_ val Mitiiggiccn

vol. ADL.

¥J

©

Weekly

**This is true Liberty, when Freeborn Men, having to advis

Charlottetown, Prince Edward Island, Monday, July 7, 1862.

e the Pablie, muy speak

aurnal of Politics, Literature, and Alews,

free.”---Euripides,

SoS SLOSS = = -2 a es

New Series,---No. 26.

~ LITERATURE.

EEL LEI ELL OL LOLS rHE MOURNER A-LA-MOUDE.

I aw her last night at a party, The clegant party at Meads), And lvoking rear kably hearty e For a widow so young in her weeds; Yet I know she ’ BOFrTOW Too deep for the tongue o expresa-— dir why bh hosen to borrow So much from the langaage of dress?

is salfering

wl she «

: 41 J Her shaw! was as sable as night lork as her shawl

\ i! er wl ves were ts

And her tewels—that thas! the liacht Were black as a funeral pall er robe had the hue of the rest, How nicely it fitted her shape ') A id the grief that vas iving her breast Boiled over in billows of crape! What tears of vieur is woe, Tha se might have sullied her face, Were kindly peru i to flow ' ' i While ev its play, Had quit lngubrions scope, iw be waving away uid se t j I f the angel of Hope! ¥ the robes of a queen Was the sombre apparel she wore, I m certain Il never had seen =u sululp uous ow before ; And Il « evlel’ wt the Ip thinking the beauty, In neottirhning the loved a ud the lust, Was doing her conjugal duty

Altogether regurdiess of cost !

Que surely would say a devotion Performed at so vast an expense Bewayed an exeess of emotion That was really something immense; And yet as I Viewed, at my leisure, Thosaetokens of tender regard, I thougint—it ! MeAsire, The sorrow that yoes yard!

le scaree Without by the

Ah! grief is a curious yore, And yours, [am sorely afraid, The very next phase of the fashion Will find it beginning to fade ; Though dark are the shadows of grief, The morning will follow the night, Half Untes will beteken relief, . Till joy shall be symbolled in white!

Ah, weii!—it were idle to quarrel With Fashion, or aught she may do; And so I conclude with a moral And metaphor—warranted new >— When MEAsies come handsomely out, The patient is sufest they suy ; And the suskROoWwW is mildest, uo doubt, That works in w similar way!

—. 6 ————— THE WITNESS.

8 BIBS PARTS. -~PARTE If.

Although I was at the appointed spot be- fore seveu o'clock, Mr. Davis had preceded me. Hi. greeted me kindly, and when we were seated said,after pausing a few moments: +*My dear Miss Vernon, I cannot tell you how thankiul [am to havea friend in you well known to me; but for thislucky chance, I know not what I could do: Lam in the greatest perplexity, and | want advice.’

Il muttered something about readiness and willingness, feeling thoroughly perplexed myseli, and be thanked me, aad continued :

Could I believe my cyes? ‘The lamps shone full on the face of Captain Sinclair, pale as death, and seeming to shrink from sight in

