copious flow of burning tears, which gave some evidence to the beholder of the uncontrollable agony within. "Warm weather! how you talk woman! it is now the depth of winter, and the spring cannot come for months yet; but oh! I dare not think about the spring; and she fell into a long fit of childish weeping, partly the effect of the opiate she had taken. "Marston," said she, as soon as she regained some degree of self-command, "I wish you would tell Mr. Wentworth what the doctor thinks; but stay, give me paper, I will write ;-no, I cannot guide the pen; do steal out, and ask to see him yourself, and tell him he must come once again. I will send for him when I am at the best, for I would not for the evening, when she felt able to bear it, he was sent for and came with Marston into the room where Ellen lay, stretched out upon a sofa, which had been placed beside the fire for her accommodation, when weary of her bed. They could, indeed, do nothing more; for death had set his seal upon that beautiful form, and she was sinking into the fathomless depths of eternity-passing away, in the pride and the promise of her youth, from all its glory, and from all its exquisite enjoyments; while those who had cherished her infancy, and exulted in her ripened years; who knew that they were rearing an immortal fabric to stand for ever, a witness of their faithfulness or their neglect, looked upon their miserable child, and wrung their help-world distress him, poor fellow." So, one less hands, and mingled their melancholy wailings with hers; but no one pointed out a ray of hope, or spoke one word of comfort, or even thought of the blessed Saviour, who walked upon the troubled waters in the majesty of his benignant love. Trembling, fearful, hopeless, she was about to be pushed off from the frail bark of mortality; and where now were all the energies of that strong and buoyant heart? Hope, that burns brightest in the youthful bosom-hope, that too often deceives us in the intricate wilderness of life, but is ever ready to stand forth in undeniable reality on the brink of the gravewhere was Ellen's hope? Weeping over the ruins of her own "fantastic realm," and faith, her sober sister, came not in that hour of need, and why? because she had been sought only to give stability to idle professions, and vain promises, and giddy smiles, and had never been solicited to preside over her own peculiar province, the life, the duties, and the death-bed of the Christian. Poor girl! she had felt strong enough before her lover came, but now, when he walked silently up to her, and affectionately took her hand,-but most of all, when she heard again the well-remembered tones of his rich and manly voice, it seemed as if the ties that bound her to the world were drawn about her with fresh power, and in that moment, she tasted the full bitterness of death. Wentworth asked a few kind questions, and that was all, for he had not a single word of comfort to offer, and there was a choaking in his throat, which almost forbade him to say anything. Ellen all the while lay still and motionless; she did not raise her eyes, nor speak one word; yet the lids were not so closely shut, but that one big tear after another stole from beneath the long silken lashes, and wandered unheeded down her hollow cheek, where a single bright spot of burning crimson told its fearful tale. The medicine, which was sent that afternoon, soothed the patient into a long slumber, from which she awoke considerably refreshed, and sat up, as usual, during part of the evening; indeed she felt so well as almost to question the doctor's infallibility, and could not help asking Marston if she thoughtful silence might have lasted, had not the there was really no hope. It is impossible to say how long this pain door opened, and Marston beckoned Went "Oh! yes ma'am, a great deal of hope worth out. when the warm weather comes. "You will be so good as to remember, Sir," said she," that I have strict orders not to admit any one, I should, therefore, thank you to leave us as soon as possible." When Wentworth returned, he gently took up Ellen's long, thin hand, that lay stretched out as pure, and almost as lifeless as marble, and said, in a quiet voice, that he feared it was time for him to leave her. Then, and not till then, she raised her eyes, and looked fall into his face. There is an expression in the eye that is lighted up by the fever of consumption, which those who have not seen it never can imagine, and which those who have seen it never can forget. It was in vain that the poor sufferer struggled to speak. Her lips quivered, but she had no words to express the anguish of her soul. "Wentworth stooped down, that his ear might catch the sound, if there were any, and with the hand that was disengaged, she raised from his brow the thick curls of raven hair, and then gently circling his neck with her slender arm, drew him still nearer, and pressed upon his forehead her farewell kiss; saying at the same