dla i

Be a Ra i

Yel. AIL LITERATURE.

ee ee 8 AAA

SPIRITS AND ANGELS Lawely musing in the twilight, When the lengthening shadows fall,

Sprite be C‘ouve obedient to my enll Lost and loved ones gone Phantoms fatr from me Seen to thet be Miiway t

be amd holy angels

before me—

ory Wwon—

mre tiv f cy,

» the settin i

I can see them, robed in beanty, Some re poreiny, some forlorn,

Freund tout of darkness inte morn

On the chimes I hear their y Visispering solace frou the s

Holy angels, } newr

, Hower ne i Fit my soal fer Purudi«

vy all, and sent te

-—- -

THOUGHTS AT PARTING.

Ww, spok ‘of many a vanished scene, Of what we once had thoaght and said, On what had been, and might have been, And who was changed, and who was dead; And all that filla the hearts of friends, When first they feel, with seeret pain, The ves thenceforth have separate ends, And never can be one again Phe first slivht ewervirg of the heart, That words are powerless to eXpress, And leaves it still unsaid in part,

(lr suv it in foo great eXeess

The very bones in which we spake

Had something strange, | could but mark ; The leaves of memory seemed to make

A mournful rustling in the dark.

a THE WITNESS. PN THREE PARTS.—PART 1.

t hare nothing but what is small and conm- monplace to say of myself. Left an orphan ata very early age, | was educated to be a governess, and 1 began my career ‘in the nursery line,’’ at searcely seventeen, and with rather a meegre stock of acquirements J ‘ourned muck by teaching ; and at five-and- twenty | fuund myself well established in my vocation, and enabled to give ‘* the highest and myst satisfa< tory references.”’ | have, therelore, bo grievous descent in position or circumsances to Gurraée ; no bitter regrets, nor heart-breaking recollections: I went on quietly, enacting the part for which L had jung been prepared, and success in whieh was, in trath, the object of my humble am- lution, and my lot as governess has not been at all interesting or adventurous. I was never almost starved, never nearly beaten— ny elder or younger son fell madly in love with me, nor did ther older relative tempt ae tosinand shame. 1 yassed along an or- dinary course, often neglected, and some- times ill used, but more irequently treated with censideration, kindness, and respect ; and at fifty-two t am able to rest from my Jabors on a secure little income, the result of long savings and a small legacy, and to set- tle myseli in a comlertable lodging near two very dear pupils. It is at their earnest re- quest that Lam about to relate some very sirange circumstances which oceurred in one ab thc feemilica im seheeck. L hewe wootdads

The scene of my terrible story was an en- ormous mass of irregular buildings of vari- ous dates, some of which reached back to the time of our earliest monasteries. It wax esiied Greyfriars Abbey, and was situated near the coast.ia avery remote part of Corn- wall. My papils were the twin daug)iters ofa retired East Indian officer, who had lost a young and beloved wile in India, and bad come home in broken health and spirits to live, as he best could, on & small pension The only relation to whom he felt much at- tachinent wus a cousin, who, in the prime of her youth and beauty, had married a cross, gouty, old baronet of large furtune. At her earnest request, Captain Sinelair, with his two littl® girls, took lodgings in a village close to Greyfriars, where his cousin, Lady |

Dightdn. and her very disagreeable husband,

were residing at the time of his recurn to

Hoagland. After repeatedly disproving the | Se oMpis medical attendants, by ral-

ying from violent attacks of the gout in his | head and stomach, and after a paralytic

ecizuge which rendered him nearly helpless,

the miserable old baronet, a burden to him-

self, and @ curse tu all around bim,was found

one morning dead in his bed, about a Jear

alter Captain Sinclair became his neighbour.

Lady Dighten's jointure was enormous; it

had been secured to her by a cunning and

unprineipled father; and the death of Sir

Thomas put her in possession of Greyfriars

Abbey, a noble modern mansion ealled Fair- Jey Park, in Wampsbire,and a yearly ineome of meny thousands. ‘To the latter residence, every one who knew her felt confident she

would repair as soon as common decency per- mitted, and many foretuld that she would speedily recommence the life of reckless gaiety into which she had plunged in the early days of her marriage. It was reported that she had been tricked into visiting Grey- friars by her jealous husband, and compelled to remain there. Ilis paralytic seizure oc- earred about a twelvemonth after their arri- val, and to the day of his death his unfortu- nate wife had been anceasingly the victim of Jia violent and capricious temper. Now, jrowever, she was [ree.

