long, that will be pulseless as her own. Through life she was mine--in death we will not be divided."

"But she still lives," I rejoined; "and will you, from a selfish affection, deprive her of that care and judicious treatment which can alone preserve her! Do you love your child?"

"Do I love her?" cried the old man; adding, " do I love the light of day-do I love to repay the man who has benefited me--do I love to be avenged on him who has done me wrong? Yes; but more dearly do I love my

child!"

'Then prove your affection," I added, "by consulting her safety."

The old man was subdued; tears coursed each other down his furrowed cheeks, as he caught my extended hand; and, looking wistfully in my face, he replied

"I will, I may confide her to you. If by your care, my child be restored to me, how will my old heart thank you! If not, and bis emotion scarce allowed him utterance, "God's will be done!"

The preparations for the poor girl's removal were soon completed. A rude litter was constructed, and the invalid, being placed on it, was borne by four men of the company to my residence, where she was conducted to a chamber, and medical attendance procured.

The motion attending her removal had revived her, and as she leaned on her father's breast, and passionately returned his caresses, she expressed her sense of my attention with a delicacy and dignity of sentiment that would have done honour to the most exalted station.

Her recovery was slow and dubious; yet the care and Judicious treatment she received were not bestowed in vain.

We had at length the pleasure of hearing her pronounced convalescent, and the gratitude of the old gipsey, who had been unremitting in his attendance, knew no bounds. Perhaps the most abundant proof that could be given of its sincerity, was his consenting to my request that his Rebecca might become an inmate of my house.

"Take her, sir," said he, when I made the proposal; "but for your care she had been lost to me for ever. My heart is linked to her by the fondest ties, and many a pang

will it cost me to part with her; but you will sometimes allow her poor old father to embrace his child?"

I assured him my door should ever be open to the father of my protegé, who from that moment became a member of my family.

There was little difference between her age and that of my eldest girl, with whom she was associated in every branch of useful and ornamental study, to which she applied herself with an ardour and success that more than equalled our most sanguine expectations. Still, in spite of her efforts at concealment, there appeared in my fair protegé a dejection of spirits that I could attribute to no other source than regret at leaving the wandering life of her forefathers; but it proved otherwise.

Henry Danville, the son of my patron, and my own pupil, who had been some months absent at the depôt of his regiment, now returned to his native village for a few months, previous to his departure abroad. Ere he had been an hour arrived, the young soldier paid a visit to his preceptor.

I received him as a son, and introduced my girls to their former playmate. The meeting was one of delighted recognition to all parties.

Rebecca had retired upon the announcement of the stran. ger; I, however, desired her attendance.

It may here be necessary to remark that, for obvious reasons, a profound secresy had been observed relative to her birth and parentage. She was known to my visitors as an orphan friend of my dauughters; and as such it had been my intention to introduce her to Danville.

I observed the colour fly from Rebecca's cheek as she entered; but how was my astonishment heightened when Danville, after gazing on her a moment, rushed forward, and caught her to his bosom.

The secret was soon explained. Before his departure from home, Henry had seen and admired the lovely wanderer. A series of secret interviews had terminated in a mutual attachment, and the departure of Danville was followed by the almost immediate illness of the too sensitive Rebecca.

Behold me thus placed in a situation of peculiar diffi. L. 34. 1.

S

culty. The fond youth urging me, by every entreaty that love could inspire, to consummate his happiness-the maiden's speaking eyes uniting in the prayer with an eloquence, if possible, more convincing than words-and my own inclinations strongly prompting me to compliance-yet withheld by my respect and gratitude which I owed to my esteemed friend Sir Edward Danville.

Rebecca's self devotion relieved me of somewhat of my perplexity. She perceived my emotion, and falling on her knees, called on Heaven to witness her vow, that never, without his father's consent, would she unite her fate to that of Danville.

As there was not the most remote probability that such an expectation could ever be realized, the sacrifice made by the generous girl, from a regard for my feelings, wound her more closely around my heart, evincing her gratitude superior even to love.

Before he left his native country, Henry obtained my permission to commence a correspondence with his beloved, whom he left with a hope of better prospects,-hope, slender as ever fed a lover's passion.

