distance, and was crying from hunger and the cold of its wet clothes. Teresa's beautiful face was as pale as death, and her long, dripping hair, whch had become unbound in her fall, streamed around her head. Shocked and astonished, the young man bent down and took her cold hands in his; still she stirred not, and he feared that life was fled. He lifted her up in his arms, and ran with her to the house, where, having given her in charge to his aunt, he returned for the infant. Teresa was laid on a bed, and the charitable inmates of the farm tried all their simple remedies to restore her. At length she awoke from her long insensibility, but it was only to rave in the delirium of a fever. The poor woman and her daughter were much alarmed and distressed, and the young man took a horse and rode off to a neighbouring village for an apothecary. In the mean time Teresa's, wet clothes were taken off by her kind hostess, and she and her child were dressed from the wardrobes of the mother and daughter. The poor sufferer, in her ravings, talked a language unknown to the simple people around her, and when they discovered her to be a foreigner, their pity increased for her. For many days she lay between life and death; but the strength of her constitution bore her through this fierce attack, and her sense and recollection returned again. When she began to recover, she was at a loss to conceive where she could be, and under whose roof, but she was forbidden by her kind nurses to ask any questions. She remembered the letter she had received from Sedley; she remembered her flight with her child also, faintly; but beyond that all was confusion. Her child was brought to her bedside, to reassure her and calm her anxiety on its account, and she awaited patiently the time when farther information should be given her. Her health and strength returned rapidly, and she was told the circumstances attending her entrance into the farm-house, and her first discovery by the nephew of her hostess. She saw plainly that the good people were burning with curiosity to learn her history, but her nature recoiled from the thought of detailing her misfortunes, and she adroitly parried every hint relative to her past life. Her new friends soon perceived her reluctance to speak of the time gone by, and with intuitive delicacy forbore any reference to it, and continued to treat her with unremitting kindness. She was soon well enough to come into the family sitting-room, and there she found all the party anxious to contribute to her amusement. They saw that some deep sorrow lay in her heart, and with genuine kindness strove to divert her thoughts from dwelling on it. Teresa had thrown away the wedding-ring, which had been so profaned on the night of her flight, and the circumstance of her being without one, added to her grief and love for her child, induced her new friends to think she was some unhappy young creature who had been betrayed and deserted. Yet did they not feel less interested for her on that account. Theirs was charity in its sublimest form, charity formed on a divine model; they saw that their inmate if erring, was also unhappy, and sorrow in their sight was sacred. Teresa's infant had drooped from the night of its mother's flight; the wet, and cold, and long exposure to the air had sown the seeds of disease in its delicate frame, and day by day it wasted and faded away. At last Teresa grew alarmed for it, and hung in agony for hours together over its fitful rest, watching the unequal breathing and flushed cheek which told of insidious fever. She marked, in anguish, the evident sufferings which it could not express, she saw its tears and heard its sobs of pain,—she gazed on its heavy, meek eyes, no longer bright and joyous, but seeking her's with mute, beseeching looks. Through many a dreary night she watched the approach of death in that loved form; she marked the shortening breath, and the convulsive start, and she knew that her infant was leaving her ;- she saw the only treasure of her life about to be snatched from her encircling arms; she saw that her distracted prayers were vain, that Providence for some wise purpose, had refused her petitions, and yet she shed no tear; and, finally, she saw all these sufferings stilled in death, and her child laid in the grave, and then came a wild burst of sorrow, and afterwards a calm, holy resignation, which taught her to bow her head meekly and say thy will be done!" 66 -"thou, pale mourner o'er an infant's bier He who perceiv'd the dangerous control, |