‘+ Never saw her again ?”’ ‘© No,’’ she answered. ‘* She didn’t come back that day nor night; but that[ was used to, and I thought nothing about it. Next morning I saw one of the abbey grooms, ia lad I knew well, come running along our road there. and he looked seared, and he says: ‘What do you think, Goody? Sir |Thomas is dead—found dead in his bed.’ Something like this had been looked for,and had come at last. The boy could not tell me much more. He had been sent for the doc- tor, and came to me in his way home. 1| saw several of the servants that day,and they told me*the doctor said he must have been dead three or four hours, when his valet went to him in the morning, anda great | deal more abouf my lady and the mourning ; and altogether, it was* quite night before I |thought of the child, and then [ supposed | | they were keeping her to help them in some- thing or other. Well, next morning comes) perhaps before her very eyes. This would | the housekeeper in one of the carriages; she also explain Mr. Davis’s note. He wished | was going to the town to bay the servants’) to prepare me, and to spare me as much as | mourning,and she eame to me about a work-| possible. In the morning [ should hear all ; ‘woman there known to my daughter ; and | and the chariot would no doubt then be sent she told me all the story over again—how the | valet had found him quite cold, and locking | ever place Captain Sinclair had chosen to jas if he had not moved since he lay down ; | take refuge in. This was the only key to and after a long talk she was going away,| the mystery which I could discover; but the 'when all of a sudden: ‘ Where’s Grace ?’| packet in the writing-table drawer was stil! says she. * Maybe she would like to take a/ unaccounted for. However, I felt that my jride with me, and go and sce her mother.’ | best course was that of implicit obedience to Then I told her how she had gone to the | Mr. Davis's directions. We were set down jabbey, two days and nights afore, and not/ at the side-door of the abbey; and as the /eome back again. She looked surprised, and | girls had had their tea, and it ae their }eaid : ‘ Well, I uave never seen her since the | usual bedtime, I took them immediately to | day before yesterday ,when I remember meet- | their chamber, and without ringing bor a | ber.introduced herself to me at our first meet-\i™& her on the little back-etaircase.’ You an ti bes to oy " are a og | ing by staring impertinently in my face, say- | 8°¢ she used always to go into the avdey Dy | sible, telling eh m that elieved Lady ling: Oh you're the new governess, I ik | little side-door she could open for herself, Dighton had been suddenly taken ill, and bie?” However, I was glad to run with my jand go up a narrow stair into Sir Thomas’s| that we should hear all about it the next : : . rooms, and come away again, just in the} morning. When] left them and lighted the | companions to the near shelter of ber cottage, ’ : vice 34 oan page a land she received us with tolerable civility. |°%¢ W#y- Nobody heeded her. And the | candles in my own sitting-room, it was some | ah was anite alehe, the aitl whe waited 7. | housekveper said that very like some of the | time ere I could venture to open the table- om balne sheet ee eee in the wih. }under-maids had kept her to help in the | drawer. With a trembling hand, at length | lage work, for she was handy at her needle. I pulled it forward. A large packet lay be- eotil : ‘ But ['ll send her to you this evening, when fore me, directed to me in Mr. Davis's hand- The gentlemen began talking good-humour- I get back again,’ says she. ‘I don’t want | writing. W ithin it were several sheets of | edly to her, but they got only short, rough | he,» says I. Lowever, next morning she | closely written paper, in a hand I was not jauswers The rain continued to pour down oomes to me looking rather strange like, and acquainted with, and two notes from Mr, jin torrents, and a slender brooklet by the | the first thing she says was: ‘ 1s Grace here ?’| Davis; one numbered 1, and * Read this side of the road that divided the garden from | and then when I said no, she told me they | first’’ written upon it; the other numbered | the Greyfriars precinct soon became an im- jag hunted high and low, and she was no- }2, ** Do not read this till you have finished | passable barrier between us and our home.| wheres in the abbey ; and she was never|the manuscript.”” The first note merely | Mr. Davis said that when the rain abated he | found from that day to this. No one had | said: ‘ Read this manuseript to-night ; and } would make his way to the abbey, and send | jeeded ber in Sir Thomas's room, if she was} when you have finished it, read my second |a carriage for us. The girls talked to the there: and some think she had only stayed! note. ‘I will take care that you shall not be (old woman, and were amused by her surly | ¢ij) eyening at the abbey the day before he | interrupted.”’ answers; and Mr. M‘Ilvar and | began to | died, end bed elank away to an old gipsy, I passively obeyed. Having subsequently look at some prints that were framed and | wife she used to talk a great deal with. It} copied the papers enclosed to me, I will now bung in no very orderly fashion on the walls. | js certain that the gipsies were all gone the introduce the story they told in its proper They were old, and somewhat curious, and} next morning” 7 | place. the gentlemen asked Mrs. Wilson several) «+ But surely,”’ | interrepted, ‘if she had | questions about them. She seemed pleased gone with them, you must have heard some-| at the nutice they attracted, aud, after 4 (hing of her during so many years.”” time, beyan to converse more pleasantly than) = «& Well,” said the old woman, ‘ there was | My reasons for writing this narrative will she had dene at firat. Among the pictures P man who, a year or two after, thought he | be evident at its close. Many brief notices was a small drawing in water-colours, 80 | saw her dressed up very fine, dancing before | of that which [am compelled to tell will be | cleverly done, that it immediately attracted | show at a fair a great way off. For my | found in various places that will be certain to our attention. It was a single figure, with-/ part, [ think she must be dead. Some say | ¢ looked into, in case of my death or severe

ged since early morning, and the sky was too | threatening to admit of any long expedition, We agreed, however, if it held up after lun- cheon, to take a walk we had been projecting for two or three days, to see some curious rocks about a mile off, on the sea-shore.