A few months after his departure, I received a letter from Rebecca's father, requesting my immediate presence. As I apprehended the old man to be seriously indisposed, I set off immediately for the appointed place, leaving directions for Rebecca to follow.

As I had apprehended, I found him dangerously ill. On my entry, his attendants retiring, left us together. I was proceeding to offer the consolations of religion, when interrupted by the old man's passionate exclamations

"Not that!-I need not that!"-he cried. "I have too long been an unbeliever to think of wearying Heaven with tardy penitence ! Let me, while yet 'tis in my power, make reparation for one misdeed, by an act of justice towards my child. My child?' he added, after a momentary struggle with his feelings, my child she is not mine! too gentle she for one of our rebellious race! the brooding vulture gives not birth to the meek and trembling dove!

I entreated him not to delay communicating every parti cular relative to the mysterious affair.

"Our

"For several years," continued the dying man, tribe had been quietly established in a village in the north of England, safe in the protection, or at least the willing to leration, of the lord of the manor, whose kindness we repaid by various services. On the death of our kind patron, his son, who had ever looked upon us with a suspicious eye, succeeded to the estate. Many were the oppressions of the new proprietor, but we endured them all-patiently and humbly endured them. Respect for the memory of his father taught us to submit without a murmur to the inju ries of our tyrant. Ere long an opportunity was offered him of wreaking on our devoted family his ungrounded hate. A deer which had broken from his park had been worried by one of our dogs, and fell bleeding and exhausted near our cottages. My son observed it fall, and from a feeling of commiseration for the poor animal, with bis knife put an end to its sufferings. He was discovered by one of the game-keepers, who had followed the creature's track; and was instantly conducted before the squire. Vain were my poor boy's protestations of innocence, vain were the tears of his mother, vain the entreaties with which I sought to move the tyrant. He was inexorable, and my boy was burried to prison, from whence, after a process which they designated a trial, he was removed to perpetual exile. Not yet content, the tyrant drove us from our homes; but I was avenged. He had darkened seven happy hearths-did his own blaze the brighter?-he had dashed the smile from many an eye-was his own the freer from clouding sorrows?-he had torn from me my only boy-but I-I taught him the woe of being childless!-I fled-but carried with me his child!

Overcome by his emotion, the old man sunk back on his bed. Ere long, however, he added—

"That child, I need not tell you, is my Rebecca ; not the daughter of a beggar-an outcast-but the heiress to a princely domain."

"What is her name?" I breathlessly inquired, for, from a cause shortly to be explained, my feelings were not less powerfully excited than his own.

The old man drew a packet from underneath his pillow,

which he presented me, adding "Apprehending I might not live to see you, I had prepared this for your perusal."

I tore open the packet, and read the confirmation of my suspicions. At this moment Rebecca entered, and I clapsed. to my bosom my niece, my brother's child!

To render this apparent mystery intelligible to my readers, I must inform them that early in life, having by an imprudent marriage, (if a union with a woman whose only fault was her want of fortune, may be termed such,) given offence to my relations, I had left my native country, and obtained the curacy of B-, from which I was inducted by Sir Edward Danville, whose son had been my pupil, to the living I at present hold.

From the time of my departure I had received no intelligence of home, as my brother could hold no communication with me whatever. I now, however, delayed not a moment to write him a full account of this providential discovery. In a few days I had the pleasure to embrace my relative, and to present to him his long lost child.

It may not here be improper to observe that the old man whom I had reconciled to my brother, and consoled with the assurance that our exertions should be employed to obtain a remission of his son's sentence, received with gratitude my religious instructions and consolations; and died in the full hope of pardon, and in dependance on Him who in the "eleventh hour" hath mercy.

The sequel may be readily conceived. Henry Danville ere long returned to his native country, and, with the entire approbation of his father, united his fate with Rebecca.

Scarcely twelve months have past, since I was summoned to answer at the font for the son and heir of Sir Henry Danville, who, by the death of his father had succeeded to his estates.

CHARLES M.

A QUESTION.

What is it that is content with the smallest quantity, and is yet never satisfied?—Vanity.