A whole household was crowded together in this picture. We sat down together, at the same board, after years of separation-parents and children were in their family places, a re-united family. It should have been a joyful meeting; but every heart was chastened with a feeling, that we had met, an unbroken band, for the last time on earth. Amid all our rejoicing, there was mingled something of sadness-but little did we think, that the modest, happy girl, who moved among us like a sunbeam, would be the first precious link wrung from that family chain.

Softly, and with a pleasant change, did this picture glide (into one of a sick-bed, around which the kind girl was moving, with a step that fell as noiselessly, as the dew on summer flowers. In the artificial twilight, created by her own hand, she smoothed my pillow, and bent over me with loving, anxious eyes, and lips that smiled to conceal the inquietude of the loving heart beneath. How sweetly her face bright ened day by day, when she saw that her ministering care was rewarded by the convalescence of its object. Oh, could the blessings of the living but reach the dead-could the grateful spirit send a voice beyond the grave, how many benedictions would be given, which now flow back in tears of regret on the heart. One other dear memory comes to my mind, and then, my poor sister! all connected with thee is enveloped in the gloom and shadow of disease, sorrow, and death. Even in another world, thou canst not have fogotten that night, when thou wast by my side, for the last time. The memory will live in this heart, till it lies cold and pulseless as thine. Didst thou feel on that night, that we were never to rest in each other's arms again? I was not asleep -I could not sleep: so thou need'st not have bushed the sobs, or stifled the grief of that painful hour. True, I did not speak, or weep aloud, for the world has taught me a power of self-control, which thou didst not live to know. But there was no sleep in the heart that beat beneath thy young headthat throbbed back a b'essing to each of thy kisses, as if it knew how precious they would become, when the lips that gave them, so timidly, were cold and still. I was awake, long after thou hadst wept thyself to sleep on my bosom.

It was a sad parting which followed on the morrow. We tried to smile, and told each other that it was wrong to be sorrowfulthat we should meet again. And so we shall, sister, when my spirit is purified, and made holy as thine. Then I will tell thee, how fondly thy last look has been cherished, among the most holy things of my heart that look which was tearfully rendered back to mine, as I passed the old beach tree, and

turned to gaze once more on the home which we have both left, thou most surely, and I, perhaps, for ever!

Mournfully, and as one treading to the music of a dirge, my heart follows thine, as it went away to the place prepared for it in heaven. This letter tells me how beautiful and tranquil were thy last momentshow, like the incense of a lily, broken at the urn, the innocent life faded from thy forehead. It were wrong to mourn for thee, my sister; we should not grieve that a merciful God has seen fit to gather the blossom from our bosoms, before a stain was upon its leaves, even though it was rooted and entwined deep amid our heartstrings.

Thine is a comfortless resting-place, my sister, amid the damp green sods of the valley. They may heap marble on thy cold bosom, and register thy name in the living rock-but I would not have it so. My footsteps may never approach thy grave; but, methinks, I should feel how sacred was the spot, even though none should point the way to it. No; chaste as thy life, beautiful as thy death, should be the record of thy brief existence. Even thy dust should mingle only with the most lovely things of earth. Let it cherish the pure white blossoms that flush the sod which now covers thee-let the wild rose drink its blush, and find a sweeter breath in thy mouldering bosom, and thy requiem be the night winds, sighing amid the forest trees. There is a solemn tenderness in the thought, that thy dear body may return to earth in the gentle flowers, that it may float in perfume upon the breeze, and kindle into new beauty, even where it is now laid. The earth was full of blossoms when thou wast buried, and in them should the record of a young life be written. Why should we send down a name to those who will read it as an idle dream. Those who loved thee can never forget. They need no other monument than their own hearts.

I may not render an earthly tribute to thy memory, but, when we meet beyond the grave, thou wilt question, and perchance, I can tell of such things as a pure spirit should love to hear. Thou mayest learn, how often thoughts of thee have been exalted into reflections on the attributes of Him, who has taken thee away from us. How much of charity for the sins of others has been awakened in this heart, and how it has striven to become better for thy sake.

Farewell, my sister! These lips will seldom speak thy name, and those who deem happiness always to exist beneath smiles, may think thee forgotten. But, often in the silent night, this heart, which hoards its memories as a treasure too precious for aught but solitude, will be shaken with such thoughts as are wringing tears from it, even now.

