back, and shewed her head, from which the ringlets had all been so lately shorn: the hair had, however, grown rapidly, and it lay in the short, thick, waving curls of early childhood.

With the hope of relieving her oppression, the windows had all been thrown up. As if a sudden thought struck her, Emily rose, and, with Beatrice's aid, walked to the one which opened by some garden steps. "So much for auguries," said Emily, pointing to a young geranium, which was growing in vigour below. "The day before I left home, I planted that slip, and, in idea, linked my futurity with the slight shrub, saying, If it flourishes, so shall if it dies, I shall die too. See how luxuriantly it blooms!"

Neither of her friends spoke: the words of encouragement, of its being a good omen, died on Lady Mandeville's lips; and Beatrice led her back to the chair, finding no voice to urge the quiet she recommended by signs.

"It is twelve o'clock!" exclaimed Emily; and at the same moment the church-clock struck. The wind, which was setting towards the house, brought the hours slowly and distinctly. She counted them as they struck; and then, breathless with mingled weakness and

eagerness, unfolded the scroll she had written the night before. "I see your father and Mr. Morton in the garden; just call them in, Beatrice. I am of age now I want them to witness my signature."

They came in, and, almost without assistance, Emily wrote her name: the fine clear characters were singularly steady. "It is

needless for you to read this paper. I believe all that is necessary is for you to witness my signature." The two gentlemen subscribed it, and Emily took and refolded the paper; but her hand now trembled violently. "I consign it to your care, Mr. Morton," said she, in a

voice almost inaudible. Cmily amindel

As she was giving the packet, suddenly her whole frame seemed convulsed with violent agitation. A bright crimson flooded her face and neck, nay even her hand, from which, as she eagerly extended it, the scroll fell on the table.

66

My God! it is his step!" The door opened, and in came Lord Mandeville and Edward Lorraine. The latter caught sight of Beatrice; and, with an exclamation of wonder, advanced towards her. Emily made an effort to rise, but reeled, and fell with her head on Beatrice's shoulder. The unconscious Edward hastily

supported her. She raised herself for a moment-gave one eager look towards him-a frightful convulsion passed over her features; it was very transitory-for before Beatrice, who sprang from her side to reach some essence from the table, had returned with it, her face was set in the fixed calm and the pale hues of death.

THE LAST CHAPTER.

"O, Jupiter! how weary are my spirits!"

SHAKESPEARE.

THE winding-up of a novel is like winding up a skain of silk, or casting up a sum-all the ends must be made neat, all the numbers accounted for, at last. Luckily, in the closing chapter a little explanation goes a great way; and a character, like a rule of morality, may be dismissed in a sentence.

:

Cecil Spenser married his cousin, Helen Morland it was very satisfactory to find somebody who looked up to him entirely. He repaired the beautiful old abbey, which his father had allowed to go to ruin-built a library and a picture-gallery-threw open his preserves-refused to stand for the county—and if not happy, believed he was, and in such a case belief is as good as reality. He practised what Lord Mandeville theorised, who, in despite of his con

victions of the excellence and happiness of those who are

"Home dwellers on their father's land,"

accepted a foreign embassy to one of the most brilliant of the European courts, but where Lady Mandeville was the most brilliant and the most beautiful.

There is a very acute remark of Crowe's, which says, "the English rather desire to extract a moral than a truth from experience." I must own they do dearly delight in a judgment; and sorry am I that I cannot gratify this laudable propensity by specifying some peculiar evil incurred by Mr. Delawarr's ambition, or Lady Etheringhame's vanity.

Adelaide neither lost her life by eating ice when warm with dancing, nor her features by the small-pox, the usual destiny of vain creatures in the days of moral essays: she went on, like Lady Macbeth,

"For I can smile, and murder while I smile,"

till the rose and the ringlet became alike artificial; and she was left to that "winter of discontent," which shared its reproaches between the maid who could no longer make,