Mr. Davis wrote his letter, and, with great satisfaction, I saw it myself put into the post- bag. He and I were so unxivus for the walk, thet we all set out soon after luncheon, al- though the clouds still lo »ked dangerous. Mr. M‘livar’s spirits improved as we went on, IIe was mueh interested by the curious caves in the rocks, and their beautiful marine in-

‘habitants, and the girls were delighted by | his descriptions,and the information conveyed in them. At last, we turned our steps home- | wards, and had nearly reached one of the ap- proaches to Greyfriars, when the rain,which 'we had quite forgotten, began to descend, jand in a few minutes there was a regular Cornwall] downfall. No shelter was near ex- cept a small house inhabited by an old wo- man, whom the late Sir Thomas considered to have some claim uponhim. He had given her the cottage and garden during his life- time, and left her an annuity in his will. I ihad been twice there with my pupils, both times to make some payment from the abbey, and at each visit had found with her a daugh- ter, the wife of a tradesman in a neighbour- ing town—a bold looking, handsome woman of about forty, whose manner was familiar, |} and seareely civil. Indeed, the mother her- | self seemed to think she was a privileged per- son, and | thought her particularly disagree- jable. She had a bard, cross old face, with nothing venerable about her, and, [ remem-

was 2 female enveloped in shawls, and with a handkerchief thrown over her face ; but I knew the shawl. I could not mistake the firure. [owever incredible it might seem, | felt certain that it was Lady Dighton. Yet the carriage had no sooner passed than [ tried to persuade myself that it could not be

W hat strange what unheard-of cireumstances could have so suddenly changed her long fixed resolution never to leave Greyfriars? The strong impression on my mind, that M‘Ilvar was insane, filled me with horrible conjec- tures that some dreadful scene bad occurred at the abbey : perhaps he had destroyed him- self—perhaps injured others. Lady Dighton might have been induced to quit the place if some fearful act had been committed there—

LADY DIGNHTON’S NARRATIVE ADDRESSED 10 CAPTAIN SINCLAIR.

delicate-looking girl about ten or twelve! her with him. Anyways, since the house | think of me as they please. A simple fact is

Troubled as 1am, 1 cannot but feel that) years old —a little thin pale girl, with light | beeper saw her on the stairs the day before told in them, with directions how to act upon

there is something ridiculous in what | am ubyuut to confide to you. That fellow Mac

has taken one of his second or third sights,

about Greyfriars. He is quieter and more rational this morning, but half last night he Was raving about the atmosphere of crime that is arvund him. He says the feeling came on elightly at first in the kitchen; in the chapel, and especially in the abbot's gal- lery, it increased every mowent, and when, he was recovering from bis swoon, and saw | Lady Dighton, be knew at once that it all centred in her.’’

** Good heavens !*’

“ Ah, you may well exelaim. [ am afraid to tell you half the things he suid last night ; and even this morning, he steadfastly wain- tains that there is dreadful] sin somewhere in | thie place; be cannot yet particularise its, exact uature, but it belongs to poor Lady | Dighton in sume way or other. One of his} fancies is, that she either murdered Sir Tho- mas, or that he is still alive, and concealed in the abbey — probably in the secret apart- ments; and ~

* He is perfectly mad,”’ I interrupted im-

lit. No doubt, it will fiil them with aversion and horror. differenee to me.

bair and small ehildish features; and it at| he died, she has never been seen or heard of once produced that carious impression some- | to any certainty.’’

times given by portraits of unknown persons; = She paused; and I was about to say some- —namely, that it was no fancy figure, buta! thing, when my eye suddenly fell on Mr. a likeness, and a good one. ** Whoever drew | M«flyar, and I could only catch Mr. Davis's that little lady,”’ said Mr. M-dlvar, ** wa8%/ eye, and point towards him. He seemed as good artist.”” lif paralysed, and fixed to the spot on which

