nnot thrive
Unless her prayers, whom Heaven delights to hear
And loves to grant, reprieve him from the wrath
Of greatest Justice."

SHAKESPEARE.

"Love her, Angelo,
I have confessed her, and I know her virtue."

SHAKESPEARE.

"Une vie a bien faire uniquement passee
D'innocence, d'amour, d'espoir, de purete,
Tant d'aspirations vers son Dieu repetees,
Tant de foi dans la mort, tant de vertus jetees
En gage a l'Immortalite.

"Tant de nuits sans sommeil pour veiller la souffrance,
Tant de pain retranche pour nourrir l'Indigence;
Tant de pleurs toujours prets a s'unir a des pleurs,
Tant de soupirs brulans vers une autre patrie,
Et tant de patience, a porter une vie,
Dont la Couronne etait ailleurs."

LAMARTINE.

On a cold evening in February, Mrs. Middleton was sitting
alone in the library of Elmsley Priory; the wind was howling
round the old house in that mournful key which stirs up in the
soul a vague emotion; the roaring of the swollen torrent was
audible, and the low distant barking of the keeper's dogs
chimed in with it. Mrs. Middleton was dressed in the deep
mourning of a widow. She was not more than forty, and yet her
hair was prematurely grey, and the heavy listlessness with
which one of her hands hung by her side, and the other struck
repeatedly and unconsciously the table on which she leant,
told that the spring within was broken, and that suffering,
and not time, had done its work upon her.

An embroidering-frame was near her, and after a while she drew
it to herself and began to work. When she had made a few
stitches she let the needle fall, and her head sank upon the
support of the frame, and there she remained buried in thought
till the door at the end of the library was softly opened. She
looked up eagerly, and gazed in silence on the beautiful being
who was approaching her, and who after kissing her on the
forehead sat down near her, and employed herself with the work
she had given up.

And that lovely vision, what was she like? What did that pale
smooth brow, those earnest eyes, that bloodless cheek, and
delicate form resemble? A lily shattered by the storm; a dove
scared from her nest, but faithful in her fear. An expression
wholly at variance with the features that wear it, is a
startling thing. Tears in the eyes of an old and iron-featured
man; laughter on a pale and dying face; care and deep-seated
sorrow in the round line