The latter at once detected the opportunity for enriching her order. She dwelt much upon the purity and beauty of Agatha, and the glory it would be to the church to have folded such a lamb beneath its care, one who promised hereafter to rival St Cecilia herself in her beauty of voice, and the rapt devotion of her inspired melody. The old Count was rich and crafty, but no match for the organized craft of the Abbess, with her newly awakened covetousness, and the object of barter in her own power. She dilated upon the position of Agatha as a candidate for vows-of the future hopes of the church-she even dwelt with pathos upon the devotion of Guido, who resigned her with a breaking heart as a duty to God only, but who would be frantic to see her other than one of the sisters.

The result was, the Count, old and luxurious, agreed to lay large donations upon the altar of the Virgin, provided she would grant him the possession of a young and lovely wife; and the predictions of Agatha, and the sufferings of Guido were to be disposed of as they best might. It was a difficult task to bring the girl to the required view of the matter; but the Abbess was practised in every shade of human emotion, and skilful in curbing and diverting it. Besides, the subject was so slowly and so insidiously worked into the mind of Agatha, that she found herself moving in a prescribed channel, unconscious how or why. Guido was entirely excluded from her presence as an improper subject for thought, to one so soon to become the bride of heaven. If at any time the poor girl, remembering his love, his all of tenderness and devotion, and his last agonized look of despair, sought the presence of the Abbess with frantic entreaties for freedom, the calm, gentle Abbess soothed her tenderly; told of the glory and the triumph of the soul in spurning the cries of sensual affection, and then, leading her to the organ, (for Agatha learned music almost by instinct,) she poured forth such deep unearthly melody that, even the nuns, cold as they had grown, and dead to love, felt themselves glowing with strange emotions, which they mistook for religious fervour.

CHAPTER IV.

"Had we never loved so wildly,
Had we never loved so blindly;
Never met or never parted,
We had ne'er been broken-hearted."

BURNS.

TIME, while it did not change the heart of Agatha, gave room for many influences to have their force upon her character-instruction, too, did its office of enlarging the sphere of thought; but despondence, the growth of an unconscious

despair, did more to bring on the result so much desired by the Abbess. After months and months of untiring effort to bring the victim ready for the sacrifice, it was known publicly, that the old Count Julian was to wed the beautiful ballad-singer of Rome. After the ordinary preparations demanded by wealth and luxury, the details of which belong rather to the list of an upholsterer than to the purposes of Art, the city palace of the Roman was put in readiness for the reception of the bride.

In all this gorgeous display, poor Agatha felt no interest. Her only mental exclamation was, "I shall be free-I shall not be the death of Guido." Sometimes thoughts of another kind would take indistinct shapes, and she would say, "Surely the good old Count Julian will die with no harm from me; but God preserve him should he rouse the something, I know not what, which makes him so odious to me!" And then she would kneel to the Virgin, and pray with an impassioned fervour, by which she hoped to escape from crime, and be able to endure the revolting future.

We have said she took no interest in the arrangements of the princely mansion over which she was to preside. There was one room which she stipulated should be sacred to herself, unprofaned by any foot but her own. Into this the girl threw all the gorgeousness of her oriental fancy in decorations at once delicate' and sumptuous. Rose-colour and pearl, the daintiest alabaster, and gems that grew as it were out of the harmonies of light and shade, made this room at once soothing and exciting to the senses. Blossoms that breathe of the first creation of sweets; birds of sad rich melody; and water stealing with a light flash into vases of pearly whiteness, filled the mind, not with images of delight, but those of mournful tenderness, when the verging of a pang seems to hallow the sweetness of enjoyment.

At one end of the room was a massive silken curtain lined with gray. Upon lifting this the observer found himself in front of a single window with its antique blazonry, beneath which was a crucifix, a missal upon a gray cushion, and a heavy stone vase filled with water. There was no luxury within this sacred circle the spot, nearest to God to a suffering human heart, was left nearest to the simplicity of Jesus with nothing to distract the mind from its great cries for succour and for mercy.

The bridal was princely even for Rome, and the guests among the richest and most powerful in the world. The dance and the song carried their intoxicating spells deep into the soul, and genius and beauty threw their graces over the masses of material which must be common and terse or revolting without the aid of such. The bride with her startling and unearthly beauty,

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her eyes, that seemed to turn away from all before her, searching into the vast and unknown, even the bride was unmissed in the glowing revel that left each to its own sphere of attraction.

As the night wore on she sought this room of enchantment. Gliding over the silken floor, she paused in front of a mirror, and stood as if for the first time in her life conscious of her own marvellous beauty. She turned from side to side-she lifted her glossy curls-but not a shade of vanity crossed her face. On the contrary, she raised her two hands and spread the palms toward the mirror, as if she pushed herself away with an expression of disgust. She then took the massive circlets from her arms and unclasped the diamond necklace; as she did so she drew forth the emerald snake from her bosom, which was attached by a small chain to the necklace.

Here a shadow upon the glass caused her to turn round-it was the Count. One fierce expression of rage crossed her brow, fearful in one so young-and then she lifted the curtain of the oratory, leaving the necklace upon the tripod beneath the mirror.