Bat there is one whom |

the inoving impulse of my miserable, misdi- rected life. 1 wish him also to understand truly what that life has been before and af-

** Ay,’ said the old woman, “that was) he stood; his face was ghastly, and his ex- | %? knew him. Oh, could he have given done by a lad in our village: he has long pression that of a strange and wild distress, | ™¢ his first love, how changed would that

been gone ap to London, and, they say, is! and bis thin weak hair literally streamed up- | life have been ! getting a good name by his pictures;’’ and | wards from his brow, as if lifted by the wind. she mentioned a name that Mr. Davis said! 4 poment elapsed, during which we were he thought he had heard of. |too much astonished to speak or move. Lie ‘fam sure it is a good likeness,"’ said he. | thon came a step or two forward, staring at| died very young. My father never spoke of | ** A daughter of yours, Mrs. Wilson ?”’ /us, and yet not seeming to see any one, and | her to me. My first remembrances of him | ** No,” she answered dryly—‘‘a grand- | saying in a fearful sort of whisper several | take me to various smal}} lodgings in faghion- daughter.*’ _,. | times ** A witness! a witness!’’ and immedi- | able seaports and other frequented watering. | Why, Goody,’’ cried out both the girls | ately waving his arms wildly above his head, | places, where, when a very small child,I had at once, ‘I never knew you had a grand-| he repeated almost in a scream: ‘* A wit- / some careless dirty girl to look daughter.’ ness! a witness!’’? and rushed out of the a fresh one at every town we went to. After | ‘+ Likely not,”’ eaid the old woman. — jroom. The next instant we saw him bare-/ { was about eight years old, I had no atten- | The girls were now full of questions. | },eaded in the still pouring rain. He leaped dant, but managed for myself, strangely ‘¢ Where is she ?’"—‘‘ We never saw her.’’— | the brook, and fleeing on towards the abbey, enou rh, I believe ; and I was more or less | “Is she Mrs. Brown's daughter ?’’—** Does | was out of sight in an instant. | neglected, according te the temper and habits | she live with her mother ?"’ I eould only look at Mr. Davis. He came! of our different landladies, with whom I used | ‘* No,” at last answered the old woman ; | tg me in great agitation, saying: ‘* 1 must | to associate, and generally take my meals.

I have no recollection whatever of my mo- ther, but I believe that she was not the wile | of my father, and that she either left him or

j = ; after me,and |

the opposite corner; and on the side next me |

back to convey me and my pupils to what- |

out baekground or any accompaniment, of a/ Sir Thomas was so fond of her, that he took | illness. The finders of those papers may |

This 18a matter of perfect in-| mo cyen to look at him and hear hum speak ; |

wish should know,that love for him has been |

thinkers of those wild and terrible years — | proposed, and encouraged me to join a gay

strugglers for right and truth, who

glorious objects. and too often, oe, pines tention of stopping wherever there was any

in the effort. I had no prejudices blank, and [ grasped the new knowledge that was presented to it with my whole heart and strength. J think it has never really failed me; but of this [ need speak no more. We returned to England when I was barely | fifteen, and at a seaport which happened to be the first place we remained at for any time, my father discovered a distant relative /in a youth recently nominated to a cadetship at Calcutta, whither he was about to sail, but had been detained by contrary winds. He remained there only a few weeks, but those few weeks decided the whole aspect of my future life. Charles Sinclair was continually with us. He knew no one in the place, and ; was mach too young and too amiable to be aware of the nature of my father’s habits and associates. Indeed, they saw but little of each other. I was his daily companion. We spent the long summer days together on the shore, or roaming inland, sat on some shady bank, looking on the blue sea and the cloudless heayens. Four weeks passed in this }manner; my life will tell their influence on

crity, stipulating only that [ should accom- pany him to Greyfriars a few days before my friends commenced their journey, and join |them when they drew near our neighbour- ‘hood. ‘To this I agreed without the slightest suspicion of his intentions. The result is well known. I entered these gloomy walls, and became a prisoner within them.

