scene, when even Mrs. Quinton's fortitude utterly forsook her, and as her brother-in-law pressed her to his heart in a parting embrace, she gave way to an ungovernable burst of tears, that was terrible to witness. They were alone at the moment, Walter having left the room for some forgotten gift to his brother, whom he was going to see on board the transport. Placing her gently on a sofa, and speaking tender and soothing words, the minds of both being happily even in that moment of supreme grief under the control of higher and holier influences than those dictated by passion, he succeeded in somewhat calming her, but hearing his brother's voice now calling him to come, and fearing he would enter and witness his wife's emotion, Henry, once more embracing and praying Heaven to bless her, rushed from the room.

In the course of a few days Walter returned home; by this time Mrs. Quinton had, in a measure, regained her composure, and was enabled to greet her husband tranquilly. He told her that Henry's depression at parting was very great, and hardly to be accounted for, as his prospects were good, and himself young in years, and strong in frame-if life were spared to him, he might yet be an ornament to his country. What could be the cause of his apparent hopelessness? Mrs. Quinton could have solved the enigma, but light was not then to be thrown upon it.

After the events just narrated, the denizens of Abbey Court pursued the even tenor of their lives. Mr. Quinton had been recently appointed a magistrate; the duties connected with this office, and those appertaining to his estate, occupied much of his time, consequently his wife was left a good deal alone to brood over her own sad reflections; and though she

tried to occupy and interest herself in her former favourite pursuits, yet they failed to afford her any diversion. The mind, too, had affected the body; she was now often indisposed and unequal to exertion.

The watchful eyes of her mother at length observed this change, for Mrs. Quinton never complained of any ailment, and she spoke on the subject to her son-in-law, who at once expressed his wish that the doctor should be consulted. The latter's prescription was the usual one, namely, change of scene and amusement. He had no doubt this depression was caused by her present state, as she expected to become a mother before many months were over, and therefore recommended Mr. Quinton to take his wife to some fashionable watering place, where her spirits would be cheered by contact with society.

Walter immediately proceeded to put this advice into practice, though Mrs. Quinton would have preferred remaining at the Abbey; but her objections were overruled, and she was obliged to give way.

They went to London. Admiring eyes followed the young wife wherever she appeared, and numerous were the glasses levelled at her box when she went to the Opera, to which place her husband insisted on taking her, and to please him, she essayed to interest herself in such amusements. In the meantime letters had been received from Captain Quinton, announcing his arrival at Lisbon, and these alone called up a solitary gleam of sunshine to Ellen's face. Society likewise failed to cause her pleasure, and she would gladly have returned home, but her husband would not hear of it, until some benefit had been derived from the journey.

After visiting Brighton, and various other places, remaining

but a short time in each, she begged to be allowed to go back to the Abbey, to which Mr. Quinton now consented, as her health had somewhat improved, and he trusted she would soon be stronger. They intended spending some days at Mr. Irwell's previously, and on reaching his abode were welcomed by Mrs. Quinton's parents with affection. The latter rejoiced over their daughter's apparent recovery, fondly hoping that when her time of trial was over, all would be well with her.

The news from abroad was anxiously watched for by young Quinton's relatives, to whom he often wrote, and, strange to say, his letters were now more regularly received than formerly. In one of them, he mentioned having again met with the Minezes, to whom he was so largely indebted for the preservation of his life. On reading this passage Mr. Quinton smiled, and said he supposed a sister-inlaw would soon be presented to the family. Ellen made no remark,

and the subject dropped.

She could not help thinking that if it were possible for her brotherin-law to love another, it would be better for himself; but such an event was not likely to happen.

Some ten or twelve months had now elapsed since the marriage of our young couple, and they were expecting tidings from abroad, as in our hero's last letter he spoke of a great battle that was about to take place in which his regiment hoped to be engaged. Newspapers were not delivered with the punctuality of the present time, and frequently great events had taken place weeks before they became known in remote districts.

