"Oh, no,-I am sure he will not."

"Do you think he will pray for me?-Ask him, Mary; ask him to pray for me," she continued with horrible eagerness.

“I will, I will,” replied Mary; " but, for mercy's sake go away, lest he wake and know your voice!"

"Well, I will go-I will go. I know I am not worthy to speak either to him or you; but no one is waking but you and me, Mary, so no one sees how you are degraded." "I did not mean that; I did not indeed," cried Mary, bursting into tears of pity.

"No-I know you are very good, Mary; and you, you only were worthy of him: so ask him to pray for me, and do you pray for me too."

Pray for yourself, my poor Fanny," cried Mary.

"I dare not," she answered, shuddering as she spoke; "but did you not say he was asleep, sound asleep?" "I did."

"Then, let me see him!-I will not speak-I will not stir, believe me, but if you do not-" she added, grasping Mary's hand with a look of desperation.

Mary was awed; and gently undoing the door, Fanny passed her, and in a moment she stood by Llewellyn's bed side. She gazed on him with wild and tearless earnestness, but silently, as she promised. At length, however, she turned away, muttering as she did so," and he was once so handsonie."

"It seemed as if the most imperfect sound of a voice so dear to him was sure to find its way to the ears and heart of Llewellyn; for he awoke at this moment, and starting up in his bed, saw Fanny before the terrified Mary could force her out of the room.

"Let her stay, let her stay," cried Llewellyn; and in an instant Fanny was on her kness before him.

"Forgive me!" was all she uttered; but it was enough. "I forgive you," he replied, and sunk back, almost fainting, on his pillow.

"Thank you!-thank you for that!" cried Fanny, starting up; then she wildly added, "But they say your father and mother cursed me on their death-bed, Llewellyn." "Horrible, horrible!-Is this true?" asked Llewellyn. "No, no-it is false," replied Mary; "quite false." "It is enough!" exclaimed Fanny and Llewellyn both at once: "but it would have been very natural for them to

have done so," added Fanny; " for, till you knew me, you were an obedient child."

"True," said Llewellyn, mournfully; "but it was my fault, and not your's, that I would be a soldier. I preferred my own gratification to their's, and I am justly punishedI know, I feel that I am."

Fanny, however felt that she was miserable," but you have forgiven me, you have forgiven me," she cried in a hurried manner; "and that is enough for me now, Llewellyn."

But Llewellyn heard her not: his fever was returned, and with it the happy unconsciousness attending it.

"There! he is dying!-and I have killed him! One crime more is set down to my account," exclaimed Fanny, with a scream of agony.

"Go, for pity's sake go!" cried Mary, bursting into tears, "I cannot bear to witness his illness and your agony too." "Me! Do you consider me, and what I feel?" said Fanny. Thank you!-thank you! Well, well, I will go -I will go." Then wringing Mary's hand almost convulsively, she stooped down, imprinted a long kiss on the burning temples of Llewellyn; and, bidding Mary farewell for ever, rushed out of the house.

As soon as she was gone, Mary repented that she had bidden her go. She recollected with horror her disorded look and her solemn farewell; and even while weeping on the restless pillow of Llewellyn, her unhappy victim, she thought with generous anxiety of the guilty Fanny.

At length morning began to dawn; and while Llewellyn, having taken a composing medicine, was in a sort of sound sleep, Mary gently opened the lattice, in order to feel the refreshing breeze of the rising day, when suddenly she heard voices approaching, and the tread of many feet. Immediately after she overheard some one say to another, "Let us go very softly past Mary's cottage, lest she and Llewellyn hear us." This was enough to alarm the already suspicious Mary; and in a few moments more her painful curiosity was cruelly gratified; for, carried on a sort of bier, she beheld the dead body of Fanny.

On leaving Mary she had plunged into a neighbouring stream, and been discovered too late to be restored to life. Happily for Llewellyn, Mary had such an habitual command of her feelings, whenever the indulgence of them was likely to injure others, that, though she sunk trembling

and almost fainting on the ground, when this sad sight met her view, her sorrow was not audible; and when the poor invalid awoke, and asked for Fanny, the almost heroic girl, struggling with her feelings, calmly replied, that she had persuaded her to go home to bed. Llewellyn, seeing in Mary's countenance nothing to make him doubt the truth of what she said, or to excite his fears, composed himself to sleep again, and escaped the knowledge of an event which might have proved instantly fatal to him.

"It will kill him, I know it will, when he hears of it," said Mary to herself: and though-thanks to her attentive care-Llewellyn was soon pronounced to be out of danger, her joy was overclouded by the fear that he should relapse when informed of the fate of Fanny.

"It is strange," said Llewellyn, one day, when he stood for the first time since his illness at an open window-it is very strange, that Fanny should not have been heard of so long a time!"

"I feared, and she feared," replied Mary, blushing, "that her presence might agitate you too much."

