sensitive girl, and after gaining her innocent affections, coldly ceased to approach her. 'Never,' he added with vehemence, will I thus abuse the gifts of nature and destiny. "I told him," continued Catherine "that I honoured him for the nobility of his sentiments, and thought that persons of his powers of fascination could not be too guarded in their actions. I suppose he pondered over my words, for to-night he has been standing in single sublimity since he entered the crush-room, occasionally passing his white hand across his red whiskers, of whose luxuriant growth he is justly proud." At length Mrs. Bolton's carriage was announced, and they returned home. Each sought her pillow with different feelings. Mrs. Bolton thought of the day when she, too, would have a lovely daughter to present, and went to sleep forming plans for the future. Her dreams were of bright halls and jewelled forms, where one shone unrivalled, and that one was her sweet Lucy. She saw coronets laid at her feet, and the gaze of admiration fixed on her gentle face, and no thought of sorrow or blight was in her lovely dreams. Catherine came home with far different feelings. She had gone to the Opera in the full expectation of meeting Farquhar there, and her sanguine imagination had conjured up many pleasant events for that evening; but all had ended in disappointment, and she felt discouraged and sad; she sobbed herself to sleep-and her dreams were of cold averted looks and altered tones. Teresa was long before she sought her pillow. She threw herself despondingly on a chair," and remained in the same attitude for more than an hour, whilst the tears coursed each other rapidly down her cheeks; but though her lips quivered slightly, as memory after memory stung her to the quick, her features remained calm and quiet; her grief was seated too deeply for outward show, and her attitude, though it offered an appearance of the utmost abandonment of sorrow, spoke also of a heart which had ceased to struggle against its destiny. Such quiet grief is the most affecting to behold, because it tells of slain hope. When the hands are wrung in agony-when the bosom heaves with convulsive sobs, and the countenance is distorted with fearful workings, we may know that the rebel heart still has energy sufficient left to battle against despair. But the silent, passive, motionless grief, tells us of a broken spirit, which looks no more for joy on earth, neither strives to win back its fleeting illusions. At length Teresa raised her head, and, seeing her reflection in a glass, she pulled the wreath of myrtle from her brow, feeling the mockery of such adornment, and loosened the fastening of her classically bound hair, and the long, waving tresses fell over her beautiful shoulders. She arose to prepare for bed, but sank back again discouraged into her chair as she thought, "Alas! there is no sleep for me to night, or for many nights to come. Oh! that sleep would indeed close these weary eyes, and still the painful throbbing of these temples. Happy should I be to lose the memory of my sorrows, even for a few short hours, and to dream of peace and joy. But I feel that it is sinful thus to yield to despondency. Supposing that this night should be my last; that my eyes, once closed, should open no more on this world; that I should no more feel the rays of the morning sun; that my soul should be suddenly summoned to appear before that tribunal where my Creator presides; am I in a fitting frame of mind thus to exchange worlds at a moment's notice? Have I not dared to murmur at the fate vouchsafed to me, doubtless for a merciful purpose? Have I not hugged my sorrows, and spurned at the thought of comfort? With sincere penitence I confess this to be my case; let me then reconcile my soul with heaven ere I dare to court repose. Then shall I lay my head on my pillow in peace and confidence, knowing that, should my spirit be called suddenly from earth, I shall awake in a light far more brilliant and beautiful than any I have known here below, and which no cloud ever dims." She then knelt down, and said, in a low but distinct voice," May He who so mercifully gave his life for my happiness, and blessed me with a heart to appreciate the gift-may He soothe my sorrows, support my failing strength, comfort my wounded feelings, and shed his exceeding love on my head; for oh! I feel that, in my case, vain is the help of man.' As she prayed thus, her eyes rested accidentally on a book which lay open on the table, and the following lines arrested her attention :- "May he who erst on Calvary bled, With all his love, my daughter, bless thee; Sustain thy soul when woes oppress thee; Life's wilderness of guilt and gloom, |