torches, appeared amidst the tempest and darkness like so many sooty fiends; whilst, above all, was heard the alternate joyless laugh and coarse abuse of the draggled prostitute. One of these poor creatures, in attempting to run across Russell-street between the entangled coaches, received a blow from the pole of my carriage, which felled her to the earth. I started forward, and by main strength prevented the wheels from crushing her limbs; then, lifting her in my arms, bore her to the entrance lobby, where my party waited. But, gracious God! what were my emotions, when by the light I discovered the features of Mary ! Yes! it was she-but oh! how altered!-Formerly, though negligent in her style of dress, health and cleanliness shone conspicuous in her appearance;→→ now, she was squalid, dirty and ragged-age seemed suddenly come upon her; her skin was withered; her bosom cold; her breath feverish and unwholesome; she was insensible; and I continued stupified and gazing, unable to assist her.-All of a sudden I was roused by the brutal voice of a watchman, who exclaimed-" Come, come, mistress, none of your drunken frolicks; get up, and do not stay here in the way of the gentlefolks!"—which words he accompa nied by a rough shake of the poor sufferer. I forgot my wife and friends, the gaze of the multitude and the sneers of the hardened; but, cursing the unfeeling officer, bore her to my carriage, and ordered the man to drive home; nor would I quit her until I had deposited her safe in my own bed, with orders to

the housekeeper to attend her carefully. I then ran for a surgeon, and, regardless of the storm, returned not until I found one, whom I compelled to accompany me. Judge of my indignation, when I found that, during my absence, the officious housekeeper had removed my poor Mary from where I had left her, to an humbler apartment, saying that her lady's bed would be spoiled by such a dirty creature lying in it. Could my looks have killed the unfeeling crone, that moment had certainly been her last. As it was, I insisted upon my orders being fulfilled, and would have conveyed her thither myself, had not the gentle being (who by this time had recovered from her faintness) dissuaded me. "I am very well here, Raymond-am I not with you?" Meanwhile the surgeon interrogated his patient, and soon discovered that weakness, arising from want of nourishment, had assisted, with her fright, in causing so deep a swoon. She had besides received a severe contusion from the carriage pole, and several other bruises in her fall. The doctor, fearing fever, forbade much food, but ordered rest and quiet. Alarmed by this intelligence, I determined to watch through the night by her; and Eliza, returning about this time from the theatre, generously entered into my feelings, when she understood who the person was whom I had saved. During the night Mary's fever increased violently, insomuch that by morning she became light-headed, and raved incessantly for me, although I had never quitted her bedside. When the surgeon arrived, he shook his head,

and would fain have persuaded me to send her to an hospital; but, understanding the particular interest I took in her recovery, advised calling in a physician : in short, no means were left untried that might restore her; but her fever was strong and obstinate, and, when at length conquered, left her so weak and emaciated, that a consumption was apprehended. I would have carried her to our country seat, but the journey was deemed too fatiguing for her strength; and, at her request, I hired a lodging for her in the pleasant village of Shacklewell, as she fancied the aspect of the place resembled that of her native home. Hope led me to believe that she was regaining health, but the hectic on her check was delusive; and having one evening essayed to walk across the downs, she became so weak and exhausted by the effort as to be unable to return without assistance. I watched her slumbers through that night-they were uneasy and disturbed. Towards morning she seemed more com+ posed, and I went gently to the casement and undrew the white curtain, to watch the first approach of day, which was scarcely breaking. A solitary bird sung among the boughs of the fine elms that adorn the village green, realising those lines in the Bacchus and Ariadne of Leigh Hunt:

"But indistinctly yet a little bird,

That in the leaves o'erhead, waiting the sun,
Seemed answering another distant one."

"That bird," said Mary, "is of the same charitable

species as he who buried the babes in the wood, and

now, methinks, sings my funeral dirge. You will think of me, dear Raymond, should you ever again hear that note."

دو

"The

"Dear girl, you are fanciful; that bird is one of good omen; there is health and cheerfulness in his song. "Not for me, dear Raymond, not for me: I cannot survive the surprise and joy of that night when your arms sheltered me from danger, and conducted me to happiness. I am not thankless, although I have forborne to utter what was in my heart.' -"Talk not thus, dear Mary, unless you mean to wound me deeply, by reminding me that it was I drew upon you extreme misery." I sat down upon her bed, and took her thin feverish hand between mine. "Would I could recall the time when we last parted,-what must you not have suffered during that interval." loss of you, dear Raymond, was my principal suffering, and rendered me insensible to the scorn and hard-heartedness 1 experienced from many, in my attempts to live honestly. I continued moping and lonely in my wretched apartment, until I had parted with most of my wardrobe, and I was reduced by want to recommence my former horrid trade. Even then, the hopelessness that possessed my heart seemed to numb my feelings, and caused me callously to endure the evils of my fate. One evening excepted, when, no longer able to contend with insult and the inclemency of the weather, I crept sullenly home, half determined to make away with my wretched ex istence; thinly clad, and my garments wetted through

with the rain; neither light, food, nor fire awaited my return; on the table, among other litters, lay an old play book, which had formerly belonged to you; it was without a cover, dog-eared and thumbed, but precious to me, from having being frequently in your hands. I took it up and apostrophised the insensible thing on its shabby condition, as though I expected it to sympathise with me in return; but, while I looked upon the page, my eye caught those sweet lines in

All's Well That End's Well, which so well suited to my regrets and wishes; and taking the book close to the window, the twilight served me to read o

I am undone; there is no living, none,
If Bertram be away. It were all one,
That I should love a bright particular star,
And think to wed it, he is so above me :
In his bright radiance and collateral light
Must I be comforted, not in his sphere.
The ambition in my love thus plagues itself.
The hind, that would be mated by the lion,
Must die for love. "Twas pretty, tho' a plague,
To see him every hour; to sit and draw
His arched brows, his hawking eye, his curls,
In our heart's table; heart, too capable
Of every line and trick of his sweet favour!-
But now he's gone, and my idolatrous fancy
Must sanctify his relicks.

"Yes," said I, "these pleasures are denied me, like
Helena. I am rejected and despised by the only man
I love; but not like her shall I be happy with him at
last. No! I am a wretched outcast; no hope in this
world or the next. I threw myself down despondingly
on my unmade bed, and not a single tear relieved my