ces of mind and
manner veil another creed, and make it alluring, and where the
imaginative and gorgeous pomp of a different faith were to be placed
in their most attractive colors before her unsuspecting eyes. It was
with many a misgiving, many a secret fear, that I anticipated
Theresa's removal from my watchfulness; and I warned her with the most
sincere affection, against the temptations of various kinds which she
would probably encounter in her new abode. Early in the autumn we were
to part with her, and the sweet summer, with its wealth of fruit and
flowers was now around us, and our village, in its garlands of
blossoms, looked its loveliest.

CHAPTER III.

O! were it thus! had we, indeed, the gift,
Though human, our humanity to chain;
Could we in truth our restless spirits lift,
And never feel the weight of earth again,
Then would I leave the sorrows I bewail,
To clasp the cross, the cloister, and the veil.

Some weeks previous to the time at which my last chapter terminates, I
had received a letter from an old friend, requesting me to inform him
if any dwelling in our vicinity was for sale, as he was anxious to
leave the city, and bring his family to a quieter home. I answered his
inquiries satisfactorily, and now daily expected him to arrive, and
make final arrangements for his removal.

He came at last, bringing with him his only son, a boy somewhat older
than Theresa. Gerald Brandon was pale and feeble from recent illness,
and I persuaded his father to leave him with me, until his new
residence was prepared to receive its inmates. He gladly assented, and
accordingly returned to town, while Gerald remained at the parsonage.
The next two months were among the happiest my memory recalls; and
they were the last untroubled ones Theresa passed in her secluded
home. From their threshold she glided to a new life--to that conflict
of will and purpose, that tempest of impulse and disappointment which
finally subdued her spirit and wearied out her existence. But as yet
all was serene and full of promise; and the golden hues of her sunny
dreams invested our simple pleasures with varied and poetic interest.
My young guest was a gentle, reflective boy of more than ordinary
capabilities, but enfeebled by ill-health, and a victim to the
lassitude which frequently follows protracted bodily suffering. He was
too placid and pensive for his age, and his mind, though refined and
harmonious, had noth