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had been weaned for a season from its duties and affections. As endless would be the detail of the self-reproaches of an upright mind, on the first perception of its own misguidance, appearing as it then must a wilful error. Jeannette's malady, extraordinary in its termination as in its progress, had subsided, if not disappeared, as abruptly as has been stated. The disorder of her nerves which had occasioned the temporary derangement of her mind, appeared to have been alike excited and banished by means of her affections. The sting of grief remained, but the disease that had sharpened it was gone. Her feelings might be justly compared to those of an exile returning to his home, who no longer finds the beings there who made that home his load-star.

Her mother, once so rich a gem in her memory, was utterly changed; it seemed as if the casket of her thoughts had been broken open-its richest jewel stolen, and the place it held usurped by the false glare of some clumsy imitation. She upbraided herself cruelly and ceaselessly for her harsh condemnation of her mother, and for her inexorable firmness with regard to Lindsay. She appeared all at once to become sensible of the sorrow and anxiety she must have caused to all connected with her. She only once pronounced her husband's name, and then with tremor. A long pause followed her doing so, for she had no power left to speak of him, and she said, "To-morrow I will write to him, and tell him all."

But on the morrow and many succeeding days, her weakness was too great for the least exertion. "She must be kept quiet," repeated her medical attendants, and with stronger emphasis at every visit. "She is kept quiet," replied her nurses. All but Matilda: she felt and knew that as Jeannette lay to outward appearance composed and silent, every feeling within her was as a sword wearing away its scabbard.

The same misgiving appeared to rise almost simultaneously in the mind of Jeannette; for she never addressed her sister, except to ask her to pray with her and for her, or on the subject of her children's future welfare. She asked indeed when she might expect to see her husband, her father, and her brother, and Matilda wisely named a more distant day than she actually expected them.

"Promise me, Matilda," she would sometimes say, "hat,

if I live, or if I die, as you have loved their mother, so you will love my children."

"Through life, my beloved Jeannette, they must ever be the dearest objects both of my care and love."

"Teach them to love one another, if indeed it can be taught, as we have done-then, should sorrow be the lot of either, she will feel, as I do now, what it is to have such a sister by her side!"

Matilda could not answer; she could not even implore Jeannette to be tranquil. She could only inwardly pray for power to keep for a time all soft and subduing emotions from her heart.

CHAPTER LII.

Yet, was there light around her brow,
A holiness in those dark eyes,

Which show'd, though wandering earthward now,

Her spirit's home was in the skies.

Yes! for a spirit, pure as hers,

Is always pure, even while it errs;
As sunshine, broken in the rill,

Though turn'd astray, is sunshine still.-MOORE.

MATILDA, in the summons she sent to Lindsay, had endeavoured equally to guard against creating too much alarm in his mind, or making his return of too little moment. What useless,-what unnecessary precautions! On such occasions there can be no medium. Where the affections are concerned, terror is as soon and as fully excited by the zephyr as by the whirlwind.

In the then state of his health, it was scarcely safe for him to undertake a long journey: but this he heeded not. Hamond had the pain of knowing this, of travelling with him, and of witnessing all the wild disorder of his mind. He could only compare it to that fabled spot in which the principles of things are said to be heaped confusedly together.

On their arrival at Dover, they unexpectedly found themselves in the same hotel with Mr. Langham, whose health had

prevented his proceeding further. Lindsay had often shrunk in imagination from the idea of encountering Mr. Langham. And Hamond was full of fear of his father's condemnation. But now the apprehensions of both were lost in a greater fear. Both indeed experienced the embarrassment of shame in the presence of Mr. Langham; but one touch of sorrow had created such perfect union between them, that their quarrel could not well be alluded to.

Hamond suggested that Lindsay should write either to Jeannette or Matilda, to announce his approach. He obeyed with the docility of a child. In a few hours he followed his letter, leaving Hamond to travel more slowly with his father.

Jeannette's impatience to see Lindsay had increased hourly from the period that she first expected him. On the arrival of his letter, which Matilda took to her, she exclaimed, "Does he not then come?—Oh, Matilda, I cannot, cannot bear it!"