Abbey Court was so near the town of E-, that the Irwells and Quintons were almost constantly together, and sometimes stopping for days in each other's

abode. On this occasion, the former were visiting at their sonin-law's house, and one day as Mrs. Irwell was sitting alone in the drawing-room, a servant brought her in a paper, which she hastily opened. It contained an account of an engagement, with a long list of killed and wounded. As her eye glanced down the page, it fell upon the name of Captain Quinton, "mortally wounded!" Before she could utter an exclamation, or even realize the meaning of the words, a piercing shriek sounded in her ears!

Mrs. Quinton had entered the room, and, unperceived by her mother, had looked over her shoulder, read the fatal announcement, and sank senseless to the ground. She was borne to her chamber, and laid on the bed, her husband and father speedily summoned, and the doctor sent for. When the latter arrived, she had not recovered consciousness, though the usual restoratives had been employed. Before night, premature pangs seized her, and the medical men-for her distracted husband had despatched messengers for more advice-pronounced her case hopeless. She might linger, they said, for some hours, but the shock her system had received could not be got over.

Who shall describe the grief of the heart-stricken husband, when this verdict was tenderly broken to him by her unhappy mother, as he paced the ante-chamber, listening for the least sound from the sick room through the long hours of that dreary night? A light, too late, alas for reparation, had broken in upon his mind. He now fully understood all that had hitherto been incomprehensible to him. His wife's depression of spiritshis brother's evident distaste for what had formerly delighted himall was at last cleared up by the

Ellen's love had been given to the young soldier, but why had she not confided it to him, who with the unselfishness of true love would have sacrificed his own feelings to procure the happiness of both! He implored Heaven to spare the dear one's life, that he might prove to her in the years to come his entire devotion, but if not, that strength might be granted him to endure with patience and submission to the divine will such heavy afflictions. And thus the night waned. Mr. Irwell shared his anxious watch, equally overwhelmed with sorrow.

Towards morning the doctors announced to Mr. Quinton the birth of a son, and that the young mother had but a few hours to live. It was also doubtful whether the child would survive. Walter entreated to be allowed to see his wife, and they promised he should do so when he was more composed, as she had asked for him.

Mastering his emotion by a powerful effort, he at length entered the room where the life of the being so dear to him was slowly ebbing away. Pale and drooping like a lily, she lay supported in the arms of her mother, who now re. signed this post to the afflicted husband.

A faint gleam of colour tinged the sufferer's cheeks as he drew near; she asked to be left alone with him, and then in weak and broken accents, told him the tale of her love-how she had been deceived by the news of her brother-in-law's marriage; of the pride that would not let her confide in Walter, or her parents, by which her own and their happiness had been sacrificed; the sufferings both had undergone when Henry returned from abroad, in striving to conquer their mutual affection; also, that during the

struggle no disloyal thoughts towards her husband had entered their minds. She implored his and Heaven's forgiveness, and promised, if life were granted her, to devote it to him, if not, that he would cherish her memory with tenderness and indulgence. Need it be said what Mr. Quinton replied? In this supreme moment, when his wife's existence was fast ebbing to its close, there was no room in his heart for resentment, had such a nature been capable of entertaining it.

Suppressing his own agony, he sought to soothe her dying moments with pious words of love and peace, and as they fell upon her ear a ray of light seemed to illumine her face. She faintly asked for her parents and child; the latter was brought to the bedside, and then the young father beheld for the first time the frail being whose advent was so disas

trous.

Exhausted by the effort she had made, Mrs. Quinton lay pillowed on her husband's true and loving heart. The doctor now informed Mr. Irwell that the end was fast approaching, and wished him to remove his sonin-law from the room, but the latter would not quit his wife's side, and whilst he offered up a prayer on her behalf, a solemn stillness pervaded the chamber, even the sob of grief was hushed, and thus, with a dying look of love upon her face, this pure spirit passed away to its eternal

rest.

