questing to see the lady of the domain, and holding in his arms a bundle of rich drapery which he seemed to have rescued from the river. The Countess, impelled by humanity, hastened to the hall, and there saw the old man drawing from the envelope an infant, which seemed perishing from cold and want, but which, from the story hastily told by the fisherman, she concluded had been swept by the floods from some of the villages in Bavaria. Means were immediately used for the recovery of the child, whose pulsation soon returning, gave hopes of its perfect restoration, and the Countess had now not only leisure to listen to the old man's story (who said that he had found it in a light wicker cradle which had been overturned upon the bank), but also to examine the dress of the child and the furniture of its cradle, which bespoke opulence and nobility.

mencement and improvement of her education as her years should advance.

Though determined to provide for her support, she feared not that the generous heart of the young Ernest would at any time blame her for her generosity, and as it was impossible, under all these circumstances, that the fair Seraphina could pass for his sister, she took care as soon as reason had sufficiently dawned in their young minds, to inform them both of the events of their infancy. The attachment resulting from a uear similarity of years, and perhaps that delicacy of sentiment which pervades the virtuous breast, had habituated them to consider each other as brother aud sister, and to consider the Countess equally as their mother, until the period when she chose to explain the mystery to them both. At this period Seraphina was old enough both to understand and to feel her almost unprotected,

The maternal affection which filled the and really dependent situation; nor cou'd she heart of the Countess, rendered her trem-stop her tears when Ernest, now a fine youth' blingly alive to the feelings of the unknown of fifteen, bade her weep no more as he would parents, and to the sorrows which must have still be a brother to her. filled their bosoms for the loss of a lovely female infant not more than eighteen months old, supposing it doubtless to have perished; she therefore took the earliest opportunity of making every inquiry respecting its parents, but the unsettled state of the country, from the horrors of war, rendered all her inquiries unavailing.

Prepossessed with the idea of its being of noble birth, and being unwilling to believe that it had been voluntarily deserted, in which, indeed, she was confirmed by the richness of its habiliments, as well as by the time which must have elapsed from its birth, she deter mined to take the same care of the child as if it had been her own, and to make a provision for it out of her own superfluity, if chance, or the all guiding hand of Providence should not restore it to its parents.

Notwithstanding the probability of the young adventuress being already a Christian, the pious Countess availed herself of the rites of the church, and though she did not believe her fair charge to have dropped from the clouds, yet she bestowed on her the name of Seraphina; and took measures for the comNo. XXXIII. Vol. V-N.S.

A new feeling now filled the bosom of Seraphina. She had considered herself as the daughter of the Countess, and felt all that filial affection which would naturally arise from the tenderness she bestowed upon her; but now this affection, if it did not absolutely change its nature, was most powerfully stimu lated by a feeling of gratitude of a different order to that which had impelled her youthful heart. Though too young to look forward, she now felt a blush rise on her cheeks if at any time she used the term mother in the presence of Ernest; yet she knew not why, unless it were that she feared he might suspect her of wishing from pecuniary or interested motives still to be considered as the daughter of the Countess; but even this idea was soon effaced by the recollection of his generous spirit which she well knew was never more gratified than when the Countess was most kind and most liberal towards her.

Much of their education had already passed together, and those hours which Ernest bad devoted to the more masculine studies under proper masters, had been filled by Seraphina in attending to the instructions of the beneRr

volent Countess, who, though she had spared no expence in procuring her lovely charge the education then in fashion, had determined to form both her mind and manners herself, a task for which she was well fitted, and for which she was amply repaid by the grateful improvements of her young pupil.

The Countess, like many other good and amiable people who look not before them, had Bever thought of the possibility of a juvenile attachment between these young folks; or if she did, even her pride of birth was not alarmed by the idea, as she remained fully satisfied that time would, or at least might satisfactorily explain every mystery of the ancestry of her protegée; yet still she could not help noticing with some degree of pain, mixed with pleasure, the apparently involuntary, yet often sedulously watchful care of the young people to skun that intimacy of intercourse which circumstances had hitherto warranted. She hailed it as the dawn of delicacy alarmed by virtue, and though she cherished it with pleasure, she did not fail sometimes in the liberality of her heart to thank Heaven, that should it ever be its will to restore the amiable girl to her real parents, still was there that embryo of affec. tion in their youthful bosoms which would prevent her from suffering the deprivation of Seraphina's company, a fear which now always obtruded itself whenever she thought of the propriety of recommencing ber inquiries; and this sensation was much strengthened by the|| necessity she was now under of sending the youthful Ernest to the university of Leipzig, in order to complete his education preparatory to his engaging in the profession of his father, || for which his heart beat high, even though it should separate him from the only two objects which in this world he loved.

At this period, the time of Ernest's departure for the university had arrived. Two years, interspersed with visits to Waldeck castle, soon passed away; another year at the military school at Vienna would make him eighteen, when he was destined to appear in arms. The time flew rapidly; though his departure from home was sad, yet his absence was always cheered with the hopes of return; and a long and dangerous illness of the Countess, which rendered Seraphina his correspondent,

had now fully explained to him the pleasure, mixed with sorrow, which he felt when it was first announced to him that she was not his sister.

