found reason to doubt the efficacy of the measures to which she had resorted for the happiness of its inmates, was sent for at Mab's touching entreaties. She came at the call, with a heart fluttering with self-reproach and a variety of well-meant plans of atonement; for which, however, she was saved the pain of ungrateful returns.

Her protegée, wasted and woe-begone, could hardly be raised upon her pillow, and there was scarce blood enough at her heart to suffuse her cheek with a flush of satisfaction.

There was an affectionate spirit playing upon her fair features, which spoke deeply to the conscience of her patroness, and gave her transparent hue and lucid glance an ethereal appearance, which was fearfully beautiful. Lady L almost started from the touch of her hand, and her tears, which had usually been too ready to flow, were stopped by breathless surprise.

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"I thought," said the gentle girl, you would pardon my sending for you at such a time. I could not die without beseeching you to believe that I am not ungrateful. I told you

that I could not live, and you see the truth of it is proved. I told you that I loved you for your goodness to me, and it was equally true. I have only one last favour to beg, which is, that you will think of me kindly, but never suffer my memory to give you pain. My early death is most welcome to me, for I have seen enough of life to be satisfied; all the good which was likely to attach me to it I have owed to your kind hands. Remember this, and that I was no hypocrite in thus pressing them to my heart."

Alas! she continued to press the hand which she held till her grasp was cold, and her blue eyes were beaming where sorrow could never reach her. I feel that I have told her story feebly and imperfectly, but, conveying as it did such a touching example of capricious patronage, I could not choose but attempt it. Of the ill-advised cause of her sorrows I have still another word to say-a word with which the lover of retributive justice will hardly dispense. When the foregoing particulars were made known to Lady L's young husband, who returned from his regiment shortly after

wards, the heartlessness of her conduct was more than his honest spirit could brook. Her romantic lamentations over the failure of her well-meant designs were insufficient to deceive him into pity or forgiveness, and he left her in disgust, to the detail of her hard usage or the unaccountable misfortunes of every interesting

whom she had undertaken to patronize.

THE SPIRIT'S VIGIL.

I dreamt I was a spirit blest,

And saw the gates of Heaven unfold
Their mystic treasures, and was told
To choose the meed I loved the best,
For all the griefs that had opprest
My days of mortal mould.

How could I choose, how could I take
My looks from where their gaze begun ?

How could I make my feet forsake

The first bright spot they lighted on?

Yet even thus, will man believe,

Or deem such sin could be forgiven?

I felt a sigh my bosom heave―

The first that e'er was breathed in Heaven;

For, oh, 'mid joys so rich and rare,

I thought how mournful to recal

The only one that was not there,

And find it dearer than them all! Vain thought, that I had power to name What Heaven could not bestow,

For to mine ear that moment came

A whispering voice it was the same
That called me from the world of woe,
And was so strange, I might not think
To listen to its words and live,
And yet so sweet, I seem'd to drink
Of tones made only to forgive.
"Spirit," it said, "I know thy thought –
With many a sigh thy wish is bought.
Be thine the joy, worth all beside
Of human hope or angel birth,
To turn again to guard and guide
The hearts beloved on earth."

I loved it best-the willow-bough
That kiss'd that shady stream,
Where once we said farewell, and now
Can meet but in my dream;

I loved it best, though all that's bright
Was gliding fast beneath,

In silent beauty, like the flight

Of hopes we dare not breathe;

And flowrets wild, that loved to blow
Unseen from year to year,

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Hung down their weeping heads, as though They sprang from sorrow's tear.

I changed me with thy changing mood,

Was all by turns a soul might be –

Not Echo to her solitude

Could be more true than I to thee.