THE VICTIM DAUGHTER. "SOPHIA, my love, come hither, and be very serious for a while, as I have something important to communicate to you," said Lord Mansfield to his daughter, one after noon, as he sat reclining in a large fauteuille in the library of his noble mansion.. "What can it be, papa?" said the young and lovely girl, as in eager curiosity, stimulated by the tone in which he had spoken, Lady Sophia drew a footstool near him, and seating herself on it, placed her hand in his and looked anxiously into his face.

Lord Mansfield was about fifty years of age, aristocratic in his appearance, with a countenance which would have been remarkably pleasing, were it not that an excess of pride stamped itself upon his features. The grey hairs, thinly and prematurely scattered on his temples, proved him to be a man upon whom heavy cares had fallen. His life had been that of a statesman, spent in diplomatic situations, whose weighty and assiduous duties engrossed every thought. One glance sufficed to show that ambition was his ruling passion. He was a widower, having lost a beloved wife at the birth of her only child, since which time he had devoted his life exclusively to polities, not, however, neglecting the education of his daughter, who grew up all that a father's most ardent wishes could desire. She was beautiful in the extreme, such as the poet's early dream would fancy, and often as the proud father's delighted eyes would wander over her grow ing charms, more vivid dreams of ambition would flit before his imagination; and visions of power, obtained through the agency of his innocent and lovely child. "Yes," he would say to himself, "such an air and face would grace a throne; and my Sophia shall one day do honour to her father, and compensate for his bitter disappointment, that no son shall inherit his title, and hand his name to posterity." Now, as she sat at his feet, a gratified smile played around his mouth, that his dearest hopes were about to be accomplished.

"Well, papa," said Lady Sophia, "pray begin, for I am all impatience."

"Well, my daughter, it is on a subject near and dear to your father's heart. You are now seventeen, love, and are old enough to make your entree on the great stage of life. I am anxious to see you happily married; and have, therefore, accepted proposals from a man in every way worthy of you;-one whom, from his great rank, noble fortune, and the high reputation he bears at court, it would be my loftiest desire to connect with my family."

Lady Sophia, amazed at this abrupt announcement, and little expecting that her father's communication would be of so serious a nature, falteringly inquired who the

gentleman could be who had thus so flatteringly distinguished her!

"Lord Mountcharles," replied the father, "who has just returned from India, where he' has amassed unequalled wealth."

"What!" said Lady Sophia, "the Lord Mountcharles of whom I have so often heard you speak, as the possessor of Apley Park, that beautiful place in the Isle of Wight? Impossible! I have never even seen him, and surely he cannot think of marrying one whom he has never seen."

Nay," said her father, "he has seen, ad◄ mired, and fallen desperately in love with you. Do not blush, for I have something to add that will still more surprise you. This evening he will be here to dine, and even now you must prepare to see one, who, in all probability, will be your future husband: so, my sweet Sophy, lose no time, a faire votre toilette, and,” he added with an arch smile, "look as fascinating as you did when, on horseback a short time ago, yeu unknowingly made so brave a conquest." So saying, he kissed her forehead, and she retired to her room, for the first time in her life in a flutter of agitation. She sat down, and fell into a deep reverie, from which she was only roused by the entrance of Mrs. Fleming, her femme de chambre. So anxious was she to acquit herself with credit on this great occasion, that never before had Lady Sophia looked so surpassingly lovely. Her long beautiful golden hair was plainly twisted at the back of her he ad, and fell in a profusion of natural and luxuriant ringlets, whilst a simple white dress showed to advantage the perfect symmetry of her full round figure. When the abigail, with a look of admiration, had turned the last glossy curl through her fingers, Lady Sophia hastened to the conservatory to pluck a bouquet, with the hope that the fresh evening air would remove the flush increasing on her cheek, as the momentous hour drew near. She pulled flower after flower, scarce knowing which she was selecting, when she heard footsteps near, and turning, her face became suffused with the deepest blushes, on seeing a gentleman standing at the entrance of the conservatory, intently gazing upon her. "Surely," thought she, "this is Lord Mountcharles!"

He was about five and twenty years of age, with a very tall figure, black curly hair, and dark eyes, rather a pale complexion, and a strikingly interesting expression of coontenance. He had moustaches black as the raven's wing, which improved a mouth of remarkable beauty. On finding that he was observed by Lady Sophia, he appeared merely engaged in admiring the exotics, and with a graceful bow was passing on, when, in her extreme confusion, she let fall a large flowerpot, and gave him an opportunity to aid her to recover the lost plant. This being accom

plished, after an apology for his apparent in trusion, he retired.