time, in a low whisper, "It is the last!" And this was all; and he, who had so loved her in this world, parted with her on the brink of another; left her at the gates of death, without one word about eternity to cheer her on her awful way. Here let us draw a veil over the closing scene. He to whom time has no limits-to whom opportunity gives no advantage-to whom all things are possible, is, doubtless, able to carry on his own work of preparation in the soul, even when the sufferer dies and makes no sign. It is the task of the writer to describe, as well as feeble powers are able to describe, the external evidence of that struggle, which must naturally attend the dissolution of the earthly tenement, to those who have not ensured a place in any higher habitation. The heart alone knoweth its own bitterness, and the heart alone beareth witness, with anguish unutterable, to that which is in reality the sting of death-the victory of the grave. CHAPTER V. In a few days the public papers announced the death of Ellen, youngest daughter of Charles Eskdale, Esq., and all the ceremony of preparation for the deepest grief went on in the still busy family. On the sixth day after this melancholy event, Wentworth found himself to his great surprise, still thinking of Ellen. It was true and faithful, and looked well not to forget her; but to bear about with him continually the remembrance of her loveliness, and his own loss, was a weakness of which he had not conceived himself capable; so he filled another bumper of champaign, and determined to be wiser. He had that day dined alone at his own table, and now sat gazing, without a wish, at the rich dessert that was spread before himnot only without a wish, but without a definite idea, for he drank deeply, with a determination to drown reflection, and now the lights were dancing before him with a dizzy glare, and half-imagined images flitted by, in quick succession, amongst which the pale and lifeless form of Ellen returned too often, until at last, by one of those unaccountable operations of the human mind, by which we sometimes feel impelled to do that which is most revolting to our feelings, he started from his seat, and determined that he would go and look upon the dead body. This resolution, once formed, was soon acted upon, for he had neither power nor patience to think, and in a few minutes he entered the hall of Mr. Eskdale, and called for Marston. She came, and neither of them spoke, for Wentworth pointed to the stairs, and the woman, taking up a tall candle, walked silently before him, until they stopped at the door of what was once Ellen's chamber. The door was locked, and Marston tried to turn the key without making any noise, as if afraid to wake the slumberer within. They entered-four wax candles that stood burning night and day, two at each end of the coffin, gave a pale and solemn light to the chilly aspect of the room. Over the coffintensity of feeling. He had pictured to him there had been carefully drawn a cover of white muslin, which Marston slowly folded down as soon as Wentworth drew near; and he stood gazing on the lifeless figure, with the bewildered astonishment of one who has but a partial apprehension of some great and awful calamity. self, before he came, the eye, the lips, the forehead, the whole countenance; but the solid marble feeling, the cold resistance of that cheek, whose yielding softness he had known so well, was what no one had ever described to him, what he had never dreamed of. That chilling touch had, in one instant, dispersed all his imaginary fortitude, and he stood beside the coffin, pale as its own lifeless occupant; weak and trembling as a child. At length, with uncertain steps, he gained the door; and though Marston tried to make him understand that the funeral would take place on the following day, he neither heard nor tried to hear, but hurried down the stairs, and through the hall, without any other member of the household knowing he had been there. The soft tresses of silky hair that were wont to wave and glitter in the light, agitated by the quick and playful movements of her who was so proud to wear them, were now combed out and laid in bands upon the forehead, as smooth and close as if no breath or motion had ever stirred them. The eyes from which the very soul of merriment had once beamed forth, were now for ever folded under their snowy lids, and the long lashes fell with a deep shadow on the cheek-the hollow cheek, for which health and youth, and beauty had once contended, as for a treasure that was peculiarly their own--and then the mouth-where now was the exquisite play of the lips, that would puzzle the beholder with such rapid expression of mingled emotions-of prideof laughter-of contempt-until all were lost in a smile, so beaming with the best affections of the soul, that those who felt its sweetness were apt to forget every thing beside? Those lips were now drawn out into long purple lines, between which the white teeth