He felt it at his heart; and, starting from a retrospect which maddened him,-long ere the night closed in, was far away from Paris. It was a bright morning in June when Frederic approached Lyons. He had taken the route of Villefranche, which he had reached soon after midnight; and, finding it impossible to procure horses at that hour, had embarked upon the Saône, after a short repose, to complete his journey. He lay and watched the sun which was to light him to his love rise over the distant Jura. As its lofty ridges brightened beneath the splendid and ever-varying pageant, and the lines of that mountain-chain which stretches beneath became gradually defined upon the horizon, the fever of his soul subsided, and he felt as if it had escaped from an earthquake. He strained his sight to catch the first glimpse of the far-off heights of St. Sebastian, where they looked down, in their beauty, upon the city of his heart, and the home of his childhood. A thousand sweet and soothing recollections stole over him, as he passed along, betwixt the picturesque banks of the romantic Saône. The river was gay with the lights and shadows that danced upon its bosom; and he glided by many a scene hallowed in the remembrances of boyhood-when he and Aline were both children, and many a height which they had haunted in the moonlight scarcely six months ago. Were they not dreams, indeed? Had he won his way back to the bosom of a land where every steep and every tree seemed consecrated by the presence of his own love? Tears -sweet as they had lately been bitter-stood in his eyes, as he promised in his heart that nothing should ever tempt him from its shade again; and he yielded himself up to many a bright vision, in which Aline mingled as his bride! His sister, too, his beautiful and kind Louise—with her bounding step and her dark eye-came over his musings; and he turned away-from watching the stream, where it glided calmly into the embraces of the blue Rhone, that rushed to meet it, and from gazing upon Lyons, as it rose on each side the waters, like their first born,-to seek for the little hill, clad in its summer garlands, within whose bowers lay all the treasure of his soul. Long ere they reached the suburb of the Guillotiere, he was put ashore; and made his way, by well remembered paths, to its foot. The village lay all in light; and the sun looked brightly down upon his own mansion, as it peeped forth from the grove of limes which sheltered it. fell upon the spire of the little church; and it seemed, as it pointed up into the blue sky, to tell of hope. He entered within the home of his father, and passed, unannounced, to the door of Aline's boudoir. One moment's pause-that pause which the heart makes, to collect itself for happiness-ere he passed its threshold, and stood, once more, in the presence of his soul's beloved! His eye She lay upon a couch-beside which his sister was kneeling, with her head stooped upon the cushion; and her white dress was, he thought, the same in which he had last beheld her. A ray of light stole through the half-closed shutter, and fell upon her beautiful face, as he bent down to gaze upon it. It was, indeed, his love," his heart's first idol, and its last;" she whom he had left a few months before, and with just the same look, yet oh! how changed! Every thing that had alarmed him in it then was absent now; and it seemed as if all pain had passed away. That feverish hue which had caused him so much grief, was gone for ever; and the sunlight rested just where that fatal spot had been. Her brow retained no traces of the sorrow which darkened it when last she lay in his arms. Her eyes were closed now, as then; but no tears stole from beneath the fair lashes, to dim the smile which played upon her lips: and that anguish, whose deep throbbing was almost audible, as he pressed her to his bosom, for the last time, was all hushed. He had entered so silently that Louise never looked up. He knelt by her side, and, once more, put back the ringlets which lay, in rich profusion, upon the neck and forehead of his love, that he might kiss her pale brow. It was cold-colder than even in that dark and ominous hour which it recalled-beneath the damp touch of death. The sweet and bruised spirit of Aline had just passed away; and all her little world of sorrows was extinguished-and for ever! T. K. HERVEY. THE DEATH OF MISS MORTIMER. My seclusion now became more complete than ever, for Miss Mortimer's malady, the increase of which she had hitherto endeavoured to conceal from me, suddenly became so severe as to baffle all disguise. Yet it was no expression of impa tience which betrayed her. For four months I scarcely quitted her bedside, by day or by night. During this long protracted season of suffering, neither cry nor groan escaped her. Often have I wiped the big drops of agony from her forehead; but she never complained. She was more than patient; the settled temper of her mind was thankfulness. The decay of its prisonhouse seemed only to give the spirit a foretaste of freedom. Timid by nature, beyond the usual fearfulness of her sex, she yet endured pain, not with the iron contumacy of a savage, but with the submission of filial love. The approach of death she watched more in the spirit of the conqueror than the victim; yet she expressed her willingness to linger on till suffering should have extinguished every tendency to self-will; and helplessness should have destroyed every vestige of pride. Her desire was granted. Her trials brought with them an infallible token that they came from a Father's hand; for her character, excellent as it had seemed, was exalted by suffering; and that which in life was lovely, was in death sublime. At last, the great work was finished. Her education was completed; and from the severe lessons of this land of discipline, she was called to the boundless improvement, the intuitive knowledge, the glorious employments of her Father's house. One morning, after more than ordinary suffering, I saw her suddenly relieved from pain; and, grasping at a deceitful hope, I looked forward to no less than years of her prolonged life. But she was not so deceived. With pity she beheld my short sighted rejoicing. "Dear child," said she," must that sanguine spirit cheat thee to the end? Think not now of wishing for my life, pray rather that my death may profit thee." She paused for a moment, and then added emphatically, "Do you not every morning pray for a blessing on the events which that day will produce?" Long as I had anticipated this sentence, it was more than I could bear. "This day! This very day!" I cried. "It cannot,-it shall not be.It is sinful in you thus to limit your days! This very day! Oh, I will not believe it;" and I threw myself upon my friend's deathbed in an agony which belied my words. "Ellen, She gently reproved my vehemence. my dear Ellen, my friend, my comforter, how can you lament my release. Your affection has been a blessing in my time of trial,—will you let it disturb the hour of my rejoicing? Had I been necessary to you, my child, I hope I could have wished, for your sake, to linger here,—but one thing,' only one, ' is needful.' That one you have received,-and when the light of heaven has risen upon you, can you mourn that one feeble spark is darkened?" The physicians, whom I sent in haste to summon, came only to confirm her prediction. She forced them to number the hours she had to live, and heard, with a placid smile, that the morning's sun would rise in vain for her. She bade farewell to them and to her attendants, bestowing, with her own hand, some small memorial upon each; then gently dismissed all, except myself |