gone, except the general and his lady, Mowbray, and myself, her father requested that Berenice would try one song, and that she would play one air on the harp to oblige her old friends: she immediately complied, with a graceful unaffected modesty that interested every heart in her favour-I can answer for my own; though no connoisseur, I was enthusiastically fond of good music. Miss Montenero's voice was exquisite: both the poetry and the music were sublime and touching. No compliments were paid; but when she ceased all were silent, in hopes that the harp would be touched again by the same hand. At this moment, Mr. Montenero, turning to lord Mowbray and to me, said, "Gentlemen, I recollect my promise to you, and will perform it-I will now explain why I bought that painting which you saw me yesterday so anxious to obtain."

He rang the bell, and desired a servant to bring in the picture which he had purchased at the auction, and to desire Jacob to come with it. As soon as it was brought in, I retired to the farther end of the room. In Mowbray's countenance there was a strange mixture of contempt and curiosity.

Mr. Montenero kindly said to me, "I shall not insist, Mr. Harrington, on your looking at it; I know it is not to your taste."

I immediately approached, resolved to stand the sight, that I might not be suspected of affectation.

Berenice had not yet seen the painting: she shrunk back the moment she beheld it, exclaiming, "Oh, father! Why purchase such a horrible picture?"

"To destroy it," said Mr. Montenero. And deliberately he took the picture out of its frame and cut it to pieces, repeating, " To destroy it, my dear, as I would, were it in my power, every record of

cruelty and intolerance. So perish all that can keep alive feelings of hatred and vengeance between Jews and Christians!"

"Amen," said the good old general, and all present joined in that amen. I heard it pronounced by miss Montenero in a very low voice, but distinctly and fervently.

While I stood with my eyes fixed on Berenice, and while Mowbray loudly applauded her father's liberality, Mr. Montenero turned to Jacob and said, "I sent for my friend Jacob to be present at the burning of this picture, because it was he who put it in my power to prevent this horrid representation from being seen and sold in every print-shop in London. Jacob, who goes every where, and sees wherever he goes, observed this picture at a broker's shop, and found that two persons had been in treaty for it. One of them had the appearance of an amateur, the other was an artist, an engraver. The engraver was, I suppose, the person who bid against colonel Topham and me; who the other gentleman was, and why he bought it to sell it again at that auction, perhaps Jacob knows, but I have never inquired."

Then, with Jacob's assistance, Mr. Montenero burned every shred of this abominable picture, to my inexpressible satisfaction.

During this auto da fe, Jacob cast a glance at Mowbray, the meaning of which I could not at first comprehend; but I supposed that he was thinking of the fire, at which all he had in the world had been consumed at Gibraltar. I saw, or thought I saw, that Jacob checked the feeling this recollection excited. He turned to me, and in a low voice told me, that Mr. Montenero had been so kind as to obtain for him

a lucrative and creditable situation in the house of Manessa, the jeweller; and the next day he was to go to Mr. Manessa's, and to commence business.

"So, Mr. Harrington, you see that after all my misfortunes, I am now established in a manner far above what could have been expected for poor Jacob -far above his most sanguine hopes. Thanks to my good friends."

"And to your good self," said I.

I was much pleased with Mowbray at this instant, for the manner in which he joined in my praise of Jacob, and in congratulations to him. His lordship promised that he would recommend his house to all his family and friends.

"What a contrast," said Mowbray, as soon as Jacob had left the room, “there is between Jacob and his old rival, Dutton! That fellow has turned out very ill-drunken, idle dog—is reduced to an old-iron shop, I believe-always plaguing me with begging letters. Certainly, Harrington, you may triumph in your election of Jacob.”

I never saw Berenice and her father look so much pleased with Mowbray as they did at this instant.

Of the remainder of the evening I recollect nothing but Berenice, and of my staying later than I ought to have done. Even after the general and his wife had departed some time, I lingered. I was to go home in Mowbray's carriage, and twice he had touched my shoulder, telling me that I was not aware how late it was. I could not conceive how he could think of going so early.

"Early!" He directed my eye to the clock on the chimney-piece. I was ashamed to see the hour. I apologised to Mr. Montenero. He replied in a manner that was more than polite-that was quite af

fectionate; and his last words, repeated at the head of the stairs, expressed a desire to see me again frequently.

I sprang into Mowbray's carriage one of the happiest men on earth, full of love, hope, and joy.

CHAPTER XII.

"ALL gone to bed but you?" said I to the footman, who opened the door.

"No, sir," said the drowsy fellow, "my lady is sitting up for you, I believe."

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Then, Mowbray, come in-come up with me to my mother, pray do, for one instant.”

Before she slept, I said, he must administer an antidote to Coates's poison. While the impression was still fresh in his mind, I entreated he would say what a delightful party we had. My mother, I knew, had such a high idea of his lordship's judgment in all that concerned gentility and fashion, that a word from him would be decisive. "But let it be to-morrow morning," said Mowbray; " 'tis shamefully late tonight."

To-night-to-night-now, now," persisted I. He complied: "Any thing to oblige you."

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Remember," said I, as we ran up stairs, “Spanish ambassador, Russian envoy, Polish count and countess, and an English general and his lady-strong in rank we'll burst upon the enemy." I flung open the door, but my spirits were suddenly checked; I saw it was no time for jest and merriment.

Dead silence-solemn stillness-candles with unsnuffed wicks of portentous length. My father and mother were sitting with their backs half turned to each other, my mother leaning her head on her hand, with her elbow on the table, her salts before her. My father sitting in his arm-chair, legs stretched out, feet upon the bars of the grate, back towards us— -but that back spoke anger as plainly as a back could speak. Neither figure moved when we entered. I stood appalled; Mowbray went forward, though I caught his arm to pull him back. But he did not understand me, and with ill-timed gaiety and fluency, that I would have given the world to stop, he poured forth to my mother in praise of all we had seen and heard; and then turning to my father, who slowly rose, shading his eyes from the candle, and looking at me under the hand, lord Mowbray went on with a rapturous eulogium upon Harrington's Jew and Jewess.

"Then it is all true," said my father. "It is all very well, Harrington-but take notice, and I give you notice in time, in form, before your friend and counsellor, lord Mowbray, that by Jupiter-by Jupiter Ammon, I will never leave one shilling to my son, if he marry a Jewess! Every inch of my estate shall go from him to his cousin Longshanks in the North, though I hate him like sin. But a Jewess for my daughter-in-law I will never have-by Jupiter Ammon!"

So snatching up a bougie, the wick of which scattered fire behind him, he left the room.

"Good heavens! what have I done?" cried Mowbray.

"What you can never undo," said I.