Light as the gazelle's was Lady Sophia's step, as she ran to her dressing-room to take one more look at her mirror, and see if she was fit to make the impression she wished. How changed were now her feelings from what they had been so short a time before! Then, utterly indifferent, she would scarcely take any trouble about her appearance, now, no pains seemed too great. Carefully pinning the geranium (which had been broken from its stein by the fall), in her hair, she surveyed herself at full length in a long-swinging glass, and might be pardoned on this occasion, when vanity whispered that no further improvement could be wished. "At least," she said to herself, "my dear father will be pleased;" and at the next moment she was at the drawing-room door.

With a palpitating heart she entered the room where were assembled a few guests. Lord Mansfield immediately led his daughter forward; and, after introducing her to three or four, said, "Now let me introduce you to iny particular friend, Lord Mountcharles:" and, to Lady Sophia's utter amazement and dismay, she was conducted before a man about thirty-six, who looked at least ten years older, from his face being shrivelled up with the withering effects of a tropical sun. He took her hand, which was put into his by the father, and respectfully kissing it with the air of an old gallant, led her to a seat, and placed himself beside her. She heeded him not; her face became alternately pale and red, and she would, from excess of emotion, have burst into tears, had not the announcement of dinner, at the moment, relieved her embarrassment.

That night saw Lady Sophia at Lord Mansfield's feet, her eyes bathed in tearsall the eloquence of woman called up to move him, and save her from marrying a man she knew she could not love. It was in vain. The rigid father's word was pledged; and after heart-rending supplications on one side, and inexorable refusals on the other, the wretched girl only obtained the still more agonizing information that the day was de eided for the nuptials.

Her doom was fixed, and a month from that period saw her led forth as a sacrifice to the selfish ambition of a heartless father. Flowers strewed her path as she walked to the little chapel in the domain; but thorns rankled in her bosom: while the gay and happy throng assembled to witness the ceremony, looked on, some with admiring, some with envious eyes.

One alone witnessing the ceremony, read plainly within the sacred precincts of her heart that all was not right. This was Captain Douglas, aid-de-camp and cousin to Lord Mountcharles, who was the stranger that

had so unfortunately crossed her path the day she first expected to meet her intended husband. Yes, too easily did he see that the hand was given without the heart; and a tear of pity stole over his manly face, as the ceremony concluded, and he beheld the poor victim fall fainting into the arms of her father.

Two years have now elapsed, and we find Lady Mountcharles the centre of a brilliant circle in London; courted by all, flattered, admired, and surrounded by every luxury which taste, wealth, and refinement can procure. Her husband and father, deeply engaged in political manœuvres, made her house the rendezvous of ministers, peers, and princes. Her husband, incessantly occupied with court intrigues and state affairs, could devote no time to domestic enjoyments, and conceived that his wife must be perfectly happy, when humoured in every caprice and petted like a spoiled child. Could that satisfy the heart of such a being as Sophia! No. Can it therefore be wondered at, that she sought to find happiness in a perpetual round of dissipation and amusement!

Rumours were afloat that Lady Mountcharles cared not for her lord. Some fashionable roués, who had, on this supposition, presumed to offer incense at the shrine of beauty, and to gain that love which they plainly saw was not lavished on her husband, found, to their mortification, that soft, dovelike eyes could emit flashes of scorn and contempt, and that a sweet, angelic mouth, could be curled into an expression of the deepest disdain. Many devoted admirers were thus transformed into bitter enemies, and their jealous eyes were not slow in discovering that the smile dimpled her cheek with more than ordinary sweetness, when she was addressed by one particular individual, and that the languid eye sparkled with unusual vivacity when Captain Douglas was present. True; but, unknown to herself, the miserable Sophia cherished for him a deep passion, and unfortunately, the near relationship and sitaation he held under her husband, maintained a continual intimacy, which only added fuel to the already kinled fire. She little knew the state of her own heart, until a circumstance revealed it to her in all its horrors.

