For it was a richly decorated fane, in the Gothic style of architecture, striking each beholder with its reverent beauty and costly

ornaments.

"Hail to the firm, unmoving cross!
Aloft, where pines their branches toss,
And to the chapel far withdrawn,
That lurks by lonely ways.

Doomed as we are our native dust
To wet with many a bitter shower,
It ill befits us to disdain

The altar, to deride the fane,
Where patient sufferers bend in trust
To win a happier hour."

My Lady Winifred ! Ah! how that name conjures up images of the past, and recals scenes and recollections which I had imagined to have been long swept down the stream of memory's oblivion! But somewhat of the Abbey itself I must tell you; for when I once begin to speak of the living actors of the scene, I feel how impossible it will be to diverge into any minor details, for my heart was enwrapt; and my darling, it will indeed be hard for me to fulfil the task I have imposed on myself.

The comparatively new part (and that was ancient enough, in all conscience) was a monastic, solemn-looking, dark structure, full of vaulted passages, arched doorways, and ecclesiastical windows, deeply set and surrounded by heavy-sculptured masonry; ivied buttresses, and grey masses of mouldering stone, towering up in emulation of the giant trees, which on all sides waved and swung about their branches, even against the very casements. And venerable and dim was the religious light diffused over each part and portion of that rambling and vast old sanctuary. There was the oak library, with its quaint carvings, distant gallery, and high vaulted roof; the saloon for music, with raised platform surrounded by invisible fairy balustrades, whereon the musical instruments were placed. It was called the Abbot's Hall, and a vast, antique, grand hall it was; dread reasons have I for well noting and remembering it.

I was only twelve years of age when I first entered into the Marquis of S. Evremond's family, and my Lady Winifred was then an only child of seven years old. I understood that I was placed there as a playfellow and humble companion, to attend on the walks, plays, and studies, if they might be so designated, of her little ladyship; but since then I have learnt, that being, as they pleased to say, a sweet-tempered, docile, and gay girl, I might perchance assist in counteracting the haughty and fearfully passionate disposition thus early and strangely evinced by the heiress of the S. Evremonds; for, in the event of no son being born to that

ancient house, the extensive hereditary possessions all descended to a daughter or daughters.

The Lady Winifred was a child of rare beauty. I never beheld such singular dark eyes, so large and fascinating; and when they flashed with rage, and her cheek paled, (literally a death-like pallor, from concentrated anger,) yet her perfectly-chiselled features were never distorted; and I never saw her cry, as children are usually wont to do, though prolonged and terrific screams often betokened her puny efforts to attain universal dominion, and her disappointment when frustrated. I used in my own mind to compare her to a fallen angel,

"A creature to whom light remained

From Eden still, but altered-stained."

From neither her simple-hearted, benevolent sire, nor from her gentle-souled mother, did the Lady Winifred inherit the demonspirit I have endeavoured to describe; the Marquis of S. Evremond being an enthusiast and devotee, in his own quiet way, a naturalist, also, and an accomplished musician. But I used to hear some of the dependents whisper, that an ancestor, whose portrait hung in the gallery, was the model from which their young lady was formed,-Sir Hildebrand of S. Evremond, the dauntless and heroic, but whose passion was as ungovernable as the whirlwind, which passeth over the earth in wild tempestuous violence, to sear and to destroy.

Many a time have I wept and cowered, though five years her senior, beneath the angry blows which the beautiful fury would launch forth on me; and oh! I have often trembled, and prayed fervently on my knees to GOD, alone in mine own chamber; for it was a fearful sight, this mortal not yet eight years on earth, thus to prove a perfect scourge and terror to all within her atmosphere.

She was not, indeed, without affection. I often, even at that time, imagined I could discern strong traces of it towards myself. But shame and remorse so often mingled with it, after the gusts of passion were over, that it required one far better versed in human nature than I was, to discriminate judiciously, and call it forth.

Let it not be imagined that all this was suffered to pass unreproved and unchecked. The mother, indeed, shrank in stricken terror from the noisy scenes: she had not nerve to encounter her rebellious child: she had once been struck by the frenzied little tyrant. And the father wanted the firm, guiding hand of power, and quiet command, to subdue this unruly spirit to obedience.

The honoured and venerable chaplain exerted more control, and exacted and demanded far greater awe and respect from my young mistress than any one else had ever yet done; and, tender though her years were, he had earnestly endeavoured to

make her acquainted with the great truths of our blessed religion, and to show her pictures of the mild, pitying Redeemer, suffering little children to approach Him. How sweetly he talked and she would hang her head, poor thing, till the profusion of massive ebon locks swept over her neck and arms, trembling all over, and gliding silently away. But she never shed a tear. It was quite awful to watch the character and disposition thus early developed in this child.

Well, this went on till my Lady Winifred had attained her tenth year, and then it was notified that the Marchioness of S. Evremond was likely to present an addition to the family very shortly.