were visible, and the chin, and the nose, too, had become so pointed and prominent, that those who had well known Ellen Eskdale might now have looked upon, without recognizing, her face. And yet, in spite of all these fearful changes, there was beauty still-that beauty which every heart can feel, but which no words can describe the beauty of eternal stillness-the beauty of death! How dark and dreary was that long night to Harry Wentworth. Sleep came not to draw her misty curtain between him and the distressing realities of life-the still more terrible realities of death. If for one moment he closed his eyes in forgetfulness, the next they were wide open, vainly endeavoring to pierce into the abyss of darkness; and whenever he turned his face towards the vacant pillow, his distempered imagination presented a long white figure, stretched beside him, with Ellen's eyes, just as he had seen them in their last interview, fixed full upon his countenance, while every time his hand touched the cold bed-clothes, the remembrance of that icy cheek came back to him, bringing its own deathly chillness to his bursting heart. Wentworth gazed, and gazed, and neither he nor his companion spoke one word, until at last he lifted his rosy fingers, warm with the circling blood of life, and touched the cheek! The chill of horror that instantly ran through his veins, brought back his scattered senses, to suffer with redoubled in How was the strong man brought low, and his boasted power subdued, beneath the mastery of ungovernable feeling. It was not altogether fear that held him in subjection-still less was it sorrow-but a terrible warfare of all that can agitate the soul, heightened it may be at times, (for who can fathom the depths of the human heart,) by a fearful looking-for of judgment. At five o'clock on the following morning, the household of Harry Wentworth were alarmed by the ringing of their master's bell. "It must be as I thought," said the old house-keeper, "he is breaking his heart for that dear young lady,"-and recollecting the efficacy of hartshorn in many former cases, when her own heart was broken, and well knowing that neither her master nor John would be able to find the nostrum, she took up the light, kept always burning in her room, and proceeded to the landing of the stairs, where she could distinctly hear the conversation which took place between the master and his man. "Sir," said John "the roan has never eaten a handful of corn since the trotting match on Weston common." Thus passed those hours of boisterous hilarity, and forgetfulness of care. But moments of enjoyment must have a crisis, and mornings of felicity an afternoon. Wentworth staid long upon the field, for there were the different properties of different animals to discuss; bets to decide, and a world of business to be gone through; so that when he turned his horse's head to the road leading towards the city, the darkness and haze of a dull afternoon, in the early part of February, was already beginning to render distant objects misty and undefined. It so happened, that all the gentlemen whose destination was the same, had preceded him by some hours, so that he was left to pursue his solitary way, and ruminate in silence on the dregs of excitement; the most unsatisfactory aliment in the world. Gaily whistling up his spirits, he began, for want of better amusement, to think of some "Then take Ronald: I don't care which, only mind you are there in time to let him breathe before we start. The hounds meet at Bexley. I shall breakfast at the Grange, and see that you are ready for me. But stop-give | familiar air, by which he might beguile the me a light, for this room is darker than" time. "Gentle Zitella," had already pas"Break his heart!" said the house-keeper, sed his lips; but there is a power in sound and she turned again into her own chamber, to call up buried images, beyond what the where she was soon asleep in her own bed. utmost stretch of imagination can realize'; It was a noble and heart-stirring sight to and with that light and playful ditty, came those who care for such things, to see back the vivid remembrance of her who had young Wentworth that day on his black so often sung it with him; and he saw again hunter-a furious and high mettled animal, the slender fingers, white as the ivory keys that few could manage: but it was the pride they touched, and the sparkle of the sunny of his rider that he could manage anything eyes, and all the bright and rapid variations -could bring anything into subjection. He of her incomparable charms. forgot that little field of action, his own heart, and those eternal enemies, his own wild passions, and his own stubborn will. In fact he forgot every thing for a few hours at least, for the frost was all gone-the scent lay well -the ground was in the best possible condition, and Ronald outdid himself, to say nothing of the merits of the poor fox, who died like a Briton. There was excitement in the chase that