This letter he sealed up in an envelope, in which he explained the use he meant to have made of it, and it was to be opened only in the case of his death. In the tender adieu which he wrote to Louise, just before his last hour, he reminded her of that packet, and begged of her to lose no time in examining it. This was the last effort of which he found himself capable; he felt the approach of the fatal moment, he met it with the fortitude of a hero and the resignation of a christian; and a prayer for the happiness of her whom to the last moment he persisted in calling, and in thinking his wife, was the last sound that issued from his lips.

A cruel presentiment had for some time tormented Adrienne; three posts had passed and brought no news from Frederic, who till then had written regularly. The most direful forebodings pressed upon her heart, and the marquis participated in he" fears. For the first time the spell that ambition had so long cast around him vanished; he opened his heart to De Villars, and acknowledged in terms of bitter regret, his repentance for having separated the lovers. He was balancing in his own mind whether he should not recall Frederic, when a letter arrived from De Chauvelin, informing him of his fate.

"I must fly," said he, shuddering; yes, "I must fly; I dare not see Adrienne; I should be hateful in her eyes. It is you, De Villars, who must break to her this dreadful news, who must support her under it."

The task was a hard one. De Villars, with all his philosophy, felt himself unable to take it alone. He sought Louise, in order to consult with her the best method of executing it; he knew not that the intelligence would not be less dreadful for her than for Adrienne. She forgot in that moment of horror, all the restraint which she had till then imposed upon herself; and revealed in the wildness of her grief, that deep and unchangeable sentiment which till then she had concealed in the deepest recesses of her heart.

But that generous heart could not even in the most profound affliction, long think wholly of itself. When the first burst of agonizing 'sorrow had passed, De Villars uttered the name of Adrienne; that name acted as a talisman, her tears stopped flowing, her firmness returned; and casting herself upon her knees, "Oh, my God! cried she, all I ask of thee, is to sustain her under this blow!"

She was then at the bower, whither Louise immediately hastened. De Villars would have entered with her, but knowing that Adrienne was with Celine, she dared not suffer it. She prayed him so earnestly to leave to her the dreadful task, that he could not refuse. She entered then alone, and went directly to the retreat of Celine.

Adrienne, with the child upon her knees, was seated opposite to the picture of Frederic, upon which she had been gazing, till her imagination exalted

by her feeling, almost persuaded her that its eyes were turned upon her with a look of mournful pity, and that the mouth was opening to address her. At that instant she heard a step. "Gracious God!" cried she, "can it be him?" She turned precipitately, and saw Louise pale as death, her eyes swelled with weeping. There needed no more,-an icy coldness crept through her veins. "Frederic is dead!" cried she; Louise replied not, and that silence confirming her fears, she sprang forward with her daughter in her arms, traversed with the rapidity of lightning the subterraneous passage, gained the garden, and in a few moments was close to a piece of water;-yet an instant, and she would have precipitated herself and her infant into it, but Nannette, who must from her frantic air have divined that some danger menaced that child; so dear to her, had preceded Adrienne without being perceived. She was upon the bank of the basin, and at the moment when Adrienne sprang forward with her daughter, Nannette repulsing her with all her strength, threw her down, and snatching Celine, flew back with her to the subterraneous retreat, leaving Adrienne senseless on the ground.

(To be continued.

RUSTIC COURTSHIP.

(From Goldsmith's Deserted Village.)

Sweet Auburn! loveliest village of the plain,

Where health and plenty cheer'd the lab'ring swain ;

Where smiling spring its earliest visit paid,

And parting summer's ling'ring blooms delayed;

Dear, lovely bowers of innocence and ease,
Seats of my youth when every sport could please,
How often have I loiter'd o'er thy green,
Where humble happiness endear'd each scene
How often have I paus'd on every charm,-

The shelter'd cot-the cultivated farm;

The never failing brook, the busy mill,

The decent church, that topp'd the neighb'ring hill;

The hawthorn bush with seats beneath the shade,

For talking age and whisp’ring lovers made: