Helen felt his fond pressure relax: she shrieked for help; she forgot all. Husband, father, mother, all were forgotten in Heury. Henry only was in her heart; and the Henry she so loved, he was dying, and that she herself had caused this blight of all most precious to her own soul. Her mother at this moment burst into the room, in time to save the wretched girl from falling. Henry's arm could no longer support even his loved Helen. She was borne from the room insensible. Happy had consciousness never again dawned; for she awoke to a horror her nature could not sustain. HENRY DILLON WAS DEAD! Little remains to be told of my sad tale It was too evident Helen herself was dying. Youth, loveliness, talent, all that graces life and renders it dear and happy, were fast departing. Her parents in fond moments called her their lily. She was now, indeed, a broken lily. A hectic tinge would occasionally revive hope, and death seemed lingering over this drooping flower, as if reluctant to take so fair and lovely a blossom to his cold embrace. She shed no tear, and her soft sighs breathed resignation. All ber earthly hopes had long left her heart in desolateness; and that most direful of all feelings, REMORSE, gave the final blow. Her hours of trial were near a close, and she humbly trusted that in heaven she should meet the being she loved. Scarcely six weeks had elapsed since Helen had become the wife of Sir George Crowder. She was then in the full glow of youth and beauty. She, from ill-regulated feelings and ideas, as fatal as false, of highminded pride, had prepared that cup of bitterness which now she had drained to the very dregs. She was reclining upon the same bed, on which, in smiling youth and health, her guiltless frame had reposed. Her sorrowing parents were supporting her nearly lifeless form. Poor Sir George, whose vivacity was subdued in sorrow, was silent with real heartfelt agony. Helen was shading her dimmed eyes with her fair wasted hand, and sunk into a momentary slumber. Then, starting from her short repose, she asked to be raised; and, after several painful efforts, said-Sir George-dear Sir George, do not regret my death; you have been kind-always kind and indulgent to me. May some happier being deserve you, and realise the hopes I never ought to have given-oh! it is bitter to think it, only gave to afflict another. Forgive me-' Sir George pressed her hands; he could not speak. She resumed-' Dearest mother dearest father do not sorrow; I alone should grieve-I have brought all this misery on every one; I never had a wish ungratified. You both were too indulgent, and yet it is I, your favored child, who has reduced you to this grief. Bless and pardon your greatly erring child. Oh! may my fate warn the many heedless, who pursue the ruinous path I have trodden, to so sad an end. I have a wish-She faltered; a slight blush passed over her face.—' Sir George, will you grant it? I -,' she hesitated painfully, I would be laid in my own family vault; for there rests the remains of him I destroyed-of Henry Dillon.' The wretched husband started—a flush of momentary anger tinged his cheek; but he bowed assent, and a mournful silence ensued. Helen now breathed with difficulty; her last effort seemed her last— she could add little more. Who that now beheld this dying girl, would have recognised the gay, the happy, the lovely Helen Montague, in the wasted, heart-broken Lady Crowder. For an instant she revived.-Mother-pity-mercy' lingered on the quivering lip. She sighed softly, and the beautiful, the bright Helen, was as a clod of the valley. 'She was my friend who died.' SONNET. Methought, upon a sullen ocean tost, 'Tis well, quoth I, awaking, as the bell Filled with a merry peal the morning clear, Our joys are on another voyage bound, And with the last year's wreck our sorrows drown'd. |