The old Count was not to be terrified by the frowns of a girl entirely in his power, and he quietly amused himself in inspecting the graces of the exquisite room which he now saw for the first time. Attracted by something extraneous amid the bridal diamonds of Agatha, he bent himself to the examination. Holding the emerald to the light, for the gem was both rare and beautiful, he perceived it had been hollowed and contained something foreign to itself. With idle and half doting curiosity, he turned the trinket from side to side, till he found the screw, which turning, he held the liquid to his nose, and finally touched it to the tip of his tongue.

The revel continued in the palace till nearly the dawn of day, when the mustering of coaches and the clang of servants gave intimations of departure. The guests looked in vain for the bridal pair, to tender the courtesies of the occasion. Jests were not wanting, and the familiar challenges of those privileged at all times, and now reckless from the excitements of mirth and the fumes of wine. A group ran from room to room calling for the Count. They ascended the staircase and threaded the sumptuous rooms, growing more bold at each step. They at length penetrated to the boudoir of Agatha. There stretched upon the floor was the lifeless body of the Count, still grasping the jewels of the bride.

Suspicion-indignation at once took the place of pity, and they began a noisy search for her, the strange being whom he had so strangely

wedded. Lifting the curtain, the object of their search was kneeling with motionless eyes, and rigid limbs, before the crucifix, upon which was suspended the picture we described at the beginning of our tale. The guests could not mistake the portrait of Agatha, and that of the Count Julian, notwithstanding its hideous disguise, was no less palpable. How came the singular work there on the crucifix of the Saviour-what could be the object of so strange a representation! The guests were lost in wonder at the scene.

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The terrible truth spread, and soon the palace was thronged, not only with the idle and curious, but the officer of the Church. The body of the Count was laid in state amid the paraphernalia of the bridal, and poor Agatha, half dead, was conveyed to the cells of the Inquisition. was at first bewildered and silent, but as the horrors of her situation gradually broke upon her mind, the native energy of her character returned. Left to herself, to the action of her own volitions, her course was calm and determined. When threatened with torture if she did not confess, her manner was so firm, so collected, that even her judges were awed. She demanded of what she was accused. "Of the death of the Count Julian."

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Torture, as prescribed for the obstinate concealment of crime."

"Cannot the victim have perished from other causes, and the Church be appeased?"

The judges beheld a new phase in the matter. Glances were exchanged,—priestly robes stirred in the silence, and reverent cowls were turned away from the questioner. At length the principal inquisitor spake.

"Such is the mercy of the Church, such is its unwillingness to cut a member off in the freshness of life, from hopes of amendment by the action of alms, penance, and prayer, that she is willing to spare even the life of the guilty, provided she receive proper oblations to secure its good offices."

Her frame shook and she burst into tears. There was no pity in the hard faces of these hard men, at the helpless grief of the lone girl. They only communed with each other as to the best means of securing the wealth of the Count to the Church. The death of Agatha would leave the estate to other heirs, and only a moiety would find its way into its coffers, in the shape of pay for masses for the soul of the dead, while it might easily be secured by the instrumentality of the wife.

Agatha lifted her head. "Give me the emerald, which was the gift of my mother, give me life and freedom, and all that was Count Julian's is yours."

The judges talked with trembling eagerness; this was beyond their expectations; they presented a paper, which she signed in silence.

"Daughter," said the judge, “we accept thy conditions, at the same time we agree to do that which thou hast forgotten to ask-we will say masses daily for the soul of the deceased." Agatha cared not whether this was spoken in the candour of Christian love, or the severity of sarcasm. She only saw that she would be free-that she should learn the fate of Guido-should breathe the air of heaven once more, and go and come in the blessed sunshine unhindered, save by her lover. The prediction was verified-she was now free to live -to bless-to comfort Guido-to tell him all, and tell him she forgave the terrible picture, which she felt he only could produce.

Agatha remembered he regarded with religious veneration. The palette and brushes lay upon the floor as if they had fallen unconsciously from the hands of the artist. A piece of faded ribbon, once hers, was tied into the palette. There was a lute broken, and an alabaster vase, shattered by the candle which had exhausted itself within. With trembling hands she raised the cover from the picture upon the easel. There, there poor Guido had atoned even with his life's blood for the revengeful act of the one he had conveyed to her oratory.

Agatha beheld a portrait of herself, softened to angelic sweetness, the eyes fixed upon her lover, both sublimated, etherialized, and floating upward into an atmosphere of purity, while beneath and around were hideous and distorted shapes, faintly gleaming through the black and gloomy masses of the foreground. The tears fell fast from beneath her lids as she gazed, as she murmured, "Poor, poor, Guido !"

A heavy sigh, which was rather a groan, caused her to turn, and Guido stood before her; but so wan, so changed, he seemed but the shadow of the once beautiful and impassioned youth. To throw herself into his arms, to tell in hurried accents that she was free to poverty, to love, to Guido, was the first impulse of the devoted girl.

Our story is done-for whenever did a lover, however wasted and despairing, fail to revive under the breathings of love and hope? Guido called the picture, which he had found means to convey to her oratory, believing her to be base and sordid, "The Lover's Revenge ;" and he designed to multiply copies of it, till she and the Count would be covered with ridicule