ed through the twilight its desolation-its lofty walls, overtopped with briony, moss, and nightshade, and the embattled towers that rose above-long suffering and murder came to her thoughts. One of those instantaneous and unaccountable convictions, which sometimes conquer even strong minds, impressed her with its horror. The sentiment was not diminished, when she entered an extensive gothic hall, obscured by the gloom of evening, which, a light, glimmering at a distance through a long perspective of arches, only rendered more striking. As a servant brought the lamp nearer, partial gleams fell upon the pillars and the pointed arches, forming a strong contrast with their shadows that stretched along the pavement and the walls.

The sudden journey of Montoni had prevented his people from making any other preparations for his reception than could be had in the short interval since the arrival of the servant who had been sent forwards from Venice; and this, in some measure, may account for the air of extreme desolation that every where appeared.

The servant, who came to light Montoni, bowed in silence, and the muscles of his countenance relaxed with no symptom of joy. Montoni noticed the salutation by a slight motion of his hand, and passed on, while his lady following, and looking round with a degree of surprise and discontent, which she seemed fearful of expressing, and Emily, surveying the extent and grandeur of the hall in timid wonder, approached a marble staircase. The arches here opened to a lofty vault, from the centre of which hung a tripod lamp, which a servant was hastily lighting; and the rich fretwork of the roof, a corridor, leading into several upper apartments, and a painted window, stretching nearly from the pavement to the ceiling of the hall, become gradually visible.

Having crossed the foot of the staircase, and passed through an anti-room, they entered a spacious apartment, whose walls wainscoted with black larch wood, the growth of the neighboring mountains, were scarcely distinguishable from darkness itself. Bring more light, said Montoni, as he entered. The servant sitting down his lamp, was withdrawing to obey him, when Madame Montoni, observing that the evening air of this mountainous region was cold, and that she should like a fire, Montoni ordered that wood might be brought.

While he paced the room with thoughtful steps, and Madame Montoni sat silently on a couch at the upper end of it, waiting till the servant returned, Emily was observing the singular solemnity and desolation of the apartment, viewed, as it now was, by the glimmer of the single lamp, placed near a large Venetian mirror, that duskily reflected the scene, with the tall figure of Montoni passing slowly

along, his arms folded, and his countenance shaded by the plume that waved in his hat.

From the contemplation of this scene, Emily's mind proceeded to the apprehension of what she might suffer in it, till the remembrance of Valancourt, far, far distant! came to her heart, and softened it into sorrow. A heavy sigh escaped her but trying to conceal her tears, she walked away to one of the high windows that opened upon the ramparts, below which spread the woods she had passed in her approach to the castle. But the night shade sat deeply on the mountains beyond, and their indented outline alone could be finally traced on the horizon, where a red streak yet glimmered in the west.

The valley between was sunk in darkness.

The scene within, upon which Emily turned on the opening of the door, was scarcely less gloomy. The old servant who had received them at the gates, now entered, bending under a load of pine branches, while two of Montoni's Venetian servants followed with lights.

Your Excellenza is welcome to the castle, said the old man, as he raised himself from the hearth, where he had laid the wood: it has been a lonely place a long while; but you will excuse it, signor, knowing we had but short notice. It is near two years, come next feast of St. Mark, since your Excellenza was within these walls.

You have a good memory, old Carlo, said Montoni; it is thereabout: and how hast thou contrived to live so long?

A-well-a-day, sir, with much ado; the cold winds that blow through the castle in winter are almost too much for me; and I thought sometimes of asking your Excellenza to let me leave the mountains, and go down into the lowlands. But I don't know how it is-I am loth to quit these old walls I have lived in so long.

Well, how have you gone on in the castle since I left it? said Montoni.

Why much as usual, signor; only it wants a good deal of repairing. There is the north tower-some of the battlements have tumbled down, and had liked one day to have knocked my poor wife (God rest her soul!) on the head. Your Excellenza, must know

Well, but the repairs, interrupted Montoni.

Ay, the repairs, said Carlo; a part of the roof of the great hall has fallen in, and all the winds from the mountains rushed through it last winter, and whistled through the whole castle so, that there was no keeping one's self warm, be where one would. There my wife and I used to sit shivering over a great fire in one corner of the little hall, ready to die with cold, and

But are there no more repairs wanted, said Montoni, impatiently.

O Lord! your Excellenza, yes-the wall of the rampart

has tumbled down in three places; then the stairs that lead to the west gallery have been a long time so bad that it is dangerous to go up them; and the passage leading to the great oak chamber, that overhangs the north rampartone night last winter I ventured to go there by myself, and your Excellenza

Well, well, enough of this, said Montoni, with quickness: I will talk more with thee to-morrow.

The fire was now lighted; Carlo swept the hearth, placed chairs, wiped the dust from a large marble table that stood near it, and then left the room.

Montoni and his family drew round the fire. Madame Montoni made several attempts at conversation, but his sullen answers repulsed her, while Emily sat endeavouring to acquire courage enough to speak to him. At length, in a tremulous voice, she said, May I ask, sir, the motive of this sudden journey? After a long pause, she recovered sufficient courage to repeat the question.

It does not suit me to answer inquiries, said Montoni, nor does it become you to make them; time may unfold them all; but I desire I may be no further harassed, and I recommend it to you to retire to your chamber, and to en deavour to adopt a more rational conduct than that of yielding to fancies, and to a sensibility, which, to call it by the gentlest name, is only a weakness.