It were in vain to tell how desperately I | resisted ; how satanically he enjoyed his tri- umph. Ishould here say, however, that during the first day or two that followed our arrival, and before he had thrown off the | mask, my husband revealed to me the curious | secret of some concealed rooms in the abbey, | that its possessor was pledged to disclose only to his next heir, and that this property being included in my settlement, he was bound to j}make me acquainted with their existence. He was most particular in describing to me | the extraordinary ingenuity of the mode of concealment, and the impossibility of dis- |covery, the entranco being of most intricate approach, and forming, apparently, an un-

ee

most desperate epirits and determined free- termined opposition to whatever | planned or of Sir Thomas. It often occurred to me that

I was placed precisely in one of the situations

too often party who were projecting a sort of progress which used to be discussed and commented had to wade through blood .to attain their through the western counties, with the in- upon by my father and his Parisian friends.

They were fond of discussing and refining up-

f educa- | sight to be seen or pleasure to be enjoyed. | on the degrees of what was called crim‘nal tion to fetter and blind me; my mind was a | He agreed to the scheme with singular ala- and sinful.

They would propose imaginary cases, such as a man who. to save a starvi family, takes from the hoards of the hearted and avaricious the goid that was useless to the possessor, and never expended in kindness or charity : of the wife who leaves a careless and cruel husband to shelter in the arms of her first and only love, from whom ishe had been separated by treachery or violence ; of the one life that bars many from freedow and happiness—a life, as they put the case, of utter uselessness, the worker of no good, but of much evil—a life, the removal of which would not be the extinction of a light, but the erasure of a foul blot. I sew | the genuine truth, the perfect justice of these | arguments. I had no prejudices, religious or | moral, to oppose to them, and there was |nothing in them to shock or disgust me. There were moments when I felt in myself that [ had power to be guided by them ; but | the barrier between my present Lodanene | liberty secured by my own hand was an in- _surmountable dread of discovery, and even of suspicion. The entire love of my whole

(me. To him they were only pleasant hours broken surface of wall ; and as the fastenings! #eart had been to one who, hedged abcut by passed with one for whom he felt perhaps | within were of great strength, i was im pos- | slavish Opinions, and fettered by the tyranny

| somewhat of a brother's liking. When we

sible to discover any break or opening, 80

parted, it was with promises never to forget | long as the concealed inmate within chose to

| cach other, and to write frequently.

keep the bolts and bars im their places. I

| I cannot speak of the utter wretchedness | ¥S interested by these details, and curious

that followed that parting. at last began to notice that I was looking ill, and made some faint attempts to think about

ther town, he satisfied himself by deciding that I only wanted change of air and scene. A letter from Charles from the Cape gave me new life, and wilfully misconstruing its kind and affectionate expressions, [ began to con- sider myself the affiapced wife of my cousin. My letters, however, like his own, contained |nothing beyond tender recollections of the , past, and indefinite hopes for the future. I /suppose womanly instinct compelled me to

out to me, as it were, by his own letters. | My father seldom saw his, and never mine. He did not object to the correspondence, and | I believe seareely gave it a thought. Mean- | while time wore on, and my debut asa public singer began to be talked of ; and it was more | than three years after my cousin sailed for India that we removed to Bath | pose. Here various delays occurred. owing | to engagements of my father’s, the objecis of which were unknown to me; and afterwards | [ was unable to sing during an entire winter j and spring from the consequences of a violent cold, which produced weakness in the muscles of the throat and chest. It was at this time that we became acquainted with Sir Thomas Dighton. I need uot descrive him. His en- /ormous wealth, infamous character, and satanic temper, are well known to all who ;ever heard of him. ‘This man conceived a Violent passion for me, On my part I posi- | tively detested him. It was disxgreeable to | but my futher soun began to perceive tle manifold advantages that might result from his insane passion, and ult:mately he became a mere puppet in his clever hands. These considerations, coupled with the dread that

| L might permanently lose my voice, induced

| bim to encourage Sir Thowas’s visits, and to

| employ both threats and persuasion to compel

me to endure his society, and treat him with tolerable civility. At that time [ had no idea of the real cause of his so constantly associating with my father; thought only that he lust his money freely, and that he preferred playing at our lodgings to the pub- lic rooms. [ had frequently before been obliged to play the civil hostess t» men who were repulsive tome. I was hardened to bold admiration and vulgar flattery ; but at length the truth became manifest to me, and I saw the precipice to which my father was leading both my ancient lover and myself. Each day that came might bring the announcement of my doom, and I nerved myself to the most obstinate resistance. I felt that my father

tiently. ‘+ Poor, old, evil-tempered Sir | ‘she never lived with her. Brown woulda’t | follow hin directly. What can he be going | One of these persuns with whom we remain- little knew the sort of character which he Promas died in his bed, just as it had been

