denied and in sad resignation I have come to this cottage to die in peace. I shall not survive my approaching trial. Should my child be spared, I beseech of you, my faithful friend, to endeavour after my death, to soften my mother's heart, and prevail on her to protect and provide for it. The hope that you would do this, has led me to confess to you my family name, and the unhappy history of my married life.

"Do not cry so bitterly, Frances. I trust that my penitence has been accepted by Him, who died for sinners. How can I think otherwise when a kind Providence has raised up such friends to me in my desolation, as yourself and your dear mother. Here is my trust," laying her hand on the Bible, "and I feel assured, that, 'as my day is, so shall my strength be.'”

She became more composed, after the conclusion of this melancholy history. Mr. Linden came in, for a few moments, but soon went out a second time, and left them to continue their conversation without interruption. Frances imagined that his absence was a relief to his wife, although no complaint escaped her lips. She merely remarked, as if casually:

"My mother's implacability sits ill on Linden. He thinks she has been too inflexible, and often takes pleasure in reminding me of a sacrifice of personal property which I once made for her. Several years since, she was afflicted with cataracts on her eyes, and was threatened with total blindness. The celebrated Doctor Ware was sent for, from London, and performed a successful operation on them, by which means she was effectually relieved, and her sight restored. In my gratitude, I presented him with two hundred pounds, out of my own small fortune, in addition to his fee-but I do not regret the money. Her forgiveness now, is all I desire. I have had great conflicts with my pride, and the desertion of my friends, but those sufferings are past. The Almighty has graciously strengthened me, so that I am prepared to drink the bitter cup of my unhappy destiny, even to the dregs. But I have one request, dear girl, to make of you. Be less observant of any little harsh expressions used by Linden in conversing with me. Do not, on such occasions, look sad, and drop your usual suavity.

There is much to be considered. Linden is a

disappointed man. He has married a woman brought up in the midst of wealth, and when deprived of it, utterly incapable of rendering herself useful to him; and he feels the want of many comforts, which my ignorance of domestic occupations knows not how to supply. He has won a helpless and dependent being, instead of a reputed heiress."

Frances strove to revive her hopes of a reconciliation with her mother, and a reinstatement in

her former station of life.

No, dear,” replied Mrs. Linden, "I am resigned now. Do not awaken delusive dreams. The voice of delusion has already been my greatest enemy. Grief and misfortune make us selfish, Fanny, or I should not continue to oppress your spirits with my melancholy, even at the moment when I know you are preparing to attend the wedding of your friend. But see here-I have a little gift for you; a bunch of wild flowers and a few ears of wheat. They are almost as natural as if just plucked from the field. I wore them at a party of Lady Archers, when they were not

more bright than the blossoms of hope in my bosom. I shall never wear ornaments again, and flowers, surely, ought not to bloom over a broken heart. Take them, dear, in memory of my love for you. They will suit your pretty chip hat, and it will give me so much pleasure to see you wear them. So, you are to be bridesmaid for Miss B., and doubtless anticipate a great deal of pleasure."

"No indeed," said Frances, "I expect to make a thousand blunders in my new office, and am only afraid my friends will have to blush for my awkwardness."

LL

"There is no fear of that," replied Mrs. Linden; nature, unspoiled by affectation, is seldom awk ward, and you are never so. But will you not show me your dresses? your sister tells me they are very elegant."

"Oh yes! I dare say they would look elegant on Margaret," said Frances, laughing, "but I am so careless, and so fidgety about being dressed, that nothing ever shows to advantage on me. In this instance, however, it will be of no conse quence, as all eyes will of course be for the bride. I wish you could see her-she is so lovely."

"The loved are always lovely," answered Mrs. Linden, with an affectionate smile, "and by that rule, you would be a thousand times the most lovely to me. The wedding is to be in the church, I hear. So much the better. The house of God is the most fitting place for so solemn and important a ceremony. Will there be a large company?"

