virtue, that mercy is, of all virtues, the attribute of the heavenly-minded; and most certainly, it is the one least practised by the world in general.

Sir Charles Lennard followed Amy's path, and when she reached a lonely field, he approached her in his most deferential manner, saying, in his soft low tone, the music of which she had never forgotten,

Amy Hill, do I indeed see you once again? How are you?"

She started, looked up, beheld him, and nearly dropped to the ground; but she endeavoured not to betray herself, a deep blush dyed her face with crimson as she turned and stood still; and she could not speak.

"Sit down, Amy," said Sir Charles; "I am afraid I have alarmed you. Come to yonder bank: lean on my

"No, Sir Charles, thank you, I must go home, and cannot stay a moment with you."

How her very fears spoke her love!!

Nonsense, my pretty one! what, not give me one hour. of your society, I whom you have not seen for so long a time?"

"I did not ever expect, Sir Charles, to see you again; and, indeed, I did not wish it."

66

Nay, now, that is very uncourteous-very unkind, I should once have said; but as it is, Miss Hill, I shall only say you have forgotten even to be civil. Perhaps you will resume something of your former gentleness, when I tell you I am come to pay you a friendly visit, and to see your child, and to supply what it may want."

"It wants nothing, Sir Charles; my child is dead; and I want nothing for myself that you can give me. My father forgave-took me back to his home and his heart, wicked as I had been, and I am well in health, and you can do me no good now; so I pray you, sir," struggling to free her hand, which he held, "do not detain me-do not bring me to shame before the neighbours, who would again scorn me if they saw me talking to you. Some one is coming!" she said; and, breaking away from his grasp, she sprang acrossthe stile, with her little sister in her arms, and ran so swiftly along the intervening field which led to her home, that Sir Charles Lennard did not think it would avail him to persist farther at the moment. He stood still, looking after her for several moments, and began to think he should lose

his bet. The rest of the day he passed at the inn, bored to death, as he said to himself.

"There is but one way," he thought, "to settle the business. I must again promise her marriage, and she will again fall into the snare.

So he laid in wait for the poor girl, and too surely found her.

"I have much to say to you, Amy," he began. "You cannot refuse me, for it is the last time I shall ever trouble you-you cannot refuse me a few minutes' conversation."

Her own heart, poor thing, pleaded for the tempter; and she saurtered on by his side, lured by the sound of his voice again to hearken to his deceitful words. He spoke of his love for her told her innumerable lies of his misery since he had parted from her, and used all those arts, which he had practised a thousand times before, to win her once more into his snare. Finally, she confessed that she still loved. hur. But this time she was firm in her resolve not to run off with him. So he changed his attack, and said, "Why, Amy-not to be married?"

"You would not marry me," she said, looking in his face with pleasure and surprise.

to

"How do you know that?" he replied. "What if I were say I would marry you, Amy, would you consent to go

with me?"

"Are you not jesting?" Are you not deceiving me again? Will you swear to me you are not?”

"As a man of honour, before you and Heaven, Amy, I swear I am not! I promise to make you my wedded wife before four-and-twenty hours are passed, if you choose to become my wife. Say yes, dearest Amy! I will try to make you so very happy; and I think we shall be happy. Put your trust in me.

"If I dared, Sir Charles, I should be very glad. But is it possible, that after-after my wretchedness, you still wish to marry me? Why, I thought no one would marry a poor fallen girl. And do you really say, you would still make me your wife!"

I do say so! I do wish it! I shall never remember the past to your disadvantage: I shall think only of my own fault. Do you imagine I could ever be so cruel as to reproach you? No, Amy, no! Cast aside all your fears

come away

with me-not to be my love only, as the song says, but to be my wife."

"And my father!" said the faltering failing girl. "I will bring you back to your father a happy bride." Again she said, mournfully, "My father, my little sister Emma! what will they do without me?"

"Nay, Amy, that is unkind,-and no thought of me! Say, rather, what shall I do without you?"

All this, and much more, did Sir Charles Lennard say and promise to the poor girl, until love conquered once again, and she fled with him. They stopped two nights on the road; and the next day, in the middle of the high road between and Sir Charles Lennard made her get out of the carriage to walk up a hill, as he said. No sooner was she out, than he called to the postillions to drive on as fast as possible; and, looking back, he saw the wretched Amy fling her arms up in the air, and heard her utter one fearful shriek, which rung in his ears for the rest of his life, and then fall down by the way-side.

