which overlooked the ramparts. This was the residence of the Seigneur de Mauny.

Attracted by the unexpected sight of a spot containing every thing dearest to her affections, in which she had spent so many hours of innocent enjoyment, and which she scarcely hoped ever again to behold, Emily paused to gaze on it.

Tears trickled down her cheeks, and, to say she sighed, would be to give but a weak idea of the agony her soul endured.-She sobbed, and, burying her cheek within her hands, her whole frame shook as with convulsions.

"Farewell, dear Gaultier-my beloved, farewell!-Whatever fate befall thine Emily, mayst thou be blest!-Thou wilt not, methinks, forget me.-No,-I would not thou shouldst quite cast me from thy memory; and yet, dear Damoyseau! were't for thine happiness thus to do -forget me!-I am not so selfish.- Thine Emily hath not that vanity, to wish thou shouldst remember, for thy bane, one, who must henceforth be to thee as naught."

In order to take a better view of the object she was looking towards, she flung back the

hood which had hitherto concealed her face.The moon-beams falling directly upon her features, which were raised towards the turret, the only part of the castle, which, from the point on which she stood, she could perceive; the objects opposite to her were consequently in the shade, and indistinct, whilst the minute ones. were almost imperceptible; she, however, fancied she could just perceive some one move at a small lattice in the tower, a few feet above her head.

Startled at this, and fearing every sound and motion might foretell the approach of a foe, she hastily again drew forward her hood, and folding her mantle around her, was on the point of leaving the spot, when her step was arrested by the sound of a voice, the accents of which had often before fallen as music on her ear.

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Emily-oh! Emily--my love!-is it thou, -is it indeed thyself, or do mine eyes deceive me? How camest thou here? Oh! whitherwhither art thou going?"

Emily no sooner heard the tones of that loved voice, than she checked her retiring footsteps.

She had thought never again to have beheld him. Had she known of the exact spot of his imprisonment, and been aware, that in thus indulging herself with this last gaze at the hall of his nativity, she would have encountered himself, she, perhaps, would, from considerations of pity to him, and prudence to herself, have avoided the spot altogether; for she well knew

"Such partings do but break the hearts
They vainly hope to heal."

Firmly had she resolved within herself that she would not only not seek for any opportunity of meeting him, but would even always avoid doing so,—at least during the life of a father who disdained her alliance,-yet when she heard his voice beseeching her to stay,-imploring her not to flee from him,-not to leave him to despair-what could she do but linger for a while? She turned around and sprang towards the spot whence the sound proceeded. Who that has a heart would have acted otherwise? But how often fatal is it to allow the impression of moment to overthrow the resolutions of our sober

a

thought. Yet how frequently do we do so! I know not how the Demon works, to bring about his ends, but sure it is, that our best feelingsthose which do the greatest honour to our most dishonourable natures, are those of which he frequently avails himself to plunge us into crime.

Yet was Emily guilty of no crime in thus listening to her lover. It was an imprudence only. She stood beneath the lattice, and would have spoken, but words failed her; she could find none mild enough to tell him of the resolution she had formed of quitting Bavay; and when she had collected sufficient for that purpose, her lips refusing to utter them, she gazed upon him silently, and sobbed. At last, ín a tremulous and broken voice she spoke.

"Gaultier! my beloved-I leave thee,-thy peace-ay and my pride too-for know, Gaultier, thine Emily hath a soul as proud and passionate as is that of thy cruel father, my pride demands this sacrifice."

"Thou about to leave me, Emily!-Why, what meanest thou?-Whither art thou going?" "I mean, Gaultier, as I did say, to quit this

spot, this the asylum of my childhood-where I once was happy,-where I first knew thee, but where I must never see thee more."

"To quit this spot, Emily! why surely, child, thou dreamest? Did de Bavay give thee leave to go? Why, Emily," he continued, recollecting himself, "all is confusion to me--all enigma. 'Twas told to me thou wert already gone; and lo! when least I did expect to find thee, here thou art, to tell me we must meet no more. How is all this?"

Emily then explained to him all that had occurred since they last saw each other, and then acquainted him with the resolution she had formed of leaving Bavay.

"Oh cruel, cruel maid,” replied Gaultier ;— "how can'st thou thus talk ?-knowest thou not, then, that ere I loved thee, I knew not happiness,-that, since loving thee, thou hast been to me as life; and that, if I lose thee, I shall die; yet dost thou talk of leaving me! Hast thou the heart to do it, Emily?-Whither wilt thou go? Who shall tend thee on thy way-Who comfort thee, when in sorrow-Who nurse thee, if thou