"Six carriages," replied Frances. "We dine at Richmond, where the mother and daughter part; but I go on to Moredon Hall, and expect to remain there three months. The Hall will be rather gloomy, I fancy, and I shall delight to breathe our river breezes again on my return. You will see more of my mother and sister during my absence, for I have been a great monopolizer of your society lately, and am now getting to be as great an egotist, and talk of myself as if I were really necessary to your happiness; but you will not forget me, I know. God bless you, dear friend-and now farewell!"

Mrs. Linden remained at the window, watch ing in the moonlight the retreating form of her youthful comforter, until it was lost in the dis tance; and then turning away with a burthened heart, she sat down in her solitary apartment to wait the return of her truant husband.

Frances Stanhope had been deeply interested in the history to which she had been listening; but after a night's refreshing sleep, her thoughts naturally reverted to the approaching marriage of her most intimate friend and companion, Helen B. The carriage which was to bear her to the residence of the bride's father, arrived on the afternoon of the following day, and removed her for a time from the influence of those melancholy feelings which ever accompanied her interviews with the cottage lady. The scene of gaiety and festivity into which she was immediately introduced, gave a fresh spring to her buoyant spirits. She entered into the happiness of one friend, as she had done into the sorrows of another. But time sped on. The weeks revolve around plea sure as well as misery. Moredon Hall became settled into its usual stately formality after the bridal parties were over; and Frances, after the expiration of her three months' visit, returned willingly to her home.

After spending the first few hours with her family, she hastened to the cottage. Mrs. Linden had been anxiously expecting her, and Frances was greatly pained and shocked at perceiving the fearful ravages which mental and physical suffering had made in the appearance of her friend. Her face was emaciated and wan, excepting where the hectic spot burned on her cheeks with a consuming brightness. Her mind, however, seemed exalted in proportion to the decay of her bodily health and strength, and she was evidently endued with a growing courage from above.

"I am so happy to see you, my beloved Frances," said she, in a subdued and almost solemn tone. "You know not how much I have missed your sweet society, and affectionate cheering, in my hours of solitude and sadness.-You know not how I have grieved over the thought, that perhaps we might never meet again in this pleasant cottage, where I have found both heavenly and earthly consolation. Yes, I may truly say now, that consolation has here visited my heart: for my dear mother has at length forgiven me, and I shall die in peace. She has just sent me a message with her pardon-"

"And nothing else?"-asked Frances, interrupting her.

"Enough, and more, much more than I durst anticipate," replied Mrs. Linden. She stopped suddenly, for her husband at that moment entered the apartment. Frances returned his kindly greeting to herself, and then said, "I hope we shall see Mrs. Linden quite happy now, since her mother has at length relented, and sent her forgive

ness?"

"A great favour indeed," answered Linden, "to a daughter who has been devoted to her from infancy, and observant of her every wish until the fatal day of her marriage with me, and whose only fault was that she preferred a man she loved, before a stranger whom she had never seen. Mrs. Lucy," he continued, with a sneering expression on his lip, "might at least have been generous enough to return the two hundred pounds, which Anne, in her superfluous gratitude, gave to Doctor Ware, for restoring her mother's sight. Two hundred pounds would make things look something better than they do at present," glancing his eyes around the scan ly furnished room. "The old lady has been tootilow in her pardon-I have no patience with such obstinacy."

Frances became excited-for she observed that Mrs. Linden was agitated, and growing pale as death. "We seldom have much patience or courage," said she, "to bear the evils we have brought upon ourselves." His flashing and angry look, recalled her presence of mind; and she immediately added in a more gentle tone-"You are wrong, I think, to suffer your mind to dwell upon what you consider as past grievances. Since the silence has been broken, there is no doubt but you will hear again from Stratford, soon, and probably in a more satisfactory manner. I will get my father to write to Mrs. Lucy, if you think he will have any influence."

This proposal hushed the impending stormand his displeasure at the first reply of Frances, passed over.