Seraphina had been too young hitherto to check her feelings, but she now began to think. She could not avoid hoping that Ernest would not forget her during his absence from Waldeck; she wished it was proper for her to indulge those hopes; but when she reflected on the uncertainty of her birth, on her dependent situation, she feared it wrong to indulge in reveries of future happiness which might never occur, and though her breast bound.d with joy when the Countess talked of them both as her children, though she even wished that Ernest might feel the same happiness, nay, that he should know the sensations that swelled her bosom, yet no sooner was he present than her most assiduous care was to conceal from his observation every movement of that heart which beat but for him alone.

His first campaign was nearly over when a slight wound received in a skirmish, but attended with severe symptoms, rendered it prudent for him to retire to his native air, where under the tender care of a parent he might be restored to perfect health.

com

During a long winter, which appeared too short to all parties, he was thus not only exposed to all the fascinations of mind and persọn which shone in the lovely Seraphina, but even to the more dangerous effects resulting from her tenderness, her assiduous care, nay, her watchful love which, though unknown to her, prompted every action, and was pletely visible to the anxious and watchful Countess. The return of spring, though it did not bring the lovers more together than they were, thus domesticated, yet threw them more into each others separate society in those walks in which the Countess could not accompany them. Yet Ernest feared to speak, and Seraphina trembled lest she should be obliged to hear.

As his departure for the ensuing campaign was now approaching, their mutual embarrass. ments seemed to increase. Seraphina now dedicated her time so sedulously to the Countess, and was so auxicus to avoid being alone

with the young Count, that the amiable matron could not avoid perceiving it; nor could she refuse her tribute of silent praise to the delicacy which prompted this evident selfdenial.

me that you do not possess? Shall I not have wealth enough when an event, dreaded by us both, when the death of our mother shall put her paternal domains in my hands? Ah! drive me not to that state of despair which may render me base enough to contemplate such an event with any other idea than that

of filial horror. Are you not already the child of my mother's affection? have you not repaid her in docility and tenderness for every kindness bestowed? or if a debt is still due, how can you repay it with more justice than by

The evening previous to the departure of Waldeck had now arrived. Sauntering in a deep embowered alley of the gardens where the treillage served as a complete obstruction to the sight though not to the sound, he met the timid and apprehensive Seraphina, who would have turned into another walk but remained indecisive and trembling, when Wal-promoting the happiness of him whom only deck advancing cried :-" Why does my lovely sister thus shun me on the eve of an absence which may be final! why will she not allow me one moment to whisper those vows which I would gladly proclaim to a listening world! But the die is cast-to-morrow calls me from you; and now I shall be animated in danger, soothed even in death, by knowing that you are thus acquainted with every feeling of my heart."

"Ah! Waldeck," said the blushing maid, "this I thought to have avoided; any thing but this I could have borne. Alas! I dare not deny that which it would be the height of ingratitude to confess. Nay, have I not confessed it a thousand times in the innocence of childhood? but I now know, I feel, my dependent situation. To listen to you, to indulge even the reveries of my own heart, would be but to plant a dagger in the bosom of her whose humanity saved me from death, and whose kindness, prompted by a desire for my happiness, has perhaps only rendered me more susceptible of misery."-Waldeck appeared impatient to interrupt her, but she calmly said:" You must go! but go then without forcing me to confessions which on calm reflection you will know must make me miserable. If we are not destined to meet, oh! let us not add to the sorrows of separation by the intrusive recollection of imprudence."

she can love better than you, if that indeed is possible? What have we then to fear from her? Not for worlds would I disobey or disoblige her; not for ten thousand worlds would I tempt you to any act that would be capable of exciting the smallest regret in your mind for actual error, or even for duties neglected, but why should we fear her reason, her justice, or her love? She knows, she must know our affection, dearest Seraphina, our mutual affection. Had she disapproved of it would she have permitted our intercourse? But you will say that her reliance upon our prudence has taught her not to fear it. Oh no! never could she have supposed that he who has thus been blessed in Seraphina's society could have been insensible to her merits. Yet, thus on the eve of separation, I will not mingle further regrets with our adieus. A few months will restore us again to each other. I shall then be of age. Our mother shall then know our affection; and now that I go secure of your love, there is nothing I will not dare, there is nothing I will not attempt, to prove myself worthy of you."

Seraphina, whose heart beat responsive to these sentiments, yet felt her reason tell her that they were incompatible with strict honour.-" What," exclaimed she, "would Waldeck desire? Does he ask me to cherish a sentiment that may be productive of unhapWaldeck would now be heard, he would no piness and sorrow to her who claims all my longer be silent, but exclaimed:-" Cruel Se- obedience, all my gratitude? Can I perform raphina! do you then confess a similarity of towards her the common duties of my situation sentiments with mine, and can you think that when my heart tells me that I fail in my I should now obey you? But why should we greatest? Nay, whilst she is loading me with now conceal those sentiments? What can my benefits, whilst her generous heart is unfoldmother or my friends wish for in an union foring to me every wish that fills it, can I coldly

FINE ARTS.

Illustrations of the Graphic Art;

EXEMPLIFIED BY SKETCHES FROM THE NATIONAL MUSEUM AT PARIS.

PAINTINGS BY VAN DYK.

A LADY WITH A FAN OF FEATHERS IN HER HAND.

A GENTLEMAN HOLDING HIS DAUGHTER BY THE

HAND.

NO. XXXIII.-VOL. V.