Tepestedly foretold by the medical men, that he would du; indeed, it was a wonder that) he lived so long. ‘The idea of his not being dead and buried! I know Dr. Saunders saw | him after his death, fur [have more than} once heard him saying so, and speak of tLe expression of his countenance. W hat can we du with this madman, Mr. Davis? How lucky it is that you spoke so decidedly yes-| terday albvut goumgaway! Iam very sorry ; bat you must see with me, that the sooner you can get him away the better."’ “Yes,"’ answered Mr. Davis, with a sort | of melancholy drollery—** yes, that is very true; but he won't go.”’ ** Not go?” “No; positively no. Ife declares the clue | bas been put into his bands, and he must. wait to see where it ig to lead him. He never had this strange super-knowing s0_ strong upon him before. He promises to be quiet and passive, bat here he must remain | ull further light comes to him.”’ * This is intolerable ; this eannot be per- mitted,” said i. +* You must write to his friends. fas he any brothers?”

’ j # ¥es, two; and luckily the elder one, a

sensible fellow, is now in Bath. | er to him #0 come hither. to-day will reach him to-morrow afternoon.

Aay evening.’’

a Well,” said I, **antil he comes, we must our best to amuse your friend, and keep im as much in the open air as possible. There Ate several places in the neighbourhood well Worth seeigg ; we must plan some little ex- tion for each day; the girls will be de- ted; and we wast make the best of it Wecan. llow unlucky itis! I have never geen Captain Sinclair so cheerful and so con-

versable as since you came.”

“I think,”’ said Mr. Davis, “your plan is 3% good a one as weean devise ; it will interest Mae, and divert his mind; and as he is not Jet strong, { hope be will come bome tired, aad be quiet. Two or three days will svon Pass away.”

“Yes,* sail I; “but I must ask one

;”’ and [ paused.

“What may it be?” he asked.

“ Please, never leave me and the girls one Moment alone with him.”’

“Ob, I will promise that,” he answered laughing. ‘1am sure he js not at all dan- gervus; but I pledge myself to keep guard thfally.”’ lens then went into breakfast. The mer is copied from my journal, written on Same cant tats at night. . * >

What a day this has been !—I can scarcely my thoughts to give a clear account of it—bat I feel how important it may be to Tecord all that has passed as soon as possible, to insere that nothing is misrepresented or omitted. Sleep is out of the question ; so | Will try to relate all that bas happened, jus’. as it occurred. _ Mr. M:livar appeared at breakfast, look- ing pale and harassed, bat perfectly quiet sud collected in manner. He answered our inquiries by saying that he was quite well in; but he spoke seldom, ate lit ‘The weather had uafortunately chan-

have her.”’ |tode? I will send a carriage for you.’’|ed must have been a very ‘good kind of wo-| «What! not his own daughter oe | He then took his hat, and went out quickly. | man; she had fermerly kept a humble school | ‘* He warn’t ber father. Never mind about |] remained ina state of astonishment and | of some sort, end at odd-and-end times she | her father.”’ : dismay that I cannot attempt to describe. | taught me to read and write, which I learned | «Then whom does she live with ?”’ 'fhe girls came hurrying up to me, asking | very quickly, and it became the means of | ‘* She used to live here with me,”’ answer- | what was the matter. ‘The old woman only | throwing a ‘new light on my strange manner | ed she. **I was forced to have her, or Brown | jooked puzzled, and said: ‘* What be they | of life. My father was almost always ab-| woulda’t have married Hannah.”’ _, | both off in such a hurry for?’? I could/ sent, and when at home did nothing bat) Janet now looked very solemn, and said: answer neither question, and my own wild | practise with cards or diee, and read novels. |

had formed, or rather suffered to form itself, and that while there must be a limit to his power and influence over me, there could be none to my defiance of both, provided I had strength to persevere in my rebellion, and strength I felt that I possessed, and could fearlessly employ.