"Nonsense!" replied Llewellyn, rather pettishly: "it would do me good rather: for in spite of all, Mary, in spite of all, I feel-I feel that I love her still."

"Indeed!” cried Mary, turning pale.

Yes," answered Llewellyn, with a deep sigh; " and I am convinced that, as my going away and leaving her exposed to temptation was the cause of her guilt, I am bound in conscience to marry her."

"To marry her!" exclaimed Mary, while she could not help rejoicing at that moment that Fanny was no more. "Yes, to marry her!" replied Llewellyn: "you know, you yourself imputed all the mischief that has happened to my going for a soldier."

"Not exactly so,” replied Mary: " I imputed it to the

war."

"That is much the same thing," retorted Llewellyn, hastily; but Mary was of a different opinion. "Therefore," continued Llewellyn," as I long very much to see herdo, my dear cousin, do go for her this afternoon."

The season of self-command was over. Mary got up; she sat down again; she turned pale; then red; and at last burst into tears.

"What is the matter?" cried Llewellyn; "what has happened?"

Fanny-Fanny is ill in bed," faltered out Mary. "But not dying, I hope?" answered Llewellyn, tottering to a chair.

Not-not far from it," said Mary, resolved now to tell him the whole truth.

Let me see her-I will see her," he exclaimed, staggering towards the door.

It is too late!" cried Mary, forcing him into a chair : "but remember, dearest Llewellyn, that before she died you had kindly forgiven all her offences towards you."

"She had none to forgive," fiercely replied Llewellyn, remembering at that moment nothing but her merits: and he insisted on seeing her corpse, if she was really dead.

"She is buried also," cried Mary, almost piqued at this obstinate attachment to an unworthy girl, while her faithful love and modest worth were unregarded: but she soon lost all resentiment in terror and pity, at the anguish which now overwhelmed Llewellyn.

At first it shewed itself in vehement exclamations and declarations-that she should not die-that she should still be his wife; but at length he sunk into a state of despondency, and, throwing himself across his bed, for two days all the efforts of Mary were in vain to rouse him from his mournful stupor. On the third day he became composed; and taking Mary's hand, he said:

My dear, good cousin, lead me, pray lead me, to her grave.

This request was what Mary had dreaded.

"I-I do not know which it is," replied Mary.

"Then we can enquire," coldly answered Llewellyn. "No, no,-if you are determined-I think I can find it," said Mary, recollecting that she could shew him some other grave for her's.

"I am determined," answered Llewellyn; and with slow steps they set off for the burying ground.

When there, Mary led him to a grave newly made, but the flowers with which it had been strewed were withered. Llewellyn threw himself across the turf; and, darting an angry glance at Mary, said:

These flowers might have been renewed, I think: however, this spot shall be planted now, as well as strewed." and Mary did not contradict him.

But, unluckily, at this moment a woman, whose mother was buried in the grave which Llewellyn mistook for

Fanny's, came up to them with fresh flowers to throw on it, and before Mary could prevent her, she demanded what Llewellyn meant by lying on her mother's grave.

Llewellyn, starting up, replied, " that he thought Fanny Hastings lay buried there.

"She!" answered the woman: no, poor thing! she drowned herself, and is buried in the cross-ways!"

Llewellyn gave a deep groan, and sunk senseless on the ground; nor did he recover till he had been conveyed home, and was laid on his bed, his head resting on the arm of Mary..

When he opened his eyes and saw her, he gave her such a look of woe!-and refused for some days all nourishment and all consolation, as he had done before; while Mary, rendered desperate by his obstinate resolution to die, lost all power of exertion; and after one day of great anxiety, when she left him for the night, she felt as if she should never be able to leave her room again..

The next morning, when Llewellyn awoke from his disturbed slumbers, he was surprised not to see Mary watching by his bedside; and though resolved not to eat, he still felt disappointed that his kind nurse was not there to invite him to do so. But hour after hour elapsed, and still no Mary appeared; and Llewellyn's heart died within him, as the probability struck him, that she had at length sunk under the accumulated fatigue and sorrow which he had occasioned her.

The idea was insupportable: he forgot regret for the dead Fanny, in fear of the living Mary; and hastily dres sing himself, resolved to go in search of her.

Still, respect forbade him to enter her lodging room; and having with some difficulty reached the stair-case, he stopped there, irresolute how to proceed. Had he entered her room, he would have seen with some emotion, what a wretched garret and miserable bed Mary was contented to use, in order to accommodate the ungrateful object of her affections. He therefore only called Mary by name. Still no Mary answered: again he called, but in vain; for though Mary did hear him the second time she was not in a humour to reply.

She had lain awake, revolving in her own mind the whole of her past existence. She found that her life had been uniformly a life of wearisome exertion, uncheered but by the consciousness of having done her duty, and she felt at that moment indifferent even to Llewellyn himself,