But little remains for me to add to this sad tale. Within a few hours the bereaved husband had likewise to mourn the death of his child, and the home so lately the abode of apparent happiness, was now left desolate. Why should we dwell longer upon these scenes, from which, alas! but few of us are exempt? Self-reproach rendered Ellen's father inconsolable, but in

justice to him it must be said, he knew nothing of his daughter's previous attachment, and her mother was equally ignorant on the subject. Within a few brief years they followed the hapless Mrs. Quinton to the grave, her death having in all probability hastened theirs.

Walter, whose almost filial affection for Ellen's parents remained unshaken, spent his life in the performance of benevolent deeds, and in carrying out his wife's plans for the benefit of the poor on his estate, did not long survive them, and the property passed away to a distant branch of the family, though in memory of his deceased wife, he would gladly have bequeathed the old place to one of either of her sisters' children, had that been possible.

The news contained in the fatal journal was but too true.

Captain Quinton,mortally wounded, breathed his last in the arms of his sergeant, who bore him from the battle-field. A miniature which he wore next his heart, bearing traces of the fatal conflict, was found upon him, and

forwarded to his brother. He had behaved with the greatest gallantry in the action, and had he lived would have gained his promotion. Beatriz, whose hand was sought in marriage by more than one admirer, amongst whom we may number Don -, leader of the guerilla band of patriots, on learning the fate of our hero, entered a convent, wherein she devoted herself to the prayers and penances of her faith, having frequent masses said for the repose of the soul of the young soldier, whose prepossessing ex terior, manly qualities and bearing, had unhappily made such sad inroads upon her naturally warm and loving heart.

The parents of Beatriz, likewise her old and faithful nurse, whose intriguing spirit had occasioned such untoward results, bewailed the departure of their darling from that world she was so well fitted to adorn; but, as rigid Catholics, they trusted the sacrifice might be reckoned a good work, and prove favourable hereafter both to themselves and her who made it.

IN the fair and fertile county of East Lothian, no village is so rural as that of Athelstaneford. It is the very ideal of a red-tiled, straggling Scottish village, which we see so often pictured on the walls of the Royal Scottish Academy. It possesses all the sweet rusticity and all the rough cleanliness which characterize these pictures. It consists of two hundred inhabitants, who all live by agriculture, from the brewer down to the blacksmith. The village is formed of two narrow, straggling rows of one-storied houses, with water barrels in front, and patches of garden ground behind. Here and there are seen pots of flowers in the windows, and trained rose bushes clasping the doorway and running half way up the roof. As we enter from the west, we pass the old Manse, retired from off the roadway, and surrounded by a cluster of old trees and growing shrubs, that give it a pleasant air of kindly seclusion. Almost directly opposite is the beautiful village church, of modern structure, and adorned internally and externally with all modern beauties of architecture and device. Around it is the churchyard, moderately well kept, wherein sleep the villagers' forefathers and the remains of a few not unknown to fame. Farther down the village, passing the smithy, we have the school also off the highway, with its playground in front; across the road we have the village green with the public well. A few steps farther the village

clock, placed in the gable end of a two-storied house, stares us in the face; and at the bottom of the brae snugly lies the brewery.

In this quiet village one has time to ripen for the grave; time's hands move in peace here; when the village clock strikes, it even pauses to listen to its own echo. People never think of dying below three score, unless some epidemic makes a visit to the village; occasionally usquebaugh and poverty take the feet and house from an unguarded fellow, and set him either out of the village or out of the world. It is a place for a dreamer to visit, and that especially on a summer evening, when the youth of the village are gathered round the village green, full of merriment; when the young maiden, fresh from outdoor work, with pitcher in hand, goes to the village well for an evening "rake" of water; when the strapping, whistling ploughboy, riding leisurely, with a word and eye for all the blooming, sunbrown, girlish faces he sees under broad straw hats, with his horses to the smithy to be shod, or with a part of a ploughshare, grubbers, or harrows to be repaired. Outside the lowroofed doors sit the matrons with families around them, employed with needlework, or "darning" stockings, yet gossiping in their matronly talk and housewifish airs, amid the freaks and gambols of the tottering youngsters. Inside the house sits the ploughman, with friend or neighbour beside him,