Great, indeed, were the rejoicings when it was announced that a son was born, a son, so long and ardently prayed for by the grateful and delighted parents. A healthy and a noble babe it was, truly; and I knelt down beside the cradle where it nestled, never tired of gazing on the blessed innocent. Whilst I thus knelt and gazed, I heard a footstep by my side, and, on looking round, I I was terror-stricken to behold my young lady also standing in fixed contemplation of the slumbering babe, with her dark eyes fearfully distended, her face livid, and convulsed by unutterable passion, I may almost venture to say, despair. It was long, long before she could speak, and when she did, it was in a wild burst of frantic agony, rage, and grief, which I never can forget:

"Tell me, tell me, Mona, is it true?-you will not lie to me— tell me, is it true? will it come to pass? They taunt me-they taunt me-me, Mona! They say-listen-that papa and mamma love me no longer; all their love has passed away to that (pointing to the unconscious sleeper in the cradle bed); they say that I am nobody now, my power all departed, and that my brother is all in all to every one. But O, Mona! it is not the power and wealth I care for, but papa's love, mamma's love, yours. Will they not forgive me again and again as they used to do? Ah no! for I am not their only one now, and he has taken their love away and [ hate him! I hate him!" and violently she seized on my arm. I could not pacify her; she flung herself on the ground, tore her hair, and with repeated shrieks, wild and piercing shrieks, most terrible to listen to, she incoherently repeated, again and again, all the sad wicked words already spoken.

We could never trace, or find out, what baleful means had been used, or by whom, thus to poison the poor young lady's mind; but with them assuredly, and not with her, must rest in a great measure, the awful weight of guilt incurred, from the dreadful catastrophe which so soon followed.

#

She was left with the precious babe alone, but for a few minutes, the domestics were in the next apartment; that morning her mother had reproved the Lady Winifred, gently, tenderly, re

proved her; but she had witnessed the caresses lavished on the little stranger.

Who may imagine or shadow forth even in indistinct murmurs, the thoughts that crowded on that young girl's mind, what fiend tempted, what power of darkness was permitted to work? Deep, dark, mysterious and unfathomable are the ways of the LORD, I dare not think or reason, I only desire faith, single-hearted, pure faith; I cannot comprehend, but I know the LORD wisely directs all things, and I would ever wish to say in all sincerity, “ His will be done."

When the nurse re-entered the apartment, the Lady Winifred was standing on the middle of the floor, one hand pointing to the cradle, the other clenched, but not with passion, that had passed away; she stood like a statue of stone, with her rolling eyes following their every movement.

The babe of a few weeks, the heir, was dead: when they removed the pillows with which she had smothered him, the angel smile dwelt on the cherub mouth, the mother's milk yet warm there, but the breath of life had departed; the Lady Winifred had murdered her brother, and a few minutes had sufficed to accomplish the ruthless and irrevocable deed of horror!

"Who art thou?

He answered not, but with a sudden hand
Made bare his branded and ensanguined brow,
Which was like Cain's-O! that it should be so !
What softer voice is hushed over the dead?
Athwart what brow is that dark mantle thrown?
What form leans sadly o'er the white death bed,
In mockery of monumental stone,

The heavy heart heaving without a moan?"

*

All was over, and I must pass by the harrowing scenes and details which followed. The miserable affair was hushed up as much as possible, but the poor mother's heart was broken, and she refused to look upon her daughter again. Five years from this terrible period, after giving birth to a second daughter, the Marchioness of S. Evremond felt that her final release was at hand, and she then called for the unfortunate being on whose brow was indelibly imprinted the fatal mark.

Ah! during those five heavy years, since that fearful night, what a change was wrought in the girl! She had never been seen to smile; (she never was seen to smile again whilst she lived,) it seemed as if all the violent passion of her soul had exhausted itself in that one atrocious act of childhood: the re-action followed, terror, despair, and a long lingering illness, in which she lay hover

ing betwixt life and death. She awoke and rose again, still a child in years, but a woman in feeling.

"We live in deeds, not years: in thoughts, not breaths :

In feelings, not in figures on a dial:

We should count time by heart throbs: he most lives,
Who thinks most: feels the noblest: acts the best."

The good chaplain had placed before my Lady Winifred in its true light, the crime she had committed; she understood him, she understood herself and her own position: a precocious light seemed vouchsafed to her, and the contrite, humbled sinner, the self-abased penitent, never, never for one moment forgot hereafter, that her brother's blood was required at her hand.

I never could forget, that she had been maddened and urged on to commit the direful offence against her GoD, partly through her outraged affections, when she had so cruelly been taught to believe her father and mother cared no more for her. It taught me more of her heart than I had hitherto known, and let me see that a deep store of love was garnered there, poisoned and festering for evermore, but still there: and my lady refusing to see or acknowledge her, struck the barb more deeply home. But on the death-bed all wrongs are forgotten and forgiven;

"How many a bitter word 'twould hush,
How many a pang 'twould save,
If life more precious held those ties
Which sanctify the grave!"

On her death-bed, the mother called for her banished daughter once more; with the agonised pangs of anxiety and maternal love, she pointed to the new-born babe, and feebly whispered, “Spare it, Winifred, and as thou art tender and merciful towards thy helpless sister, in future years, so may a dying mother's blessing rest on thee. Farewell, my first-born, my unhappy child; may thy Creator forgive thee as I do."

O! the ten thousand thousand bitter reproaches conveyed in those two words, "spare it."

Shortly afterwards the Marchioness of S. Evremond expired; and for the second time I witnessed the solemn parade of a midnight burial, and listened to the seraphic strains of the "Requiem of the S. Evremonds," which tradition said it had been the custom for untold generations to chant at the obsequies of any member of that noble family.

My Lady Winifred was fifteen when her mother died, but, as I have before said, no longer a girl: she had lived ages of remorse and agony, and constantly expressed a wish to bury herself and her woes in some asylum for penitents, for with this world she had evi