Giulio's bundle. He had procured two peasants' gala dresses, which shone with scarlet and blue. Hastily Beatrice performed both her own and Emily's toilette; for, what with fatigue and terror, her companion was almost powerless: still, their celerity excited the praise of the cidevant professor of the fine arts.

"What a shame to cut off the nuns' hair as they do! No wonder they want to escape! Still, I think yours will soon grow again"-addressing Emily, whose deficiency in, as the Macassar advertisements have it, "woman's chief adornment," was, however, hidden by a red kerchief knitted round her temples.

The light was extinguished, and they again set forth. A boat was in waiting, and they reached the side of the ship in safety. After a short parley, in which the word "ducats" bore a prominent part, they were admitted on board. It was a merchantman, laden with sweet wines. The accommodations were wretched enough to Beatrice they seemed luxurious. A little cabin, the only one, was allotted to their use; and there Giulio begged permission to deposit his bag. He fastened it up anew. Still Beatrice was right when she fancied it contained the gold chalice of St. Valerie's chapel.

Before morning they were out of sight of Naples. For the information of all interested in such matters, we beg leave to state, that the insurrection ended in a proclamation, setting forth, that, thanks to Santo Januario, the lemons promised to be especially productive, and that there was to be a display of fireworks in his honour at the next festival.

A Signora Rossinuola, with the face of a goddess, and the voice of an angel, made her first curtsy that evening to the Neapolitans. She was received with the most rapturous applause. Nothing was heard of next day but her shake and her smile. Her rival talked of an ungrateful public, and set off for England. The next year she outbid the Queen of Naples for a diamond necklace.

Essays are written on causes-they might be more pithily turned on consequences. The Neapolitan revolution ended in the departure of one actress, the début of another, and the escape of a nun. Well, the importance of an event is to the individual. One of Beatrice's first acts was to give Lorraine's letter to her father. It was filled with expressions of the most generous and devoted attachment, mentioned his intention of returning to Spain, there

endeavouring to learn Don Henriquez's fate, and also to prevail on his daughter to unite her fortunes with his own.

It needed all Beatrice's exertion and submission not to sink beneath the most agonising apprehensions. Her time and attention, too, were occupied by the rapid and increasing illness of Emily, who, with that pertinacity with which an invalid adheres to some favourite idea, seemed filled but with the hope of dying at home. Don Henriquez was sufficiently tired of action to look rejoicingly forward to the security of England; Beatrice's heart was there already; and Giulio avowed his belief that it was the only place in the world where talent was properly encouraged.

CHAPTER XV.

"And it's hame, hame, hame,

I fain wad be

Hame, hame, hame,

In my ain countrie.”

ALLAN CUNNINGHAM.

"Mais, maman-mais je viens ce matin de me marier." La Petite Madeleine.

UNTAKEN by a pirate—undisturbed by an interesting shipwreck just in sight of port-our voyagers arrived at Marseilles. Here Don Henriquez would gladly have made some stay; but, at Emily's earnest entreaty, they embarked in another vessel for England. "You know not," said she to Beatrice, "how I pine to be at home again; every voice grates on my ear with a foreign sound-my eyes look round in vain for some accustomed object-the very air I breathe has an oppression in it. I feel ill; but it is an illness that only asks for its cure familiar faces, and quiet and home."

Beatrice tried to smile and soothe; but her

eyes filled with tears, and her voice became inaudible, as she watched Emily's feverish colour die away into marble paleness, and felt how heavily that slight and wasted frame leant on her for support. "So young, so beautiful, so gentle-gifted with rank, fortune, and one so made to love and to be loved - and yet dying and dying, too, of that carefully kept grief which seemed a thing in which she could have no part. Alas! Life on what a frail tenure dost thou hold thy dearest and loveliest! Her heart has given its most precious self, and the gift has been either slighted or betrayed. And I," thought Beatrice-" I, who am so happy in the love I deem my own-how could I bear neglect or falsehood from Edward?Happiness, thou art a fearful thing."

It may be questioned whether Beatrice found either the support or the enjoyment in her father's society she expected. Keen in her perceptions, accurate in her conclusions, she could not but see the hollowness of arguments whose strength was in their sound; and she could not but perceive the absurdity of the small vanities which wore a giant's armour till they fancied they had a giant's power. However, the Grecian painter's veil is as good for a parent's folly as for