A pompous funeral conveyed the remains of Sir Thomas to the family-vault in the vil- ave chutch ; bis young beautiful widow femained in ous seclusion at Greyfriars Auring the whole of the ensuing twelvemonth, and the day after ite termination, walked quietly, arm-in-arm with her cousin, Capt.

Sahel ‘oni e te ion: wi d Sinelair, to the same ehurch, whence they | the reigning abbots of the ancient brother- man expression was gone, an i oer : — : z "shany small gloomy chambers were | and proud defiance lighted up her great bright | sound of wheels, that they might be ready

" ‘*Merey! | to rush to the door, when suddenly his mother | Id 7 7 it | stood up,and looking Yacagtly around, said ; | #9 his face, that I did not like to press the

‘At that | Subject.”

returned husband and wile. About seven

years after that event, | was recommended | in that part of tho abboy, abounding with | eyesassheanswered contemptuously: to them as governess to the twin Sinclair intricate passages and unexpected little | where is it? | - . 2 ed r crooked stair-cases. She inhabited twocham-| is idle to foul our tongues with words that | ‘It is oa es 3 Se aan a Merey ! where is it found? | moment, they pegan to hear the & ey | Bhireisibad ine is i 4 : rae ‘were watching for, but their attention was | Mr. M-Ilvar had gained some private know-/ { believe that almost as many persons were

#ris,then more than twelve years old. There were no younger chidren, Fairley Park

whims

many and eccentric proceedings. Mrs. Dalton described the change in her health and habits as very gradual. For ;Some time after the death ef her husband, she had appeared to enjoy her freedem from the outbursts of his maniacal temper,and her relief from a jife of the most miserable sub- jection Upto the time of her second mar riage, she went to church, walked and rode, or drove out as usual, and exhibited no par- ticular variation in manner or spirits; buta | few months afterwards, she gradually became ; weak in bealth and strangely nervous. Her }complaint was called a nervous atrophy ; her spirits were variable, and her behaviour capricious and strange. Although she ate voraciously, she grew more and more hag- gard in face and person, and resisted to the | uttermost of her power every trial of the j change of seene and air which was recom- ;}mended as her best medicines. jshe consented to go for a few weeks to a | Watering-place within easy reach of Grey- }friars. A house was taken, every luxury and comfort prepared for her, and the family arrived there one evening, with a host of | servants and appendages. jthe next morning, Captain Sitclair roused the astonished household, and ordered the {horses to be put to the carriages, and the

whole party were again at Greyfriars long!

before their ordinary breakfast-hour. ** From } that day,’’ continued my informant, * sve ‘never entered a carriage; ber walks in the } grounds became less and less frequent ; and | for more than the last twelve months she has , never quitted her own apartments, which are the most ancient and the gloomiest in the | abbey. Capt. Sinclair does not share them ; } she will not even allow a servant to sleep in her room; and they say she bars her door jevery night, as if she expected to be mur- dered.”’ ‘** Does she see any one besides her own family ?°° ** No; not evena medical man. It is years since she has been to church. and since Mr. Dalton or [ have spoken with her. Poor Captain Sinclair humours her in everything. Chey have now been married wore than seven years, and Lam sure he has never had as many mouths of anything like comfort in ner society. ** low dees ke bear it ** Just as you see: plenty of lounging in very easy-chairs, and of sauntering about or riding with the children; plenty of cheroots, and innumerable buoks of light reading from Londun—everything around him that can make time pass smvothly.”’ ** But he has no society ?”’ ** Little that can be called such. He de- clines all dinner parties, and interference in county matters. Lie sees Mr. Dalton some- times ; and the doecors who formerly attend- ed Lady Dighton oecusionally visit him, bear going on, and receive their fees in returo fer teliing him that the case is bope- But I must not fail to tell you that he isa most affectionate father.a kind and indul gent master, and always ready to give the most liberal help to our poor. Mr. Dalton never makes a claim upon his parse in vain lie thinks him avery good man; bat he

or

how she is

less.

