"Dear Leopold"-she exclaimed-but the words were suspended by astonishment. Von Lindenberg, pale, abstracted, and mournful, could scarcely exchange the fond kiss of welcome. He held an open letter in his hand; the writing was strange; the post mark foreign. Speak-what of Albert?-My brother

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does he live?"

There was a momentary pause-all crowded near to von Lindenberg-and the eager hand of Constance grasped the letter. Ella stood a few paces behind the rest, her colour faded to that marble paleness which tells the tale of intense inward feeling; but no word of inquiry or conjecture betrayed the interest she took in the contents of that momentous paper.

"Forbear Constance! be patient my lovemother-dearest mother-read-perhaps you may be equal to the task-I am-powerless." As he spoke, the young Baron delivered the following epistle to his revered parent.

Warsaw.

"Once more I venture to intrude myself upon the recollection of the family of von Lindenberg. But my name alas! seems destined to be linked with misfortune. My very existence seems fraught with calamity. Hitherto I appear to have exerted a mysterious-a fatal

influence on the fortunes of others. My friendship, like the close embrace of certain plants, has destroyed that to which it has clung most tenaciously. Albert, the chosen companion of my heart-Albert-the noble champion of liberty-the generous friend who shared my principles, my dangers, and my success-Albert is slain. One by one, the brave are hewn down, as they rally round the fluttering standard of independence. Poland still struggles in the iron fangs of despotismstill lies weltering in the blood of her dearest children, and her noblest friends. The voice of freedom sinks into lamentation, and widowed glory weeps o'er the reeking trophies of victory. Rosendahl fell, overpowered by numbers. I alone closed his eyes-I alone followed his dear remains to the grave. His last sigh, breathed on my bosom, was consecrated to the recollection of Austria, and of those dear ties which had already been loosened, if not severed, by a combination of fatal circumstances. By his desire, I write to acquaint you with his fate. Mourn not for him-he died like a hero. Let the laurel which flourishes over his tomb, be sprinkled with tears of sympathy, not of bitterness. He came hither to defend the rights of an oppressed

people; he came to emancipate the victims of arbitrary power; he came to avenge-or perish in the attempt. He has perished! Another name is added to the glowing records of history; and the wailing of regret is silenced by the loud blast of fame.

"My turn is yet to come; but it is inevitable. If I have survived the fight to-day, it is but to fall, perhaps more gloriously, in that of tomorrow. There are cases in which death is the soldier's best reward-the recollection of his comrades his noblest monument. I hasten to court the laurel crown.

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Adieu, von Lindenberg; may all happiness attend yourself and family; and as you walk by the calm waters of the lake—as, linked in the tender bonds of love, you taste the joys of husband, father, and of friend-remember that the fierce struggle of party is yet undecided— that the strength of despotism is still directed against the dearest interests of Europe-that there are other duties, other calls, other pleasures, besides those you now enjoy. Once more, farewell.

DE FLORVILLE."

The voice of Madame von Lindenberg faltered, long ere she concluded her painful task.

302 ELLA; OR THE EMPEROR'S SON.

There was a hush-a sob-of pent up anguish. Constance hung on the bosom of her husband, as if clinging to his affection for comfort and support. Ella calmly raised her eyes to Heaven; and her lips quivered as if in prayer. She moved towards the couch wherein her child reposed in innocence and peace. She knelt by its side, and drew the light drapery that concealed the little face from her view. One fairy hand protruded amongst the snowy coverings. She kissed it fervently in silence and in thankfulness-feeling that she still possessed a priceless treasure in this world, and a boundless hope of peace in the next.

THE END.

LONDON:

SCHULZE AND CO. 13, POLAND STREET.