Returning late one fine evening in summer, to her country seat, from a visit to a friend, Lady Mountcharles was leaning back in the carriage, meditating on the happy scenes in which she had passed her childhood, contrasting that innocent period with the life of excitement she now led, when she was suddenly roused from her reverie by the violent plunging of her horses, and the next moment, to her inconceivable dismay, they took head, and dashed off at their utmost speed, In vain the skilful coachman tried

all his strength to arrest their progress; he was himself presently hurled from his seat and dashed to the ground. An agonizing death seemed to threaten the unfortunate lady; when, suddenly, by an heroic effort, a gentleman who was approaching in an opposite direction, arrested the progress of the horses. To open the carriage door and extricate Lady Mountcharles from her perilous situation was the work of an instant; and in a never-to-be-forgotten moment, she found herself in the arms of Charles Douglas! No sooner was she in safety than her preserver abandoned his hold of her, and staggered to a near tree, against which, as pale as marble, he leaned for support. A piercing scream escaped her as the painful surmise that he was seriously hurt, darted through her brain. Perhaps he had sacrificed his life to save hers, and if so, death in its worst form would have been preferable. Soon a faintness came over him, and sinking to the ground, he remained in a state of utter insensibility.

Sophia's alarm and agitation were beyond description. Forgetting, in the wild delirium of her grief, that her vows were pledged to another, she addressed him by every endearing epithet she could think of, beseeching him to answer, and show by some sign that life was not extinct. Presently recovering, he was shocked at witnessing her abandonment of sorrow, and the truth of her love, which he had long suspected, was confirmed. By the assistance of the coachman, who now, having been but slightly injured, came up, he was placed in the carriage, and Lady Mountcharles, placing herself beside him, and reckless of all things but the affection that had gushed forth, and would not be controlled, fondly supported his head. He preserved almost total silence; and when the mansion was reached, was conveyed to a chamber, and a servant dispatched for surgical aid. He was found to be so injured that a detention of a week was necessary. During this time, Lord Mountcharles being absent in London, Sophia was his nurse-watched his progress-sat by his bedside. A kind of madness seemed to possess her. This infatuation was extremely painful to Captain Douglas, who insisted on departing, so soon as his strength permitted.

When he bade farewell to Lady Mount charles, resolutely opposing her solicitations to remain longer, she turned pale and seemed about to faint; but recovering herself, she lifted her eyes to his; and while the crimson of shame, despite her phrenzy, mounted to her forehead, she wildly exclaimed, "Douglas, you must have guessed my secret: yet you are cold and indifferent! I love you! From the first moment I saw you, I have loved you. I have been sold by my father to despair! My heart cannot retain longer the agonizing secret! Will you leave me now ?”

Captain Douglas could not but pity her for that miserable lot, the result of a father's stern commands, and which certainly modified the guilt of her love. But true to his honour and her own, he replied, "Lady Sophia, for your own sake I must arrest here the progress of your affection, by removing myself from you. From this moment strive to forget me. This scene on my part will be buried in oblivion; and let resolution reconcile you to your unhappy lot."

He shook her hand after these few words, and suddenly left her. In two days he was, on his way to France; and for many days she raved in the delirium of a raging fever.

Within six months from the departure of Douglas, Lady Mountcharles arrayed herself. in glowing weeds, a wealthy but scarcely disconsolate widow. True to the infatuation which now fotmed the aliment of her existence, her thoughts centered with intenser earnestness upon the man she loved, after this change in her condition. All at once, now mistress of her own actions, she left her friends, without apprising them of her intentions, and without any male friend to protect her, and hurried to Paris, disguising her name and standing, that she might fulfil her designs without interference. Those designs may be readily guessed. She was in search of Douglas, to learn his present state---to communicate to him her own--to endeavour to arouse in his bosom, a love which now would be innocent in both, and form the happiness of her life.

The excitement in which she was now constantly plunged, preyed upon her health, and weakened her, day, by day. But while it undermined her real strength, it supplied. false vigor to her frame. She mingled in every scene in Paris, grave or gay, where she might hope to meet Douglas: and at length she was successful. She passed him in the gardens of the Louvre. A dark-featured and beautiful girl was hanging on his arm; and a pang of jealousy shot through her heart as she noticed the appearances of intimacy between them. She followed them carefully, and saw them enter the same hotel By cautious inquiry she learned that the appearances had not deceived her. A tale was told her of a midnight fire, in which this girl was exposed to danger, and was saved by Douglas. Love---betrothment was the consequence.

She did not make herself known to Douglas, when this blighting news had come to her ears; but she was ever a shadow in his path.

At the beautiful virgin altar of that fine church, St. Sulpice, which must have been admired by all those who have visited Paris, there stood a couple about to be united: and Captain Douglas was made thehappiest of men, by receiving the hand of the lovely Emily