I must offer up my last orisons to my Maker, in whose presence I am so shortly to appear. Farewell! "ROSALIE."

"From my Dungeon, Reading."

The next morning the heavy clank of chains, and the unusual bustle of the prison, announced the removal of the culprits for trial. The sound struck like a death-knell on the agonized frame of the captive, and hardly could she collect her senses by devout aspirations to her God. In an instant or two the door of the cell grated slowly on its hinges, and the jailor entered, leading in a man completely muffled in appearance. On the departure of the turnkey, the stranger threw off his disguise, and discovered himself to be her father. The interview was solemn and affecting: no reproaches escaped the parent, no sighs responded from the overcharged heart of the daughter; but they remained clasped in each other's arms until the officer on duty re-entered the dungeon. "I am come to lead you to your trial," he exclaimed; "the other prisoners have been condemned, and it is now your turn to be examined." With difficulty he was enabled to tear the child from the embraces of the parent. "Come, come," he continued, dashing a starting tear from his eye, "it is useless to cry, my poor girl; if you are innocent, the fact will soon appear; and it will then be time enough to

tell your story." A long fit of insensibility succeeded this removal; and when somewhat restored, Rosalie discovered herself leaning on her father in a public court of justice. When the indictment was read, a shudder of horror pervaded the assembly; but when they saw the meek sufferer bowing like a lily to the violence of the tempest, a thorough conviction of her innocence escaped them. The trial meantime proceeded; and the sudden loss of the child, the repeated acknowledgement of the prisoner, and the unequivocal testimony of the domestics, were more or less commented on according to the facts necessary to be proved. When the examination of witnesses on either side was concluded, Rosalie was asked by the judge what she had to urge in her defence. The audience earnestly awaited her reply; and hoped some plea would be adduced, that might tend to mitigate the severity of punishment. She looked up but for an instant, and in a low tone, with her hand pressed convulsively to her heart, repeated her innocence of the crime. Such tacit disavowal was by no means considered as conclusive; and the judge arrayed himself in the awful insiguia of justice to award the punishment of death. An intense horror pervaded the court at this instant; all hearts, all eyes, were kindly fixed on the wretched culprit; and the convulsive sobbings of the few who

were unable to repress their sympathy, alone interrupted the general silence.

At this instant a loud noise was heard at the further end of the hall, the crowd divided on each side, and a woman appeared bearing in her arms an infant apparently a month old. "Can you

forgive me, Madam ?" she exclaimed, turning to Rosalie, who recognized the attendant who had so often insulted her distress: "I have been guilty; but if any expiation can atone, I here willingly offer it." Then turning to the judge, she continued-" Mademoiselle Voisin, my lord, is innocent: this is the child supposed to have been murdered, but which, at the express desire of Monsieur S. I ventured to conceal. But since that hour I have never known happiness; nor shall I be at ease till due punishment is awarded for my transgression."

She ceased, the court rung with acclamationsthe cry of "She is innocent, she is innocent," resounded through the hall, and scarcely could the officers of justice restrain the joyful ebullitions of the populace. "Rosalie," exclaimed De Voisin, when his transports had in some degree abated, “look up, my child; you are innocent: bless then your father with one smile, and we shall yet be happy." Rosalie did look up, and with an expression of ineffable tenderness pressed

her clay-cold lips to the hand of her parent, and then making a last, a dying effort to embrace the infant, who stretched out his little arms towards her, bowed her fair head, and sunk brokenhearted on the bosom of her parent. The old man said nothing; his soul was full to bursting; he raised his tearless eyes to heaven, and was borne senseless from the hall. Unable to endure the presence of England after the catastrophe of his daughter, he abruptly quitted the kingdom, and, accompanied by her infant, retired once more to his favourite cottage at Carrick Southey.

Mortimer in the mean time, distracted with remorse, but unconscious of the death of his victim, took the earliest opportunity of removing from the scene of war to the more peaceful habitation of his beloved. It was on a fine evening in July that he reached the cottage, where he had passed so many days of happiness. It was empty, the neat garden, which had so often attracted his admiration, was overrun with weeds, and every thing bore the stamp of decay. Amazed at the desolation that reigned around him, he moved instinctively towards the arbour, the scene at once of happiness and guilt.

An old man was seated at the entrance, gazing intently on the beautiful portrait of Rosalie that graced the interior of the room. The harp that she once loved was placed by the window, and the

breeze as it sighed among the chords gave a melancholy expression to the moment. The remembrance of the past pressed upon the overcharged feelings of the Englishman, and he gave vent to his affliction in tears. He looked around him :-here stood the little wooden bridge which he had so often crossed with Rosalie; there was the primrose bank on which they had seated themselves in the long summer twilight; and in the distance rose the dark blue hills from which she loved to gaze on the surrounding landscape.

As he surveyed these mute memorials of vanished happiness, a sigh, the herald of a broken heart, escaped him. De Voisin turned round at the noise, and to his amazement beheld the author of his misery standing beside him. “ Away, wretched man,” he exclaimed; "this is no sanctuary for guilt: yet stay; for my daughter's sake, I forgive you, and may your last end be peaceful as hers! Poor girl! did she deserve her death from you?-Could no hand be found, but the one that had been fed at her board, and cherished in her smile, to consign her to the tomb? But she is now dead; and her last moments were spent in prayer for you. See to what wretchedness you have reduced me: the child who should have smoothed my passage to the grave is gone before, and, like a buoy tossed upon the wave, I am alone and helpless in my age. I