When the dreaded moment came, however, it found me utterly helpless and incapable of

*© Is she dead, Goody ?”’ jand vague conjectures soon settled into the | hese were always lying about, and they be- | -.sistance—indifferent as to what my fate in

‘Nobody knows,’ was the short, graff | conviction that the unfortunate young man’s | came my daily and best loved amusement. | jf) might be—careless of life itself. The answer. had insensibly been attracted by | morbid state of mind had suddenly become | At another of our lodgings was alad who bad | yory day before my father laid before me the all these rapid questions and short, sullen positive insanity. It was fearful to think of |a good voice, and used to sing at tavern-par-| rao snificent proposals of Sir Lhowmas, | re- answers; and when she said: ‘* Nobody | what he might do or say when he reached | ties and at the theatre, when the players ceived a letter from my cousin, telling me of knows,”’ I could not help looking at her with | the abbey. I had no hope that Mr. Davis | made their annual visit to the town we were ig marriage, after a few weeks’ acquaint- surprise. ** Ab, you may look,” said she; |} would overtake or even arrive soon after then inhabiting. He was very good-natured, | ance, with @ girl as penniless as himeelf. His ** but nobody docs know. Some say she went | him; he was a much older and heavier man | and he liked my voice, und taught me tosing jatter was full of her beauty, her sweetness. with the gipsies, who took her because of | ang M‘Iivar had some minutes the start of | several songs alter h’s own fashion ; and this 444 her numberless perfections. I saw how

| ghe was too old to be stolen.’’

immediately, and urge him just » week Let mé see—a letter posted | eight years agone, and more. She would be ‘ping umbrella, and ina few minutes began | twenty now, |'m thinking. There’s the book | ¢, ‘Hake

If be starts direct! y,le may be here by Thurs-| he gave her on her birthday upon the shelf |. nused themselves by helping her and toast-

her singing: one man said he wassure he | him, Itseemed absurd to connect his seizure | circumstance, as | made out long afterwards | saw her dancing in a booth ata fair; but) with the old woman’s story, and yet I could) from recolicetion and better acquaintance most think she be dead. [ know nought | not help looking again at the picture. It) with the world, led to a great change in our) about it; I didn’t want her afore, and I) was only a little, thin, pale child. Nothing ordinary mode of life. | don’t want her now.’ She paused, and oa | could be made of it, and I sat down in de- sane A iain toads ole cots at Usceceresing an; though neces ops, 22s |apeit, 18 suntinned to rain heavily; the! crouched up in a corner of the old horse-hair wenton: * You see we were not over-good | obstacle between us and the abbey increased ‘sofa in our one sitting-room, I was singing friends together. She must have run away ;/ every moment; and drawing my ehair to| sway ata ereat rate, with ay even Bk the window, I watched with painful eager-| 16 atter song, with all the flourishes I had ness for the appearance of the promised car-) ).05 taught to bestow upon them. A slight riage. , ; .. | noise made me suddenly start up, and | saw

The servant girl eoon came in under s drip- | standing within the doorway one of the men | my father had got intimate with in the place we were then staying at. I knew him well | by sighs, and he nodded to me and said: “Is Blake at home?’’ [ answered no, and he turned and went down stairs again. That same evening my father brought this man home with him to drink and smoke; and as I sat with my dirty novel in a corner, | now

«* Tlow old was she ?’’ « Let me see —she was twelve years old before Sir Thomas died ; that be

preparations for tea. The girls

there—that red one.” ing bread at the fire. They made a hearty

Mr. Davis took it down, and read from the | 1¢4] when all was ready ; and I took a cup {first page: ** From Sir Thomas Dighton to | of tea, still anxiously waiting and watching. his dear little Grace on her twelfth birth-| Ono two, three hours passed without a sign day.” . ‘that we had been remembered. Evening

