has been to me even as a sister- a watchful and affectionate sister!" The tears filled her eyes, and soon fell thick and fast; they came with all the gentleness of rain, and her softened mood brought almost happiness with it. The imagination for a while drew the future as with the wand of a fairy; but it was the future of others- though a future that owed much to her affection. Suddenly she rose from her seat, and, drawing a little table to the fire, began writing eagerly. Her hand trembled, and the damp stood on her brow in large drops with the exertion; and before her task was finished, her heart beat aloud. At length two papers were completed one she folded and put in her desk-"I only ask till to-morrow:"- the other she tried to seal, but in vain her strength was utterly exhausted. Her head swam with a strange and heavy pain -she dropped her face upon her hands to still the throbbing pulses-she gasped for breathand on raising her face, her hands were covered with blood: it gave her, however, a temporary relief; but she felt too faint to move, and sunk back on the sofa. A light step entered the room - it was Beatrice. : “Oh, Emily, why did you not wake me?” Nay, I have not wanted you till now;" and throwing her arm round her companion's neck, she kissed her: it was a silent renewal of affection, as if she mutely asked her forgiveness for having envied her happiness. She was soon asleep; and Beatrice, now fully awakened by anxiety, watched over her unquiet slumbers as you would watch a feverish child. Once Emily started up-" Is my letter gone to Lady Mandeville?" But on Beatrice's assurance that it should be sent the first thing in the morning, she dropped her head back on the pillow and slumbered again. The sunshine of summer, and the showers of spring, brought in the next day. White clouds wandered over the sky, like the uncertain aims of the weak and vain-and like them, too, often ending in darkness and tears. The wind stirred the leaves of the old trees with a sound like falling rain-a melancholy voice that suited well with their gloomy shade. But in the garden was life in all its glad and bright hues : the early roses and the late violets opened their urns, exhaling in perfume the drops they caught, till every breath was pleasure; the laburnums, those prodigals of fleeting wealth, were covered with gold; and the Persian lilacs waved grace ful as the Circassian maidens, to whom they are so often compared in eastern song. Emily resisted all entreaties to remain in bed; and the party had finished breakfast before Mr. Morton arrived. The coldness and severity of his air vanished as he gazed on Emily, who, after a moment's embarrassment, requested Don Henriquez and his daughter to take Adrian as a guide round the grounds. They wandered for some time through the garden; at length they repassed the window. Emily was rising from her knee, and Mr. Morton's hand rested on her head, even as a father would bless his child. They caught sight of Beatrice, and beckoned her to come in. Mr. Morton passed her hurriedly in the hall, and she saw he was struggling to subdue a burst of bitter emotion. The trace of tears was on Emily's cheek; but she was quiet, composed, and less feverish. A moment after, Mr. Morton re-entered. But all parties conversed by an effort. Beatrice was anxiously watching Emily's extreme exhaustion. Don Henriquez, having nothing else to do-and an English house, moreover, recalling many early recollections-thought he could not take a better opportunity of being unhappy about the loss of his wife, whom, to speak truth, he had never had time to regret properly. Mr. Morton had ample matter for reflection in the altered looks of his early favourite; and the little attention Emily's increasing languor enabled her to bestow on any thing, was given to watching the hands move round the face of Beatrice's watch. God of heaven! to think what every segment of that small space involves!-how much of human happiness and misery—of breath entering into our frail tenement of mortality, and making life—or departing from it, and making death—are in such brief portions of eternity! How much is there in one minute, when we reflect that that one minute extends over the world! CHAPTER XVII. "How near I am now to a happiness Now for a welcome, Able to draw men's envy upon man ; MIDDLETON. THOUGH not, perhaps, taking such perfect poetry of expression, a similar train of thought passed across Edward's mind on the morning that he galloped through the woods of the fair Spanish province where dwelt "the ladye of his love." Leontio, in the drama, was very much disappointed in his reception; so was Lorraine. The last dark branches which intercepted his view gave way, and he saw a heap of blackened ruins. Scarcely aware of his own actions, he sprang from his horse. A single glance convinced him it could harbour no human |