Emily rose to withdraw. Good night, madame, said she to her aunt, with an assumed composure that could not disguise her emotion.

Good night, my dear, said Madame Montoni, in a tone of kindness which her niece had never before heard from her; and the unexpected endearment brought tears to Emily's eyes. She curtsied to Montoni, and was retiring: but you do not know the way to your chamber, said her aunt. Montoni called the servant, who waited in the antiroom, and bade him send Madame Montoni's woman, with whom, in a few moments, Emily withdrew.

Do you know which is my room? said she to Annette, as they crossed the hall.

Yes, I believe I do, ma'amselle; but this is such a strange rambling place! I have been lost in it already: they call it the double chamber over the south rampart, and I went up this great staircase. My lady's room is at the other end of the castle.

Emily ascended the marble staircase, and came to the corridor, as they passed through which Annette resumed her chat:-What a wild lonely place this is, ma'am! I shall be quite frightened to live in it. How often and often have I wished myself in France again! I little thought when I came with my lady to see the world that I should ever be shut up in such a place as this, or I would never have left my own country! This way, ma'amselle, down

this turning. I can almost believe in giants again, and such like, for this is just like one of their castles; and, some night or other, I suppose I shall see fairies, too, hopping about in that great old hall, that looks more like a church, with its huge pillars than any thing else.

Yes, said Emily, smiling, and glad to escape from more serious thought, if we come to the corridor about midnight and look down into the hall, we shall certainly see it illuminated with a thousand lamps, and the fairies tripping in gay circles to the sound of delicious music; for it is in such places as this you know, that they come to hold their revels. But I am afraid, Annette, you will not be able to pay the necessary penance for such a sight: and if once they hear your voice, the whole scene will vanish in an instant.

O! if you will bear me company, ma'amselle, I will come to the corridor this very night, and I promise you I will hold my tongue; it shall not be my fault if the show vanishes. But do you think they will come?

I cannot promise that with certainty, but I will venture to say it will not be your fault if the enchantment should vanish.

Well, ma'amselle, that is saying more than I expected of you but I am not so much afraid of fairies as of ghosts, and they say there are plentiful many of them about the castle: now I should be frightened to death if I should chance to see any of them. But hush! ma'amselle, walk softly! I have thought, several times, something passed by me.

Ridiculous! said Emily, you must not indulge such fan-,

cies.

O, ma'am! they are not fancies, for aught I know; Benedotto says these dismal galleries and halls are fit for nothing but ghosts to live in; and I verily believe if I live long in them, I shall turn to one myself!

I hope, said Emily, you will not suffer Signor Montoni to hear of these weak fears; they would highly displease him.

What, you know then, Ma'amselle, all about it! rejoined Annette. No, no, I do know better than to do so: though if the Signor can sleep sound, nobody else in the castle has any right to lie awake, I am sure. Emily did not appear to notice this remark.

Down this passage, ma'amselle; this leads to a back staircase. O, if I see any thing I shall be frightened out of my wits!

That will scarcely be possible, said Emily, smiling, as she followed the winding of the passage, which opened into another gallery: and then Annette perceiving that she had missed her way, while she had been so eloquently ha ranguing on ghosts and fairies, wandered about through

other passages and galleries, till, at length frightened by their intricacies and desolation, she called aloud for assistance: but they were beyond the hearing of the servants, who were on the other side of the castle, and Emily now opened the door of a chamber on the left.

O, do not go in there ma'amselle, said Annette, you will only lose yourself farther.

Bring the light forward, said Emily, we may possibly find our way through these rooms.

Annette stood at the door, in an attitude of hesitation, with the light held up to show the chamber, but the feeble ray spread through not half of it. Why do you hesitate? said Emily; let me see whither this room leads.

Annette advanced reluctantly. It opened into a suit of spacious and ancient apartments, some of which were hung with tapestry, and others wainscoted with cedar and black larch wood. What furniture there was seemed to be almost as old as the rooms, and retained an appearance of grandeur, though covered with dust, and dropping to pieces with the damps and with age.

How cold these rooms are, ma'aniselle! said Annette: nobody has lived in them for many, many years, they say. Do let us go.

They may open upon the great staircase, perhaps, said Emily, passing on till she came to a chamber hung with pictures, and took the light to examine that of a soldier oR horseback in a field of battle. He was darting his spear tipon a man who lay under the feet of the horse, and who held up one hand in a supplicating attitude. The soldier, whose beaver was up, regarded him with a look of vengeance, and the countenance with that expression, struck Emily as resembling Montoni. She shuddered and turned from it; passing the light hastily over several other pictures, she came to one concealed by a veil of black silk.The singularity of the circumstance struck her, and she stopped before it wishing to remove the veil, and examine what could thus carefully be concealed, but somewhat wanting courage. Holy Virgin! what can this mean? exclaimed Annette. This is surely the picture they told me of at Venice.

What picture? said Emily. Why, a picture-a picture, replied Annette, hesitatingly-but I never could make out exactly what it was about either.

Remove the veil, Annette.

What! I, ma'amselle!-I! not for the world! Emily, turning round, saw Annette's countenance grow pale. And pray what have you heard of this picture, to terrify you so, my good girl? said she. Nothing, ma'amselle; I have heard nothing, only let us find our way out.

Certainly but I wish first to examine the picture; take the light, Annette, while I lift the veil. Annette took the