(Gemly helicves tint his heart is buried with

his young wife in India, and that he has never felt more than gratitude and consinly regard towards Lady Dighton. *‘* More- over,’’ continued Mrs. Dalton smiling, ** il you can endure the Greyfriars life, which no other lady in your place has yet been able to do, [ really believe that no possible limit ean be put to the gratitude he will feel to- wards you.”

‘+l am to be introduced to Lady Dighton this evening,’’ said L; ** we are to drink tea in her apartment.”’

‘*Oh, 1 know they do that sometimes,’’| she answered ; ‘‘ and [ have heard your pre- decessors lament over the custom. They said the girls got away as soon as possible after tea; that Captain Sinclair said little or no- thing. and that they were left to listen to Lady Dighton’s strange talk till the hour of their pupils’ bedtime enabled them to es- cape.”

** Strange talk!’’ I repeated.

‘« Yes, it is sometimes very strange. Little as I ever saw of her, | know she could talk very strangely even before she shat herself up. Her father was, I believe, an avowed infidel. IT have heard from persons who knew him well that he was utterly devoid of reli- gious principle. He lived entirely by his skill at ecards and billiards and betting at races. Wretched man! he actually sold his beautifal young daughter to Sir Thomas The pin-money and juinture settled on her were extravegantly large. No doubt he ex- pected to long survive the old gouty baronet. but an apoplectic seizure carried him of only |

eekly

“"Phis is truc Liberty, when Freeborn Men, having to advise the Public, may speak free.”*---Euripides,

At leagth |

Before daybreak |

Charlottetown, Prince Edward Island, Monday, June 30, 1862.

she was seated. I never saw her inany other costume. There wasa table before her with a few books and writing materials upon it. The rest of the furniture was o!d and heavy ; and all around looked as if the inhabitant of the place cared neither for beauty nor order ; and so itwas. The pleasures of the eye, like every other pleasure, had passed away from | the miseruble woman for ever.

She rose to receive me with much courtesy. She spoke little during the evening ; but her manners were those of a perfect gentlewoman, and there was nothing unusual in her con- | versation. Afterwards, bowever, as she be- came more familiar with me, I found an in- | creasing change in her language and manner. | She was fond of paradox and of making start- ling assertions, affecting the very vitals of morality and truth. It was often difficult to pereeive how far she was in earnest, but too frequently there was a bitter sincerity in the vehemence with which she would maintain that there was no tangible reality in crime. The dreadful guillotine experience of which

nation to continue at Greyfriars even for her evidently dees not like to speak about it; thing but listen and laugh. suke—to do my utmost to win upon and sof- only once during our great intimacy has he | ner, he was the life of t

ENE:

Hournal of Politics, Literature, and Sews.

New Series.---No. 25.

During the din- @ party, clever, full

ten the old lady, and, if possible, to alleviate | mentioned it at all openly to me; and even ‘of ancedote, talking much, yet never ob-

her sufferings, whatever might be their ori- gin. Little did I think that a casual cireum- | stance of the very next day would soon scat- | ter the whole family, and leave me to seek | another home.

I have said that Greyfriars was situated in

the accompaniments of such a situation, dif- | ficultand even dangerous roads were naturally | to be expected. One peculiarity meriting| that character led down the steep hill which | sheltered the abbey to the north, into what) was by courtesy called the highroad through | the village, and on the morning which fol-| lowed the conversation I have just related,

two gentlemen-tourists, in their own gig, met | with an aceident in descending it. Captain Sinclair was roused from a pleasant simmer over & new magazine by the news that a car- riage was broken tu pieces within a sbort dis- tance of the abbey-gates, one gentleman kill-