day, enough to wean a heart like Wentworth's from every thought of sorrow; and if sometimes the image of his lost treasure would present itself unbidden, it only served as a stimulus to fresh action-to urge his horse to a more desperate leap. There was no bearing this ;-stillness, like that of death, was all around him; and had not his horse, with something of his master's irritability of feeling, started at every fresh object upon the road, and thus with the application of whip and spur, supplied him with continual occupation, it is impossible to say to what height his impatience might have risen. It was too much for mortal man to endure-to be haunted night and day as by a spectre, and all this torment from one who would not willingly have cast a shadow on his path. It became necessary to call up all that was potent and dignified in his nature, for he was not the man to be made a fool of by such idle fantasies; so he discontinued his boyish occupation of lashing off all the young twigs within his reach, and sat bolt upright in his saddle, and felt himself a man and a gentleman. In this style he was issuing from a byelane, which led out by a sudden angle into the great public road, when in an instant, his philosophy and himself had well nigh been dismounted, by Ronald giving a tremendous start; and Wentworth started too, for by that turn in the road, they had come at once upon the sight and sound of the quick stroke of a spade, upon the fresh earth of a new-made grave, in a little churchyard, that was separated by a high and thin hedge from the public road. The funeral procession was all gone the clergyman had left the churchthe clerk had just locked the door, and was carrying home the keys, and a troop of merry children were enjoying their last gambol amongst the graves, before the sexton should finish his work and turn them out of their favorite play ground. "That's a cold lodging" said Wentworth, as soon as he recovered himself; while he pushed up his horse's head as near as he could bring it to the part of the hedge, beside where the sexton stood.-"That's a cold lodging for somebody, my good fellow; for whom are you doing that kind service?" "Sir," said the man, looking up, and resting one hand upon the spade, while with the other he slowly raised his hat; "who lays here, did you mean, Sir?-It's a Miss Eskdale, there's a monument in that church to old Sir Jonas Eskdale, and the family has buried here ever since his time." Before the old man had finished speaking, Wentworth was again proceeding slowly on his way, but his head was now bent forward, and strongly, and violently, yet without aim, or object, his hands were clenching the reins of his bridle. For some time he pursued his way, more ike a statue than a living man, when another start of his horse induced him to look up, and he saw that he was falling in with a long line of mourning coaches; and now he could hear the hollow rumbling of the hearse, as it passed under the arch of the ancient gateway, and, when he looked down the first street into the city, its glimmering lights were intercepted at intervals by the nodding of the heavy plumes. Wentworth would have given much, could he have entered by some other road, for to say nothing of his own internal struggle, he felt, in this rencontre, the want of the decency of external mourning. In his scarlet coat, he had unwittingly joined the funeral procession, and his sleek and high mettled hunter was proudly rearing and prancing beside the hearse, which had just conveyed Ellen to her grave. Before he could reach his own door, it was necessary to pass the house of Mr. Eskdale. He looked up to the windows-the drawing-room was again lighted, and the shadows of female figures flitted to and fro. He Ah! how well could Wentworth picture to his mind the scene within. The blazing fire of a winter's evening-the many lights of paler lustre-the thick folds of damask curtains the crimson furniture, that gave a glow of warmth and comfort to all around— the soft and flowery carpets, and the rich sofas inviting to luxurious repose. thought of all these, and then of that little churchyard, where the night was closing in unheeded, and that solitary grave, on which a still and steady rain was falling, unfelt; and then, for the first time, the full conviction took possession of his soul, that Ellen was indeed no more-that through the whole of his after-life he should never gaze upon her face again. There might, and he believed there would be much to cheer and animate him on his future course, but Ellen would not be near to share it. Creatures as bright and beautiful might minister to his gratification-music might soothe him on his way; but Ellen's harp, and the far sweeter tones of Ellen's voice would be forever mute. Wentworth passed on-his heart was not broken-he rushed with fresh ardour into the vortex of dissipation-he drank deeply of the cup of pleasure; but sometimes, before the cup was tasted, there would arise thoughts, |