looked upon her parents' bridal bed. Now that
she had discovered her father's portrait, every article in the room
interested her, for her imagination connected everything with him. She
touched the wreath of withered roses, and one instantly broke away
from the circle, and fell; she knelt down, and gathered up the
scattered leaves, and placed them in her bosom. She approached the
table in the oriel: in its centre was a volume, on which reposed a
dagger of curious workmanship; the volume bound in velvet, and the
word 'ANNABEL' embroidered upon it in gold. Venetia unclasped it. The
volume was his; in a fly-leaf were written these words:

'TO THE LADY OF MY LOVE, FROM HER MARMION HERBERT.'

With a fluttering heart, yet sparkling eye, Venetia sank into a chair,
which was placed before the table, with all her soul concentred in the
contents of this volume. Leaning on her right hand, which shaded her
agitated brow, she turned a page of the volume with a trembling hand.
It contained a sonnet, delineating the feelings of a lover at the
first sight of his beloved, a being to him yet unknown. Venetia
perused with breathless interest the graceful and passionate picture
of her mother's beauty. A series of similar compositions detailed the
history of the poet's heart, and all the thrilling adventures of his
enchanted life. Not an incident, not a word, not a glance, in that
spell-bound prime of existence, that was not commemorated by his lyre
in strains as sweet and as witching! Now he poured forth his passion;
now his doubts; now his hopes; now came the glowing hour when he was
first assured of his felicity; the next page celebrated her visit to
the castle of his fathers; and another led her to the altar.

With a flushed cheek and an excited eye, Venetia had rapidly pored
over these ardent annals of the heart from whose blood she had sprung.
She turns the page; she starts; the colour deserts her countenance;
a mist glides over her vision; she clasps her hands with convulsive
energy; she sinks back in her chair. In a few moments she extends one
hand, as if fearful again to touch the book that had excited so much
emotion, raises herself in her seat, looks around her with a vacant
and perplexed gaze, apparently succeeds in collecting herself, and
then seizes, with an eager grasp, the volume, and throwing herself on
her, knees before the chair, her long locks hanging on each side over
a cheek crimson as the sunset, loses her whole