[ had been told, could be clearly traced in} ed on the spot, and another dreadfully hurt. |

her definitions of homicide, and even murder. | According to her doctrine, that ‘+ kind of being, Cercumsiance,’’ might cast over the most flagrant offences so softening a shade as | to change their whole nature and appearance. Captain Sinclair always seemed to be as | much annoyed as his quiet nature permitted, | when she thus expressed her wild opinions to me. The girls always got away as soon as possible after tea; and when the conversa- | tion took any turn that displeased their fa- ther, it was his custom to rise from his seat, | jand walk up and down the room ; and I well |} knew that, as he drew near the door for about the third or fourth time, he would slink oat | vf ovr company in a somewhat cowardly | jmanner. I did not like to argue with her, | | but as IT could not without incivility leave her till the bedtime of the children, it was sometimes impossible to avoid argument, and even retonstrance. This she bore wondér- fully well, though often with an air uf silent superiority and compassion fur the obstinacy of my prejudices; but there were moments, few and far between, when she was evidently impressed and softened, especially, strange to say, when I almost involuntary quoted a | few words from the Holy Book she affeeted |to despise. It was indeed strange to see how they would seem to tell upon her, and jthen, fora bief moment or two, an expres- sion of such utter and helpless misery would pase over her poor haggard face, that | couid bhardiy bear to look at her; but it was only pity that I felt, and a eontused state of curi- vsity, for she never attracted or attached me. I had been at Greyfriars about a twelve month, when one eyening—the last we ever spent together—she was more than usually disposed to enter into conversation. thing was said of the likoness of the twins to each other, and we both agreed that it was not more, nur even so much, as is often seen hetween sisters of diff-rentages. ‘+ l once,” said she, ‘‘saw amost wonderful likeness: i¢ was under peculiar circumstances ; [shall never forget it. When £ was in Paris with my father in the year "92, our lodgings were in a street that led from one of the prisons to the guillotine. Our rooms were tn the! entresol, and we often saw the carts fuil.of condemned prisoners pass ¢lose by our win- dows. It used to intefest me to observe their various expressions of countenance, and to fancy how each would enact his last scene in this world. Sullenness aud pride seemed to me their most common emotion. IL could sometimes trace, mired, and a terror that I despised’ Cue morning, when Santerre and the huge and hideous Danton wore breakfasting with. us, L heard the well-known sound of the cart ap- proaching : no one moyed, bowever, till a crash and an outery drew us all to the win- dows. Something was wrong about one of the wheels, and as: it had happened just be-

Some-

|fore our bouse, we saw the persons in the |

cart as plainly asif they had been in the room with us. They were eight in number,

jand of ordinary appearance, except a very |young girl, who sat directly opposite to our bdvtag’

windows.

My father and his friends, the moment they saw her, uttered exclamations, and I was at first puzzled; I knew the face so well. 1 fancied | knew the girl, yet | was sure she was a stranger to me, and it was some minutes before | discovered that I was looking at a fac-simile of myself. thought pretty tlen,’’ continued she, with one of her ghastly smiles, *tand this girl was certainly very handsome. She had ‘com- plexion, hair, features, fizure, al] so like my own, that L seemed to be looking into-a mir-

rer, and as there was no painful expression | in her face, there was nothing to disturb the |

resemblance. We gazed fixedly at each

a few montis after the marriage, on the race other; and when the wheel was adjusted,

course at Newmarket.”’

** But of what nature is her strange talk ?”’

** Why, her father was a furious democrat as well as an infidel,’’ answered Mrs. !al- ton. ‘* He had been to France, and had in- timate friends amcng some of the leaders of \the Revolution. Three important years of ‘his daughter's life, those from fourteen to seventeen, were the years from "90 to 93, and they were passed in Paris, in the very heart of the horrors of that period. | Dighton is as familiar with the guillotine as | you are with your scissors, and she talks jand things which we are accustumed to hold in utter detestation.’’

It passed, however, better than I expected Lady Diyhton’s apartments were near the old chapel, and partly over the great monas- tic kiteLen. ‘Fradition appropriated them to

| hood. and the other a bed room,

| bere, one sitting,

Lady |

|eowposedly, and even approvingly, of men |

j}and the cart began to move again,she s:uiled, |

,and made a kind of farewell sign to me with her long white hand. 1 stood there full of

jlile, health, and youthful spirit, and she was stock,’’ answered Mr. Davis; ** and his fa-|

jina few moments to lay her young head, | with its redundant fair ringlets,on the block, jund pass away forever! I remember feel- | ing a natural sort of exultation that our fates | were as different as our persons were strange- ly similar. How often,since, have I thought of that poor girl !—how often wished “that I ,had been in her place in the fatal cart, and on the scaffold !”’

