more letters from you, or permit any interviews, which could only prove harassing, and would, in my position, be highly indecorous. I am calm and contented in the situation I now occupy, and therefore, I entreat, that you will not seek to disturb me, or to excite suspicions in the family with whom I reside. I am deeply grieved to hear of your dear mother's illness, for she is most dear to my heart. And now, before I conclude, let me conjure you to banish all memory of our past acquaintance from your thoughts, and to submit resignedly to what is inevitable.

"Ever yours sincerely and gratefully,
"TERESA CELLINI."

Teresa would not trust herself to read over what she had written, but, tying on her bonnet hastily, she ran from the house, and gave her letter to one of the labourers on the grounds, desiring him to deliver it, and come away immediately without saying from whence it came.

She then returned to her room, and gave vent

to her repressed tenderness in a flood of tears. She was aware that her letter was abrupt and perhaps harsh, but it was dictated by her fear of raising hopes in Sedley's heart, which she could not realize. She pictured him to herself reading the letter, she fancied she saw his look of grief and vexation at its contents, and in this contemplation, she suffered as much as he could have done in the perusal of her decision. Never had the cruelty of her fate weighed on her so forcibly, as in the present hour of anguish. Never had Sedley been so dear to her, as at this period when she had renounced him for ever! Never had life held out such sweet and brilliant prospects to her as now! Yet she must resolutely dash them from her, she must shut her eyes against Sedley's image, she must silence the pleadings of her heart, and bravely bear up against the mighty tide of sorrow and regret.

She clasped her hands together, and exclaimed passionately, "Oh! my heart, thou must cease to murmur against thy hard, hard

destiny; I was not sent into this world for the purposes of enjoyment, then let me strive to bow in submission to the decree which has pronounced me a child of sorrow."

Her head sank on her clasped hands, and for many minutes she remained in silent reverie; -at length the door was thrown open, and the eldest Miss Derby came running in to ask her some question. Poor Teresa was then compelled to throw back her grief into her heart, and attend to the duties of her situation.

Sedley's feelings, on the receipt of her letter, were grievous to endure. He saw that her resolution was fixed, and he knew enough of her character to be aware that any further attempt to alter her determination would be useless. He was utterly at a loss to conjecture what could render her so obdurate, and he felt almost indignant at the coldness and brevity of her letter, a letter which she must have known would cause him poignant grief.

But his thoughts were speedily engrossed by another object. His mother grew so alarmingly.

ill in the night, as to leave no hope of her ultimate recovery, and her physician, in answer to Sedley's eager inquiries, told him that a few days might terminate her existence. No son ever loved a mother more tenderly than Sedley did his, and day and night he hung over her bed, and watched her changing countenance; she was almost insensible, and in return for his anxious, affectionate gaze, he met cold, unmeaning glances.

At length she died, and Sedley followed her to the grave, and felt his heart bowed down to the earth under this accumulated weight of

sorrow.

Oh! the inexpressible beauty, the soothing words, the comforting promises of our burial service! Even the mourner who has come to the grave in a state of stormy despair, whose encircling arms were forcibly torn from the coffin, containing his lost treasure, whose tearless woe has bewildered his brain, and caused him to raise his voice in impious murmurings, and who has dared to arraign the justice of

Heaven;-even he has been aroused by those

blessed words,

"I am the resurrection and the life;"

a cheering light has broken in upon his dark soul, at that sublime passage beginning,

"I know that my Redeemer liveth,"

and as the service proceeded, his stubborn grief has melted like "ice in the fair warm weather;" his tears have flowed, and before its conclusion he has exclaimed, with entire resignation, "The Lord gave, and the Lord hath taken away; blessed be the name of the Lord."

Immediately after the funeral, Sedley left a home embittered to him by so many melancholy associations, and went to an estate which he possessed in shire.

Here Sedley lived in strict seclusion, nor did he ever experience ennui. He felt that there was constant, interesting, and glorious occupation before him, most engrossing, most be