“His dear little Grace!’ I repeated, in| ¢ ime on; and it wasas dark as a June even-| 3 then caught a few wordsof their conver- ‘some oo ” | ing could be ere I saw a carriage approach-| , tion At one time I heard the man say : | + Yes, he was very fond of her, she Te- jag ; when it reached the gate,l was greatly | “She will be very handsome ;” and at an- }plled; “and. be hed. @ zight to ae, con- \surprised to see that it was a heavy old- other: ‘‘With that face and voice, if she is _ tinued she. winking, and looking at me with | f.shioned coach, which I had seen only when weil taught, and gets rid of all that vulgar disagreeable significance , then, as if she bad! ¢i6 coach-house doors happened to be open. ekary sive would positively’ Be a thine of at lust warmed up to tell the story, she went | write I passed them, I had expected the |. sith’ a mine of wealth, I say.” ‘on. ‘He had her up to the abbey most chariot, as the other two carriages was an 1 ootoh my father’s answers,as he evidently ‘days. She wasa cute child, and he liked | open barouche and a phaeton. I ran te the |). 14.4 his voice, and so in general did the ‘her to read to him, and to sing to him; and jdoor. A footman was on the box; and he other, bat not so cautiously, and ina few

I did |

blindly I had deceived myself; I felt that he now loved for the fir-t time, and I was stun- ned by the blow. I perceived the greatness of my self-delusion, my mad passion, my vain hopes; but soon paramount over every bitter feeling was the determination that he—that none—should ever know of my sufferings. lt scemed to me as if I could take my swelling heart into my hand, and crush it into sub- mission. Even that same day I wrote warm congratulations tu Charles Sinclair, and told him how much [| rejoiced in his happiness. On the following day 1 was the. afiianced bride of Sir Thomas Dighton. My marriage took me into a new world of lavish expendi- ture and incessant gaiety. Sir Thomas, proud of his young wife, filled our princely abode at Fairley Park with visitors of dissi- pated habits and doubtful reputation. My father encouraged him, aud revelled in the luxuries and _elf-indulgences so suited to his tastes and wishes, but which he had never before been able to enjoy. He believed that he had secured for himself a life of unremit- ting pleasure, as he had taken care to appro- priate to me a large income wholly indepen- dent of my husband. The doting old man had yielded to ali his demands, and had left the arrangement of pin-money, settlement, and jointure entirely tohim. lle was many

‘wt last he had a bed put for her in a closet | iyined down and gave me a note, saying : | {oat of his own room ; and when it rained, |7. pe *.

: 1 this di. | munutes I again distinguished the words: ‘1 i fine, he kept ee eee begged yon Wense, Sees Wie ‘a could give you a letter toa man I know in and many times when it was we . he al ma’am.’’ The man had a scared an 'Paris, who would do all you want.” No | hor there to sleep. [ never knowe : ether | pawi dered sort of look,I thought ; but with- more was said that [ could hear, as I did not ‘she would come back or not; ae — out speaking, | took the note to the candle listen very curiously, snd it was long before cared ; 1 was justas well without ne 0 Wit in the cottage. It contained only the fol-|¢ began to connect this conversation with our | her—better, indeed, for she ao made me | jowing few lines : cemnal te Posie akeak tnd. qoute alter. cross ; and that’s how it — that it was 60 «* Dear Miss Vernon— Ask the servants | wards. We lodged with a music-master, a long before she — —o no questions. Send the children to bed as | yjolent democrat, from whom I received daily | ** Not missed ?”” said I. tof three days | @2ekly as possible. When quite alone,look | jessons in music and singing. 1 had also ** Well, it wore the best ap ee h ak in the drawer of your writing-table for a dancing lessons, combined with what was | before we really ante roe t et a packet from me. it to-might, and re- | called deportment. I was pleased with my | neither here nor at the abbey. eel main in your apartments. 1 will come to | new studies, and with the flattering praises I ‘our surprise and attention pleased t fe | you early in the morning.” ‘met with, and I very much preferred my ea rete _ ee By the time I had read these words, the Parisian to m a ehaeane pricey (and continesd. : ; \ gi ady to go; and we entered the Three years of my lle, - — 7 T ‘a quarrel at breakfast; and when it was girls were re y, Bo; con cad ieeemy abe in Paria; they were memo- one, she took her bonnet and shawl, and she ¢arriage; the eta wcchter Oe ms hinaepe iene: 90 to "94. y father had