She paused, and that expression of hope- jless misery of which I have before spoken passed strangely into her face, and [ was tempted to say: ‘*Ah, if we could see the | future, life would be intolerable ; it is mercy | that hides it from us.”

In a moment, the sad, and, I may -siy,hu-

W hat stuff is it made of?

| : | have no meaning

i

was still unintabited ; and Lady Dighton, | both looking to «u inner quadrangle of the | Not on earth, where every creature preys

who had gradually become a confirmed in

A labyrinthine sort of communica-

} ahbey.

|upon some other; not in heaven, looking

. : “ ' " 7 € ities ha l » dle valid, had never, since her second marriage, | tion with the more modern structure broug't down, cold and pitiless, on the unutterable

quitted the gloomy and once bitterly hated

walls of Greyfriars Abbey. Every luxury | into a sort of lobby ; and through another | thankful

that , ' : in | great heavy door Captain Sinclair preceded | compelle money could procare surreanted wt 1 § J ’ moment the old clock of the abbey struck the |

" insté intro-| hour of my leave-taking. Lady Dighton had | over him! \ ‘ ; ; St en ae ier uae ana man 2 ine con than usually cuakenalia ‘declares that this wae all exactly true. His! mations at my attempt to deprive the stury | always blazing, not much inferior, | should i }

my new abode ; my salary was very liberal, ™ &partments the best ja a modernised part of tae abbey ; my pupils were gentle and in- telligent, and [ invariably met with the kindest courtesy from their father. Le wae auamiable, indolent, and somewhat melan- eholy man, who felt warm!y grateful to me a his rver from the misery of sending his gitls to schools. Numerous governesses Preceded me, and each in her turn had been worn out by the exceeding dulness and monatony of her life at Greyfriars ; and when Month after month went on, and the doating Sather found that I was perfectly contented, and that [ never importuned him to consent fo any schemes for the health and advantage

of my pupils, which would bave ineluded |

Pleasant plans and excursions for myself, I Teally believe his satisfaction and gratitude Were unbounded.

On my frst arrival, 1 saw for several days 7 Captain Sinctair, and the twins, Ellen 4 | Janet. Ife made sundry confused and indistinct apologies for Lady Dightow, in which the words health, nerves, Spizits, &e., were mingled and murmured withuut any Specific mention of ill or ailment. Soon, however, 1 learned from the kind and sensible

wife of the village vicar, the only lady who was a rich figured silk wrapping-gown, of a, But this was a small e Visited me, thatit was strongly suspeeted the dirk colour, open in fromt, but fo lung trial of attendance on Sir ‘Lhomas-had | so as not to show the Me srvadly allected Lidby Dighton, as to ren- jcent shawl upon her 8 Aes Ob umes sgarecly accountall {ye her three gtuers lying abyut yu

jus at length toa great heavy door opening

|me into a moderate-sized and very gloomy ‘apartment. duced to Lad | large-boned, proportioned ; handsome, a Roman nose, and large bright blue eyes, which seemed ready to start from

Dighton. ut perfectly well made and

her head, owing to the exceediug thinness | and luxuries surrounded me ; my pupils were | Ler face, the skin of which was stretched ( a. "the over her ‘cheeks and nose so tightly as almost | very servants, copying their kind and ¢ our the idea that it must be painful to! teous master, behaved tu me with a pleasant

to give i ; her. The complexion must have been ori-

ginally delicately fair and blooming; it was |My salary would enable me to lay by large now one uniform tint of pale yellow, except | for old age or sickness every ‘a bright crimson stain on each high cheek- tinued at Greyfriars, bone ; thin and scarlet lips, never entirely termination to my engagement ; covering the large, white, projecting upper Sinclair had teeth which were anpleasantly conspicuous | once of late,

head, lined and ful if 1 could remain permane vith bis)

at isfieabet erintend their introduction Into | was true that Lady Dighton) po ; nd that 1 did | wiestti as | hesitation. “ 01 we knowledge of the future; butifall sandy. ! : id | ia trae that.is told of him, he bas sometimes | smile and manner of speaking, and In a few | back of ) | , | minutes we were all listening with great | municating with his own apartments in the « A sense of the present is nothing very amusement to his account of their accident, | abbey, anddt was reached from the chapel trange or rare,’’ suid [ smiling: “1 do not and of his friead’s driving, to which alone,

| when she spoke.

