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agonising fear, had already done the same. Poor child ! she flew rather than galloped, and was utterly unable to manage her horse; her feet, convulsively kicking the animal, infuriated it; up highest mountains it bounded, down steep declivities, and up mountains again.

“Stop, stop, for God's sake, stop!” cried Eldrido; but his voice found an echo only in the breeze. It was a fearful sight.

At length the bridle fell from Rosa's hands; she clenched hold of the horse's mane; the agony of fear prevented her uttering a single cry; her face was lividly pale, her eyes distended, whilst large drops stood upon her brow.

The animal paused for one instant, stood for a moment at the base of a large mountain. “Oh!” faintly moaned Rosa—but it was only one plaintive exclamation, and that one was the last.

With one impetuous bound the animal stood upon the mountain's brow; another moment, and he dashed, with frightful velocity, down the valley below.

It was over : not a sound escaped from the child's lips, but her little innocent heart had ceased to beat—life's pulse was still !

And still shone the pale moon,—and the lambent stars were lighting the spot,—and the breeze was as quiet, all as serene—but poor Rosa was dead!

Presently Eldrido dismounted, and stood upon the mountain's brow, and cautiously descending the ravine, he stood a horrorstricken spectator of the dreadful sight. Horse and rider were dead; and her he had so bravely rescued was a mass of disfigurement, a shockingly livid corpse. The body was too repulsive to be touched, and, sick at heart, the poor youth remounted his horse, nor did he stop its speed till he reached the baron's mansion.

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CHAPTER XII.

A change came o’er the spirit of my dream.
The lady of his love ;-oh! she was changed;
As by the sickness of the soul; her mind
Had wander'd from its dwelling, and her eyes,
They had not their own lustre, but the look
Which is not of the earth ; she was become
The queen of a fantastic realm .....

BYRON'S Dream.

Return we now to the characters first introduced to my reader's notice. Many weeks have elapsed, and in this changing life fate places its imperious “veto” upon our paths of happiness, and by its predestined fiat chequers at pleasure our most darling projects. Yet, amidst a

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certain degree of fatality, which almost all men allow, we can trace a preordination which the “ veto” of fate cannot command—this not the hand of destiny, but the hand of One unspeakably good.

Many characters introduced in a novel glide through the pages without trial or misfortune ; many, on the contrary, are led through a series of difficulties; at times perhaps they may appear exaggerated, but how many readers have shed tears over the recollection of trials as severe which it has been their sad lot to encounter.

The sudden gloom thrown over a house when illness attains the mastery has too often been described, and, alas ! too often been witnessed to require description. The closed blinds, the noiseless tread, the suppressed sobs, the low moans of the sufferer, the breathless anxiety with which the visit of the physician is hailed, all this throws

a chord of sadness over the author's pen, as if aware that many must shed a recol. lective tear.

How changed was Cunnington Abbey ! Lady Cunnington's dignified step had lost its measured tread ; tremulously, nervously she glided into the sick chamber of Augustus Lord Cunnington, her kind, her noble-hearted husband, whose tide of life was slowly ebbing away.

Lady Cunnington's grief was neither violent nor unrestrained ; indeed, very common-minded menials were not slow in saying, “My lady don't seem to take it to heart.” She did take it to heart; but in that exalted heart there existed the deepest religion—that vital religion which lifted her " in the flesh, above the flesh,” and left her soul tranquil and resigned. Well Lady Cunnington knew that death would hring no terrors to her virtuous husband ;

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