in the voice of Ellen, as she replied; " Lady, we cannot glorify God in this land, and so he hath opened for us a way in the deep, and a path in the mighty waters. Lady, do you turn from that path, so that you may not forfeit your father's blessing?

"Leave me now, Ellen, leave me, for my soul is dark ;” said the Lady Charlotte, in a voice of entreaty. "This night," replied the humble and devoted girl, "the pilgrims set out on their weary way; sweet lady, delay not, I pray you." "But leave me," said she, in a firm and decided tone, "I will know my duty, and though it be the withering of every joy and the blighting of every hope, God shall see, and man shall see, that the sacrifice can be made."

As Ellen turned to obey, she saw something of the fixedness of stern resolution in the countenance of the noble girl; her lip was livid and compressed, and her whole face had the hue of death; but it seemed that the conflict was over, and as her light foot pressed the path homeward, the spirit of Ellen Moore was going up in praise.

It is not for us to draw aside the veil from the sanctity of that solemn hour, when the beautiful lady of Glenville, amid weeping, and agony, and prayer, gave up the joys that seemed ready to blossom before her, and all the hopes of a rich imagination, and all the loves of a warm and affectionate heart.

Yet there was peace in her breast, as she turned her step to the castle, and a serene smile shone on her pale, thoughtful countenance, as she lingered a moment at the gate. Within, was her bright and beautiful sister,

who had loved her since the first gleamings of memory, with whom she had played and laughed by the sunny fountains in childhood, who had shared all her youthful studies, and sorrows, and joys. And her father— there was agony in the thought. She was the hope, the pride, the darling of his old age. beautiful sons had he borne to the grave, but rather, far rather would he see both of his sweet lone daughters lying beside them, than embracing the religion o the Puritans.

Many noble and

Another, too, was there; one whom she loved with the truest affection: the Lady Charlotte was the betrothed of a noble earl. All these she was to see this night in mirth and gladness, and see them no more forever. Midnight was the hour appointed for the meeting of the pilgrims on the beach; and it was not ten, when Lady Charlotte retired to her room. She felt that the last awful parting was over, and, leaning her face on her hands, she now gave vent freely to her suppressed feelings. She suddenly felt a light arm flung about her neck. "Dear sister, why do you weep? let me comfort you;" said her sister Eliza, as she bent to kiss the tears from her cheek. The lady was over come; she threw herself into her sister's arms, and wept long and violently.

This paroxysm of grief, however, subsided, and she felt the necessity of immediate exertion, for midnight was approaching, and she was yet within the walls of the castle. So stifling her heart-rending sobs, she rose calmly from her sister's bosom, and throwing back her rich brown hair from her fair forehead, and eyes suf

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fused with tears, endeavored, with a smile beautifully calm, to conceal the anguish of an aching heart. "Pardon me, sister," she said," that I have been betrayed into such weakness; but my spirits are oppressed tonight;" she added, in a voice that was tremulous, notwithstanding her efforts. "Have I lost my sister's confidence?" said the Lady Eliza, gazing at her with surprise and concern. "Do not gaze so at me now," said the unfortunate girl, "I need rest and sleep, and my heart throbs so painfully that I cannot speak; she said, as she presented to her a beautiful pocket bible. you see me no more by the sunny glade and the mossy spring, it will comfort you for my absence. Eliza, you will be the stay of our father!" The Lady Eliza gazed with astonishment at her sister, and could only account for her language by supposing her delirious. But Charlotte so strongly opposed her alarming the family, and from that time seemed so calm and composed, that she concluded it was only a momentary wildness; and, after watching her anxiously till her gentle breathings indicated that she was asleep, she threw herself on the couch beside her, and was soon buried in a profound slumber.

It was a bright moonlight evening, and Ellen Moore stood in the shadow of an ancient elm, waiting the approach of the noble lady. Hour after hour she waited in vain; at length the bell of the castle tolled eleven, and she turned in bitterness of spirit to retrace, with anxious haste, her path to the beach. At that moment, a shadow darkened the opening in the avenue, and the lady of Glenville stood, pale and breathless, by

the side of Ellen Moore. Arm in arm, they walked silently and quickly forward. Ellen saw that the eye of the lady was clear and bright, and that her brow was calm with the fervency of devotion. Firmly did she tread the well known path till they reached the border of her father's domain; then, indeed, she lingered to take one long, eternal farewell of all she loved in life.

There was the venerable castle, with its long avenue and shady park, standing in the moonlight, and the thousand remembered scenes of childhood and youth came thronging to her mind. "The places which now knew her, would soon know her no more forever." But she turned calmly and tearlessly away from them all, and walked rapidly onward.

The moon, in her path over England that night, saw many a scene of anguish like this; but at length the pilgrims stood on the beach together in the solemn moonlight. There was youth, with its bright enthusiastic hope, giving up all for Heaven; and you might have seen the stern zeal, the inflexible devotedness of manhood, glancing from eye to eye. They had a common cause, a common sorrow, and a common hope; their feelings and affections were one, and they all rose in one beautiful sacrifice to God.

Many years after this event, in a humble village on the wild New England shore, a noble lady lay on her bed of death. A light form was seen moving gently by her couch, and chanting, occasionally, in low thrilling tones, some of the holy hymns of our pilgrim

fathers. There was a brilliant hectic on the cheek of the dying lady, and her eye was bright with almost unearthly lustre. As her spirit had grown bright and lovely amid the waves of affliction, so the beauty of her countenance had only caught a sublimer character amid the privations she had endured. The room in which she lay was neat almost to elegance, and the gentle assiduity of Ellen Moore had hung it with festoons of fresh and fragrant flowers. The open window was shaded with woodbine and roses, and, far away between its shadowy leaves, you might see the rocky shore and the blue wave of the Atlantic.

The lady, who was waiting in this peaceful spot for death, had exhibited in her life an example of moral sublimity that is not often equalled. At the age of seventeen, she had left the home of her fathers; she had lived in a land of strangers, braving the dangers of the deep, and the horrors of the western wilderness; she had endured with calmness, poverty and self-denial of every name; and now, at the age of twentyfour, worn with care and hardship, she laid down and died, in her youthful beauty, far from kindred and home.