interlined with wrinkles, spreading on what girls, and wok are called crows-fect at the temples; eye- | society. 3 brows and eyelashes almost sandy colvured. | troubled me at times, and | fou

’ : san | : ays so light hair, mingled with | not get commnenens tenes She frequently boast an

A quantity of very

ae j save all over it, J had gray. and with a natural wave ees cietnstiod amd distressed aie, than

covered not dismiss the recollection from my mind, h rt of curiosity about |

but always so carelessly arranged looked frizzy and untidy, and was

i é f= ief, tied r resist at uneasy so ay ff seepage vente deel he, for which I often reproaghed myself. s | vil compared wit my i remember | ning, though more | dees. not one’s self understand.

ex than usuah, the | that he

in a loose knot under the chin.

ided over numersus Plensingy and 1 well tticoat; a magnifi- that on this particular eve elas: and ion or | perplexed and grieved by b

the sefa on which

\misery of earth. To live isto suffer!’’ Very

On reaching the scene of the disaster, accom- his clerk, as composed and unimaginative a|

panied by aJl the male and several of the fe- | male servants, be found matters not quite so | bad as they had been represented. ‘There

| was indeed a gig with a wheel lying by its) | , 7 | Side, the shatts and traces broken, and the

horse nowhere visible ; a gentleman lay on | the bank, evidently in considerable pain,and | his companion, apparently unburt, was en | deavouring to supportand assist him. Cap-| tain Sinclair immediately despatched a man on horseback for the nearest surgeon, and, with the aid of a door taken off the hinges, und a mattress and pillows, the sufferer was brought to the abbey, and laid down in one of the lower apartments. . Ue spon recovered enough to sit up, and presently to stand up, saying, that the only injuries he had os

|

}

ed were a blow on the head, which had stunn- ed him for a few minutes,and some eotsider- | able mischief, he feared, theleftarm. The| surgeon, who had luckily been met with in | the village, soon asvertained that it was only a simple fracture just above the wrist, that would cause, aftera few days, little more than inconvenience. He could not pronounce | 80 povitively as to the head. Leeehes and lo-| tions were to be applied without loss of time, and the patient w_s to be key t perfectly quiet ina darkened room for et least eight-and- forty hours. The apartment into which he had been carried was a parlour in the mo- dernis d part of the abbey; a bed and other | requisite appendages were quickly moved in-

5

|

and aiter the leeches had done their |

work, he was left, by the doctor’s directions. |

in perfect ¢ i

keeper to attend to him. When Captain Sinclair and the other gen. |

tlemen came tous in the drawing-room, I re- |

cognised in thelatter an acquaintance of some | some light might be thrown on the mysteri- Ile was uncle toa pupil | Ous disappearance of the deed.

y urs’ stand ng. hose education L had whatis called ‘‘finish- ed,’’ and who continued to be a dear friend

of mine.

diing himself into the th Greyfriars. With a pleas ceremony, he beawed me t the Rey. Horace Davis,red

_Viving witness into his own service, insisted

. with ani he al Ouse- ‘S ; juiet, with only the old house | chamber at a specified hour on the following i day.

We were glad to see each other, | sys that he conversed with him in his usual and he said he thought himself fortumate in| manner as they walked along together; but finding it thus certified thatthe was not swin-| he afterwards remembered that, when within | tate has had the secret revealed to him by his pituble walls. of | the house,hestared aboutsomewhbatstrangely, predecessor, under a sulemn oath of the pro- at sort of mock | and changed colour. He was preceded up the foundest secrecy. and that he in like manner wuch that he was | stairs by a servant, closely fullowed by the {'s bound to confide it to his heir ander the | he

then,very briefly. and as if he wished to es-|

cape from the subject.’’

