equipped for an excursion to Count Orsini's exquisite villa. They were becoming impatient for Emily's appearance, when a message was delivered, making her excuses for not joining them, under the feminine and frequent plea of a violent headache.

Lord and Lady Mandeville exchanged glances. "Had you not better, Eller," said he, drawing her into the recess of the window, "go to her?"

"I think not. Between ourselves, solitude is the best remedy for her headache. She is at present too much under the influence at recent disappointment to control her feelings; to betray them will be to confide them-and a confidant is the worst thing in the world. Vanity will, after a little time, come into play; and the grief that is concealed is half subdued."

"Now, my dear Ellen, confess that you do not know what to say. You have, if not directly, yet indirectly, kept alive the romantic faney of Miss Arundel for Lorraine. You thought of the match as suitable, till it almost seemed certain. You were neither prepared for the disappointment, nor, I fear, for the keenness with which that disappointment will be felt."

"There, now, do not make out the case worse than it really is. Change of scene, and a new lover, are infallible specifics, always supposing there is no character for constancy to be supported: if I witness the violent sorrow of today, I impose upon tomorrow the necessity of being sorry also. Our hurry—a wish not to disturb her, as she has the headache, so early—are valid excuses for not seeing her this morning. If there is depression, let us not seem to notice it;-let us speak as usual of Lorraine. New objects, new amusements, will occupy her mind; and unhappiness, equally unsuspected and unspoken, will die of its own nonentity."

"Well, Ellen, I suppose one woman knows best what the feelings of another woman are; but I do think you might reason with her.

"Reason on an affair of the heart!"

Their conversation was now interrupted by the rest of the party becoming impatient to depart. Leaving a kind message for Emily, Lady Mandeville stepped into the carriage, with spirits more depressed than she would willingly have admitted. Perhaps, had she seen Emily that morning, Miss Arundel's whole destiny might have been

altered. But life's great circumstances turn on its small ones. Could we see into the causes of all important events, we should often find that some small and insignificant trifle has been, as it were, their fate.

If any thing could have increased the bitterness of Emily's feelings, it was Lady Mandeville's leaving the house that morning without approaching her: she seemed so neglected, so friendless. She knew that the effect of yesterday's discovery was no secret to Lady Mandeville; and yet, for a few hours' careless amusement she could leave her without one word of kindness or comfort. Emily's last, perhaps her most painful tears, were shed as she heard the carriages drive from the door. She was mistaken in accusing Lady Mandeville of unkindness; but both were wrong in their judgments. Emily's was unjust, as a judg ment formed under one overruling feeling always is; and Lady Mandeville erred in applying a general rule to a particular case.

Which is it most difficult to judge for others or ourselves? The judgment given in ignorance, or that biassed by passion-which is best? Alas, for human sagacity! and that which is to depend on it-human conduct! Look back on all the past occurrences of our lives;-—who are there that, on reflection, would not act diametrically opposite to what they formerly acted on impulse? No one would do the same thing twice over. Experience teaches, it is true; but she never teaches in time. Each event brings its lesson, and the lesson is remembered; but the same event never occurs again.

You know I always told you how it would be.

Common-place of Domestic Conversation.

It was a small room, lined with wainscoting of the black oak, richly carved with that imagery-half fantastic, half religious-which marked the works of our industrious and imaginative forefathers. The height was quite disproportioned to the size; for the eye could with difficulty trace the rich coloring and fine outline of a group of angels, painted by some artist who had left a work, though not a name, behind. The window was large; but what with the branch of a huge cork tree that passed across, and the heavy folds of the purple curtains a purple almost black -the light was nearly excluded.

On one side of the room was a large coffer, whose carv◄ ing was worn smooth and shining with time; and on the other was a cumbrous book case, filled with large and silver clasped tomes. The only other articles of furniture were a small table, and a heavy, high backed chair, cover、 ed with black serge. On the table lay an illuminated missal and a silver crucifix. The abbess herself was seated in the chair-pale, abstracted, and with features whose expression, in repose at least, was severe.

