have still breath
left to confess all. I wished that one of my children should do well in
the world, and I adopted the stratagem I have just confessed to you.

"As for my other child, being a girl, I was anxious to get her off my
hands as soon as possible, so I left her at the foot of a tree near
Stratford-on-Avon, where I myself was born."

"What have I to do with all your other crimes, wicked woman?" exclaimed
Mrs. ----. "They rest between yourself and your Maker. Spare me further
confession."

"Stay awhile yet," said the old woman, in still feebler tones. "My
second crime concerns you perhaps in scarce a less degree than my first.
My daughter, as I heard afterwards, was picked up by a certain Squire
L----, and, having no children of his own, it is likely he will make her
his heiress."

"What!" cried Mrs. ----; "then Miss L----, who is engaged to my son--at
least to--to is, in fact, your--your daughter? Then they are twin
brother and sister!" and Mrs. ---- fell back in hysterics.

"Wretch! Infamous woman!" cried Mrs. ----, scarcely recovered from her
fit. But when she gazed again at the withered form before her, behold
the evil spirit had left its tenement. Sarah Maclean was no more.

When Mrs. ---- returned home, she communicated the mournful tidings to
Charles and Edith, who were together at the time--tidings which, of
course, put a stop to their union.

They both received the news in a state of stupefaction. Neither wept.
Their grief was too deeply seated to give vent to itself in tears. They
could not, after having loved each other as they had loved, look upon
each other in the light of brother and sister, and as their union was
impossible, they agreed that it would be better to part at once and for
ever. They embraced and parted, each vowing never to love again. That
night both were stricken with a violent fever, and on the night of
October 12th, at the midnight hour, the spirits of both lovers were
released from their mortal tenements. Let us hope that they are now at
rest!

* * * * *

Two years after the death of Charles and Edith, finding myself in the
neighbourhood of my old friend Squire L----, I called at the house. He
was glad to see me, as usual; but I thought he looked very much aged.
The death of his adopted daughter, whom he loved tenderly, had been a
great blow to him. I should not have liked to touch upon a subject so
painful, had he not broached the matter