** And what did he say ?”’

‘‘ Tle said it was true thata strange and wretched feeling had come over him in places where any evil deed had been committed ;

!a remote and wild partof Cornwall. Among/and that sooner or later this feeling had | and attra

guided him in various indescribable ways to the discovery of the eriminal.”’

‘* Surely a species of insanity,’’ said I.

‘* Never was there a clearer or a sounder head in this world,’’ said Mr. Davis warmly.

** Did he give any instances of his having really exercised this strange power?” asked Captain Sinclair.

‘* No; be said they were very rare, and always accompanied by discomfort, and even distress of mind. However, if you will not think I do nothing but invent wonderful stories,’’ continued Mr. Davis, «J certainly could give you a remarkable instance ~ not within my own knowledge, but tuld to me by

man as a quiet elderly Scotchman can well be, and ¥.ho was himself present during all the circumstances.’’

‘*O pray, tell us,’" said every voice at once, for the girls were eagerly listening to the conversation.

** Well,”’ said he, ‘‘ [need not trouble you with all the particulars which led to Mac’s being consulted by a poor widow lady, whose whole income depended on the discovery ofa deed executed in the lifetime of her decease! husband, and which had been stolen from the place where it had been deposited. Such was her story. The heir-at-law, her husband's nephew, denied that such a deed had ever existed. The widow named two witnesses whose signatures had been put to it in her presence. One of them was dead; the other, an old family servant, admitted that he had signed some written paper, but he knew notaing more about it, and believed that it had been a power of attorney. Mac mistrusted the nephew from the first. He was a rich man and determined to have what he called his rights, although his success would reduce his uncle’s widow to beggary. {fis cunning was well met by Mac, who,hav- ing usccrtained that he had taken the sur-

upon seeing the man, Many excuses were wade: he was absent — he was ill; but the puint was not yielded ; and at length, upon Mae's expressing his determination to see the doctor who attended him,it was arranged that he should visit the sick man in his bed-

Up to that time, it does not appear that his views extended beyond a hope, that by strictly and carefully questioning the man,

The eierk who told me the story accompanied Mr. Mc- livar to the nephew's house in London, He

trusively, so that he pleased all his com- panions ; and the girls went to bed that night | fully persuaded that the world did not con- _tain any other mortal half so delightful.

This pan intercourse continued for /Several days ; we got more and more intimate cted by the guests to whom chance | had introduced us: consequently, when they began to talk of continuing their travels, every voice was loud in opposition ; and one 'day after dinner Captain Sinclair entreated | them not to utter another word of the kind

till Mr. M‘Ilvar had quite recovered the use | Of his arm.

| ** Atal) events, before we go,” said Mr. | Davis, ** | want very much to see the whole |of this most extraordinary jumble of build- j ings called Greyfriars es must know | jhave a spice both of the architect and the |antiquary in me,and I have paced round and round four courts and quadrangles.and peeped | into so many queer little windows and luop- holes, that I quite long to get better ac- _quainted with all the old passages and cham- | bers within.’’

|__** You must see the kitchen and the charel, |Mr. Davis,’”? said I; * they are considered | the great sights of the place, and the only | ones, [ believe, really worth seeing.’’

| ** Grace before meat,’’ observed Mr. M‘II- var. ** You should say the chapel and the | kitchen.””

“*You can see them this evening—in five minutes, if you please,” said Capt. Sinclair. ‘* As for the parts of the abbey that have been long shut up, | doubt if the old housekeeper herself, who has lived here at least Sols century, could find keys enough to take you over them. I, at least, have never attempted such a journey.’’

‘* Is it possible ?’? exclaimed Mr. M+Ilvar. ‘* Well, if [ lived here, I should never rest till L explored every corner and cranny. I have not heard half enough about the place ; surely there must be haunted rooms, se@ sret passages, sliding panels, and all sorts of mys- teries. [ am certain Charles I[. was con- cealed here somewhere or other: they show his hiding-place at Dunster, not very distant hence. History retains no record of his re- fuge there, and why should be not have been sheltered by Dightons as well as Luttrells.”’

“* Well, Mr. M-ilvar,’”? said [, « you are not far wrong in some of your conjectures, There is a secret chamber somewhere in the = ; is there not, Captain Sinclair ?”’