The door opened; a bright gleam of sunshine shot into the room, but darkened instantly as the portress admitted the visiter. The abbess rose not from her seat, but motioned with her hand to the stool beside her.

"A stranger and a foreigner," said she, turning a gaze

rather earnest than curious on her evidently embarrassed guest. "What dost thou seek from the servant of the Madonna?"

A moment's silence intervened, which was broken by the stranger's kneeling beside her.

"I come for refuge." The voice, though broken, was sweet; and the Italian correct, though with the accent of a foreign land.

"Our Lady never yet denied her protection to the unhappy," replied the abbess, who saw at once that the rank of her suppliant placed her among those to whom assistance is most readily accorded; at the same time, caution might be requisite. "Your voice is sad, but sincere. Let me look upon your face."

Another moment of hesitation, when a tremulous hand removed the bonnet and veil from a countenance whose momentary blush subsided into marble paleness. With the ready recollection of one who sees but few objects for remembrance, the abbess recognised the young Englishwoman who had so lately visited her convent.

"I told you of the vanity of hope-have my words so soon proved the truth? What does a stranger-whose home is afar-whose faith is not as our faith-want of Our Lady degli Dolori ?"

Emily clasped her hands passionately. "Peace-calm. -a refuge from a wide and weary world, in which my portion is but sorrow. Home, I have none;-kindred, mine are in the grve;-no living creature will care for my solitude. I ask but a brief sojourn, to turn my thoughts to Heaven, and to die."

"We have here rest for the weary-peace for the bruised and broken heart; but your belief is that of your heretical island; you must have friends who will oppose your intent."

"Friends! I have no friends; at least none whose care extends beyond courtesy. I cannot argue on points of faith; but our God is the same. Bind me by what vow you please. I am rich-I am independant. Will you shelter me? save me from a troubled and evil world?""

"It were a sin against Our Lady, did I not seek to save the soul she sends me. Come, daughter; henceforth we have but one shrine and one home."

Every individual has some peculiar taste.. That of the superior of the Convent of la Madre degli Dolori was for

authority. An only child, her sway in the paternal house had been absolute, that over the Count Cimarozzo, her husband, even more so. His death, some ten years before, in embarrassed circumstances, leaving her very much at the mercy of a distant relative, who inherited title and estate, and had, moreover, a lady ruler of his own-turned the haughty countess's views to a cloister. Her own resolute desire of advancement, aided by the family interest, soon placed her at the head of her convent. Without rival or opposition, it may be doubted whether the Sister Cassilda was not a much happier person than the Countess Cimarozzo.

To increase the wealth and power of her convent was the great object of her existence. The rich English convert was indeed a prize. To give her agitation a religious impulse-impress her imagination with some solemn ritual -were the first steps to be taken. That day Emily was kept in a state of powerful excitement. The abbess asked her no questions; but spoke beautifully and touchingly on the calm of a soul devoted to Heaven, and on the many perils and sorrows of life. She bade her kneel at her side during the service of the day. The deep, solemn tones of the organ, mingled with sweet young voices, filled the chapel.

Emily was now in that mood to which aught of sacrifice is relief; and when-her head almost dizzy with previous agitation, a frame tremulous with exertion, her senses overpowered with music and the faint perfumethe abbess bade her kneel, and record, with a vow and a sign, her resolve at the altar, the feverish and excited girl was a machine in her hands. She knelt, though supported by the arm of the abbess, which she yet grasped; a black robe was thrown over her form-a black veil over her head; the nuns crowded round to greet their sister; and Emily, as the abbess herself hung the rosary and crueifix round her neck, heard her clear, melodious, but determined tones, bless her by the new name of Sister Agatha.

Pale, faint, they led her to a cell appointed for her use. That night it was within the convent that Emily heard the vesper hymn.

On Lady Mandeville's return, her first inquiry was after Miss Arundel; and great was her surprise on hearing that she was absent, and had been absent all day.