"I have won my bet," he repeated, the whole way to town, in order to keep up his spirits; but even that consideration would not quite do to still the sound of that cry; when he arrived in his own luxurious house, and found his dinner table laid, on the day appointed, he dressed quickly to receive his guests, and make known his success.

Sir Charles received the wages of his iniquity, the story was told in the circle of his associates as one worthy of being enrolled in their dark records, and he was more firmly than ever, seated on the throne of the renown, at which he aimed.

from

The newspapers announced a few days afterwards, that a fair girl, whose name and place of abode had not yet transpired, was found drowned in the canal which crosses to London; the description of her person and dress, answered exactly to that of Amy Hill, but as these were known only to Sir Charles and a few of his intimates, the matter excited no interest, and her untimely end was never farther inquired into. Many a tale equally true, has passed away in like manner, without farther comment in this world.

།

CHAPTER XXI.

My lacerated heart is torn,
By various sorrows spent and worn;
The summer of my life is gone,
And I am journeying fast alone,
To tenant soon the silent cell,
Forgotten, with the worm to dwell.
Yet ere I go, and be no more,
Oh! might I ope the golden door,
Where fancy long has stored delight,
And kindred soul would soul requite;

Drink of the cup, which makes the dream
Of lifeless life, enchanting seem;
Taste of the joy so long pursued,
The fainting heart's ambrosial food,
Then should I not in anguish say,
I die and have not lived a day.

M. S.

WHILE this true history of some of the fine gentlemen's loves of London was passing in that metropolis, a scene of far different nature was occurring on the shores of Pro

vence.

As time went on, and that Miss Herbert saw there was no hope of her obtaining Lord de Montmorenci's love, an honest pride came to her assistance, and she began courageously to try her own heart, and discover whether it could not be contented with Sir Edward Mowbray's attachment. She was making this inquiry one morning, when Lord de Montmorenci entered, and looking round the apartment, in search of Lady Herbert, holding a nosegay of beautiful tuberoses in his hand.

"Oh!" said Sarah, rising quickly, and approaching him, "what beautiful flowers! they remind me of a picture by Baptiste."

He tended them to her, that she might inhale their fragrance.

"Oh!" thank you," said Sarah, her eyes glistening with pleasure, and thinking they were destined for her acceptance; "thank you very much," and she gently attempted to take them from his hand.

"Pardon me, they are not for you, Miss Herbert, they are for your mamma."

He said these words coldly, and Sarah turned away to conceal the tears which started to her eyes; in a moment, however, she recovered herself so far, as to be able to say, "I will let mamma know you are here," and left the

room.

"How

"Love me, oh, never," she said to herself. could I ever suppose it possible? Why have I wasted feeling upon him?" Sarah Herbert was not the first, and it is feared will not be the last, who has asked herself the same unavailing question; for a woman's love is too unselfish to be reasonable. Women love on for a length of time, without any probability of being loved in return; they think, by the very intensity of their passion, to master the heart they desire to subdue. Their love rests on a hope beyond hope, they may be treated with indifference, with wrong, with scorn, and still they will love on; but, on the present occasion, Sarah repeated the words, "they are not for you, Miss Herbert, they are for your mamma," and the truth to which she had been blind for such a length of time, burst at once upon her, and she exclaimed,

"It is her he loves!"

A brief feeling of agony, and a briefer still of jealousy towards the one who had gained Lord de Montmorenci's love, and Sarah had forgiven her rival, and she felt to love her mother with greater love even, than before she knew that she was her rival, for she thought" How much you have borne for my sake, how miserable I must have made you by confessing my passion for De Montmorenci!"

"Poor dear mamma, is it Sarah who has caused you such sorrow? Oh! how I hate myself for it. Yet, I did so love him, I could not keep the secret." Then Miss Herbert reflected on her mother's conduct, during the last month especially, and the more she reflected, the more highly she esteemed and loved her. For Sarah Herbert understood what bitter and hard trial she must have gone through, in being cold even to unkindness, sometimes, to