** Yes, 1 have heard of something of the sort,’’ he answered ; ** but you cannot very well sve it, if there is, as no one now living knows where to find it.”

“No ?’’ said both gentlemen in a breath,

** Positively no,’’ he replied. ** My wife would, [ suppose, be the sole possessor of the secret, if Sir Thomas bad not died so sudden- ly. Itis well known in this neighbourhood

cealed apartments exist in the ab

tradition goes, that each proprietor of the es-

also, a heroism that [ ad-|

Lb was |

worth, in Somersetshire, a

) bad become aequainted with each other. Le then told us that his unlucky companion. | Mr. M-livar, was a clever young Sevtch law- yer, of an old Highland family and that they

| tour together when this: misfortune befell

|them. Captain Sinclair, whose kind heart | | better accorded with his old Lodian habits of |

/hospitality than with those of Greyfriars, , Soon settled it authoritatively with Mr. Davis,

that he and his friend were to consider them- | .| selves as fixtures till the invalid was able to

be removed with perfect safety, | We separated soon after this conversation | to dress for dinner, and when we met again, it was @ pleasant surprise to me to see how this unexpected visit had aroused Ciptain Sin elair from his ordinary langour and silence. the next morning, ir. Davis brought us very excellent reports of ‘‘Mac,”’ ashe called him, who, he said, protested he was quite well,

and was grumbling most dreadfully at the |

| surgeon’s continued orders that he should be kept perfectly quiet, and at bis old nurse’s stubborn adherence to them. When, how- lever, another day had passed, and all fear of evil consequences from the injury to the | head hed vanished, Mr. Davis told us at din- 'ner that Mac had announced his determina- | tion to join our party on the following day. 5

low than IL aim,’ said he laughing. *Kyery- body likes old Mae.’’

| Captain Sinclair, who himself had some distant Scotch connections, began inquiring into the young Jawyer’s clan and family.

.

| ** Jie springs froma very ancient Highland

mify, it is said, are always clever and odd, asheis. There is scarcely a bonnet among the M‘Ilvars, | believe, thas has not a bee of sume sort or otherin it. Many of his ances- ‘tors were celebrated second-sight seers. His | father and mother were first-cousins, and he himself can remember some circumstances ‘connected with his father s death, which, to | was then about six years old, and I doubt | not a quick and observant boy, Lis father’s /return home was hourly expected after a long j absence in England. It was, he says, a still | summer evening ; there was a Jong and wind- ing approach through the grounds to their house, and he and his elder brothers and sis

that of hard | ters were anxiously listening for the distant

soon painfully drawn to their mother, who| ledge of the fuets, whicn he thought to star-| fed from it at that present time. The servants sank upon the ground, shroading her head | tle the man int» confessing ; and that much | of the household were very numerous, and

~ ag the carriage passed the | Of the mystification arose from the Seotck | as the ge s

{in a shawl, and,

was I that theentrance of a servant | nearest gate, she looked up with a ghastly | clerk’s dre d her to pause, and that at the same | countenance and said ; ‘Your father is dying rl

on an English bed —~ strangers are watching | 8° Ife is gone! he is dead!’ Mac}

were making @ little fishing and sketching |

** You will find him a much pleasanter tel- |

| say the least of them, are very curious. He |

or of Castle-Step- | clerk, who distinetly recollected that he stag- /Sume restrictions; but although the property dbrothér-in-law | gered more than orfee, and seemed to cling to | was settled on Lady Dighton, Sir Thomas to Josep) Baker, beq-, in whose house we the balusters.; Wien they reached the bed- | never spoke on the subject to her.’’

| roow door, be caugkt bold of the elerk’s arm, and visibly trembled. But, sir,’’ continued lhe, ‘as we passed the door, Mr. M‘Iivar let go my arm, and scemed, as it were, to push iné from him, and walked stra'ght up to the bedside. ‘Ihe room was very much darken- ed, so that at first | could scarcely distinguish the figure of the sick man under a heap of | bed-clothes. Mr. M‘livar pulled away the | clothes. * There is no sickness here,’ says he. ‘Sit up.’ I never heard sach a deep, fearful | voice as he spoke in. ‘The man raised him- Self in the bed, looking greatly bewildered ;