A few days after the foregoing conversation, Mrs. Linden became the mother of a little girl; and from that hour, her physicians gave up all hope of her recovery. She was so weak that her

young friend was prohibited from attempting to converse with her. She consequently absented herself from the cottage, and strove in her own room to compose her feelings, and view the approaching dissolution of the sufferer as the surest refuge from all her sorrows. But a week passed on, and Mrs. Linden still lived. Then Frances, with the natural buoyancy of her age, began to indulge the renewed hope that she might still be spared to see happier days. Pleased with this idea, and forgetful of the reflections, which had so lately reconciled her to the death of her friend, she stepped out upon the terrace at the back of her father's house, and almost unconsciously suffered her mind to become occupied with the beautiful display of objects which met her view. Hundreds of little boats were skimming lightly over the placid Thames. The sound of the buglehorn broke at intervals on the stillness of the air, while the measured strokes of the rower's oars threw up the rippling water, in chorus to the fitful music.

Frances had not the nature to reject the enjoyments of such a scene. She leaned over the railings, and continued to gaze with increasing interest, as the magical effect of light and shade on the green banks across the river invested the whole with an added charm of romance. In the midst of her reverie, a quick step approached her side, and the voice of her father instantly turned the current of her thoughts.

66

My daughter," said Mr. Stanhope, "your friend's infant is very ill, and she wishes you to stand god-mother for it. Dr. Reynolds has brought a clergyman with him, and they wait for you. Come home soon after the christening is over. Your mother and I are both anxious lest your health should be sacrificed. Poor, dear lady! She will need your care but a little longer. Her earthly pilgrimage is nearly finished.”

Frances waited not to make further inquiries, but set out with all haste to perform the part required of her at the cottage. She was met at the door by the physician. "You are very pale, my young friend;" said he, "I hope you are not

ill?"

"Oh, never mind my looks," said Frances, quickly-“I am always pale. Do you not remember making the same remark to me, the day I dined at Westminster? Indeed it is my natural colour-but I have come now to stand with you for the little stranger."

The clergyman rose, and came forward with a serious and dignified air, and they took their stations around the bed of the invalid, whose eyes shone with a radiance from above. She was supported with pillows, and said in a faint voice, "Give the babe to Miss Stanhope. I had hoped that some of my relatives would have stood on this occasion. I thought then of the worldly interests of my precious child-but He who doeth all things wisely, hath ordered it otherwise, and I am satisfied. Name it Clara, dearest," she continued, addressing Frances, "and cease weeping, or my strength will be exhausted."

The baptism was administered, and the infant placed in the arms of the mother, who fondly kissed it, and prayed that no sin of hers might be visited on its innocent head; and that it might receive from her family that care and protection its helpless state required.

She grew faint, and asked for water; and Doctor

Reynolds drew Frances aside, and said, "You had better retire. Change your dress at once. The fever has assumed something of the nature of typhus; but it is too late to warn you now. The Lord protect you."

On the following morning, Frances was again summoned to the bedside of her dying friend; she instantly perceived in her countenance those unfailing signs which mark the near approach of that conqueror, whom none can evade.

She knew her, and said; "I was looking for you, dear. My time is short, and I feel much at parting with you. How kind you have all been, to take such an interest in a poor erring creature like me. Raise me up, nurse," and clasping her thin hands together, and lifting her eyes to heaven, she thus continued,

"Father of mercy, hear the prayer of thy unworthy servant, now in the extremity of mortal suffering! Bless, I beseech thee, this young friend, whom thou hast raised up to me in my time of need! Prosper her in every station of life: have her in thy holy keeping. Save her from temptation and disobedience. Repay her, and hers, for their unmerited kindness to the stranger, a thousand fold; and in their hours of sorrow, bereavement, and death, be thou their Comforter, and sure reward! And now, oh, Father, into thy hands I commit my spirit!"

In a few minutes, she dozed, but unquietly; murmuring, at intervals, wild and unconnected sentences. Her mind was evidently running on her husband. "I loved him," she repeated, softly. "I thought he loved me. Oh, God! pardon mepardon him. He was not cruel. I made him unhappy. He-was-disappointed. Bless him, Heavenly Father! I am dying. Thou only knowest how I have been kept alive, in the midst of my poverty;-my memory is gone. Who are my benefactors? Thou knowest, oh, God! it thine to recompense."

