mr. Vere, in an altered tone, "let Mr.
Ratcliffe know, I beg the favour of his company on particular

business.--Ah! my dear sir," he proceeded, as if noticing him
for the first time, "you are the very man whose advice can be of

the utmost service to me in this cruel extremity."
"What has happened, Mr. Vere, to discompose you?" said Mr,

Ratcliffe, gravely; and while the Laird of Ellieslaw details to
him, with the most animated gestures of grief and indignation,

the singular adventure of the morning, we shall take the
opportunity to inform our readers of the relative circumstances

in which these gentlemen stood to each other.
In early youth, Mr. Vere of Ellieslaw had been remarkable for a

career of dissipation, which, in advanced life, he had exchanged
for the no less destructivecareer of dark and turbulent

ambition. In both cases, he had gratified the predominant
passion without respect to the diminution of his private fortune,

although, where such inducements were wanting, he was deemed
close, avaricious, and grasping. His affairs being much

embarrassed by his earlier extravagance, he went to England,
where he was understood to have formed a very advantageous

matrimonial connexion. He was many years absent from his family
estate. Suddenly and unexpectedly he returned a widower,

bringing with him his daughter, then a girl of about ten years
old. From this moment his expense seemed unbounded, in the eyes

of the simple inhabitants of his native mountains. It was
supposed he must necessarily have plunged himself deeply in debt.

Yet he continued to live in the same lavish expense, until some
months before the commencement of our narrative, when the public

opinion of his embarrassed circumstances was confirmed, by the
residence of Mr. Ratcliffe at Ellieslaw Castle, who, by the tacit

consent, though obviously to the great displeasure, of the lord
of the mansion, seemed, from the moment of his arrival, to assume

and exercise a predominant and unaccountable influence in the
management of his private affairs.

Mr. Ratcliffe was a grave, steady, reserved man, in an advanced
period of life. To those with whom he had occasion to speak upon

business, he appeared uncommonly well versed in all its forms.
With others he held little communication; but in any casual