His couch, ne'er sung him to his rosy rest,
Caught his least whisper, when his voice from yours
Had learn'd soft utterance; press'd his lip to yours,
When fever parch'd it."-

Sir Edward St. John heard the announcement of his child's birth with cold indifference, and his wife received none of those tender attentions from him, which chase all remembrance of suffering from the heart. Teresa was now left, more than ever, alone, and, even when at home, Sir Edward never asked to see the infant, but, on the contrary, openly expressed his dislike of children. The young mother was too happy in the enjoyment of her new feelings to be much troubled by his unkindness, and she felt truly grateful to Providence, for having been blessed with something to love and benefit. True, she had been bitterly disappointed and deceived in her husband, but still she had much left; health, a firm mind-her cherished babe and beautiful nature. How many delightful things were yet within her reach? The fresh breeze of morning fanning her temples, the con

templation of beautiful scenery; mountains dipping their grassy sides in the water, and rocks of fantastic and rugged shapes. Then at other times, the air laden with the richest perfumes, from gardens of roses, jessamine, and all sweet-smelling things, and which will waft over and refresh the poor mourner as well as the gayest and proudest. Then sunset over a favourite landscape, or the first songs of the birds in spring, and walks through haymeadows, and many, many such luxuries which man cannot take from us. Oh nature-lovely nature, why will sorrow throw a sable veil between our gaze and thy blessed brightness? Why is it that thy warm sunshine, thy tuneful choir, thy deep repose, thy delicious fragrance cannot refresh or soothe a poor blighted heartand that thy bosom receives so many beneath its verdant surface, to whom thy sweet face has long been but as a mournful blank? Why, oh why, cannot you fill our hearts fair nature?

There was a grove of magnificent cedar-trees near the villa where Teresa dwelt, and inclosed

in the grounds. It was a beautiful retreat, and she loved to sit there with her infant, and muse over her plans for the future. The grove was so planted that one might look on all sides and see nothing but forest vistas or openings extending apparently interminably, though in reality of narrow bounds. Then over head the branches in some places were thickly interlaced, so as to form a dark shade; in others, the delicate tracery of fine branches and foliage was drawn against the blue sky, and though the heat might be intense in other places, the refreshing coolness there was delicious. It was quite a scene for fairies or wood-nymphs, and a delightful retreat for the happy one to retire to, and bring out his treasured thoughts, that he might brood over and fully enjoy his content; or else a place where the stricken one might fly from the unfeeling crowd and indulge the fulness of his grief. In the thickest part of the grove, there was a spot consecrated by the holiness of a mother's love. Under those overshadowing cedars, stood a small, white marble pedestal

supporting an urn, with the following inscrip

tion, from a French poet :

"Ainsi le sourire s'efface,

Ainsi meurt le chant

D'un oiseau dans les bois!"

And this was sacred to the memory of an only son," and his mother was a widow." He was a fearless, beautiful, and affectionate boy, and his mother clung to him as all that her widowed heart retained of joy-and he died gently in her arms-and she erected this monument to his memory, and after weeping daily on it for some weeks, she went to join him in the skies.

It was here that Julia Anson had first told her sad history to Teresa. This lovely solitude had affected her strangely, and the events of her past life had seemed to rush all at once upon her memory, for she was weak, and her heart was melted within her; at sight of this simple memorial, her feelings, which had been gradually swelling and accumulating, burst their flood-gates, and, throwing herself on Teresa's

neck, she wept unrestrainedly for

till she felt refreshed and calm.

many minutes

One afternoon Lady Sedley had strolled down to her favourite seat, and had hushed her baby to sleep on her knees. The heat was intense, and she had thrown her bonnet on the grass beside her, and closing her eyes, a sweet and profound sleep stole over her, which the stillness around, the sultriness of the weather, and the languor of her frame, rendered irresistible.

She might have slept nearly an hour, when a gentle touch aroused her, and looking up, she perceived her husband on the arm of a gentleman in deep mourning. Scarcely recovered from her lethargy she did not recognize the stranger, till he exclaimed "have you then quite forgotten me, Lady St. John ?" The voice was not to be mistaken-it was Sir Herbert Sedley's.