Be

After the last words, she ceased speaking, and remained composed and tranquil. Doctor Reynolds entered the apartment, and after looking at her a short time, remarked to Frances, "All will soon be over. She will pass away peacefully, and without pain. Her strength is all exhausted. See how pleasant and serene is the expression of her countenance."

Frances was deeply affected. Her father had written Mrs. Lucy an account of her daughter's danger; but the express sent to Stratford bad not returned. The day was closing. The shadows of the trees before the cottage were lengthening on the grass, while the angel of death seemed hovering near the spot, held back awhile in pity, or in mercy, until some unknown purpose should be accomplished. Frances stood at the window, watching the passing carriages on the road. Suddenly a chariot came in sight, and rapidly approached the house. The old-fashioned family vehicle, the large, fat horses, covered with foam from a hurried drive, and the liveried attendants, all warranted the belief that it was the mother of Mrs. Linden, come at the last moment.

"God grant," said Francis, "that she may not be too late!"

She still lingered a moment, in order to be certain that she was not deceived. The carriage door was opened by the footman, and a nice-looking, elderly woman got out first, and was followed by an older lady, dressed in a rich, dark-coloured

| silk, with long waist, and ruffled cuffs. She leaned with one hand on a gold-headed cane, and with the other took the arm of her female attendant, who was habited in a costume of the same fashion, although of less costly material. There could no longer be any doubt that it was Mrs. Lucy. Frances waited for no further confirmation, but hastened, with a noiseless and trembling step, to the bedside of the dying lady.

"Open your eyes, my dear friend," said she, "I have good news for you." To her astonishment, the apparently unconscious woman opened her glassy orbs, and looked her full in the face. "Your mother is at the door-she has this moment arrived."

"Mother," murmured Mrs. Linden, as if striving to recall the fleeting memory of earthly ties, "who speaks of my mother?"

"I do," said Frances, her tears falling fast on the face of her friend. “It is I—your own Frances, who tells you that your mother is here."

Mrs. Linden fetched a long gasp, and then said emphatically, and with renewed strength, "You have never deceived me.-Bring her quickly, ere it be too late-I am dying-"

The young messenger was met at the door by Mrs. Lucy, who, before Frances could speak, threw her arms around her, and exclaimed with a passionate burst of grief, “I know you, I know you, my dear young lady. You are the angel comforter of my forsaken, unfortunate child."

Frances extricated herself hurriedly, and rather rudely from the embrace, which she did not return; for her feeling at that moment, was one of indignation against the long implacable parent. In her resentment, she scarcely felt an emotion of pity for the grief which was bowing down the gray head of the aged and disconsolate mother; but holding the door open with an impatient gesture, she replied quickly: “ Madam, your daughter has but a few moments to live; I beseech you not to tarry."

Mr. Linden was detaining her with the offer of a bunch of rue, but Frances snatched it from his hand, and threw it on the floor, while she urged the old lady to the bedside of her expiring child. A single look at the altered features, was sufficient to wring the soul of the mother with anguish, and sinking on her knees, she cried in a heart-rending voice, broken and tremulous with age and grief, "Speak to me, my daughter! speak to your old and wretched mother, before you go hence for ever."

"Mother," said the sufferer in a deep sepulchral tone, rousing all her energies for the last time, from the fast approaching torpor of death,Mother, quick, forgive me-bless me-while I can yet hear you.”

The old lady clasped the hands of her daugh ter in hers, and raising them up, repeated in a solemn voice:

"So may the Almighty Searcher of all hearts forgive, and have mercy upon me in my dying hour, as I at this moment, forgive and bless you, my own beloved and injured child!"

"Mother, I hear you-oh, those words are sweet-kiss me-do not grieve so-I am happy-" The arm which she had passed around the neck of her parent, relaxed from its hold— the last effort of expiring nature was over, and

her soul was in eternity.

Poor old Mrs. Lucy! She felt that she was