"He does come, dear Jeannette! Let me read your letter to you." But she would not resign it. Supported by Matilda's arm she read the following brief epistle from her husband.

We

"My sweet and adored Jeannette!--In a few hours I shall be near you--with you! Oh, how could I ever leave you! It is for this I shall implore your forgiveness. once read together, that if there were a book that truly revealed the nature of sorrow, man would fear to open it :Jeannette, my heart is now that dreadful volume, and it must be read by you, that you may forgive me, and give me back your love.'

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"Give back!-- Oh, Matilda! was it ever then not his? Never, never! Let him know that-let him ever believe that, though my life should not be spared for me to say so. But, oh, may God delay my summons till then--only till then! My sister, pray for me--keep me, keep me calm!” Matilda did all she could to compose her; but the eager expectation of Jeannette-her impatient hope, baffled all endeavour. "Give me," she said, "pens and paper, that I may record the thoughts and feelings which are now shooting through my heart and brain !"

She had only time to write a few blotted sentences, when the sound of rapidly approaching wheels was heard.

"See him-meet him, Matilda!" she exclaimed, "but keep him not one instant from me !"-Her request was needless; in a few seconds her husband was by her side.

Pale, weary, exhausted, his worst apprehensions more than confirmed, Lindsay could not speak. Heavy and insupportable misery surrounded him, from which he was conscious there could be no escape. Happily for himself, he wept.

Jeannette, on the contrary, was at first all joyfulness; and this contrast in their feelings made Lindsay's sorrow the greater. "Blessed, blessed," she said, as she leaned her head upon his bosom, "to see you once again !”

66 Oh, my

Jeannette!"

The sound of his voice, always music to her ear, drew tears from her eyes,—but they were tears of rapture, and she said--" Speak to me again."

He strove to do, but suffocating grief impeded his utterance, and sobs came forth instead of words.

“Oh, my dear Lindsay, weep not for me, for I am happy now!"-But as she pronounced these words, the remembrance that her days, perhaps hours, on earth were few, appeared to come back to her mind, for she paused long before she repeated:"Yes, I am happy now :--and Lindsay, dear Lindsay, hear me! I am happy now, because I have turned to God for support, for pardon, and for peace. O that I had done so sooner!--that I had submitted instead of repining! There was my error, Lindsay-let it not be yours!"

"I submit, my Jeannette, to every thing; except-"

66

Except nothing, my beloved Lindsay !-it may not be. But it is ever thus: we are ready at all hours to bear ev ry thing except that which is inflicted. But, oh my poor Lindsay! I feel and know that you have much to bear with! May He who grants me strength now to speak, enable you to bear it!"

"Forgive me, Jeannette !--let me but once hear you say that you love me and forgive me!"

"Forgive you, Lindsay!-Love you! O that you could but read my dying heart! Full even to overflowing of all that would seem to overcome death, it makes me feel even at this hour as if, while near you, I could never die.”

"Live, my Jeannette, live-'tis all I ask of you—of Heaven!"

Lindsay spoke in the very madness of despair. Jean

nette looked piteously and imploringly towards him, and calmly said "Let me see my children!"

When they were brought to her, she smiled on and kissed them; and it might be seen that some admiration of them mingled with other deeper feelings. It was also evident that she struggled to overcome the powerful emotions which were arising within her. She caressed her children with all the warmth of a young and loving mother. It was long before she spoke, and when she did, it was in a lower and more melancholy tone than she had yet assumed.

"They are, alas! too young to remember me: but you, Lindsay-you, Matilda, will speak to them of me. You will not only love and cherish them, but you will create an image of me in their hearts."

She bowed her head over her little Matilda, and when the child was removed from her, her hair as found steeped in her mother's tears. Jeannette said faintly-"Take them from me; I must see them no more!"-then, burying her face in her pillow, she remained many minutes without speaking, and unspoken to, for none dared break the solemnity of that silence.

The nature of her thoughts could not have been mistaken if no words had escaped her; but she said aloud, after a short pause," God, who has witnessed and aided this awful struggle, will hereafter give me compensation. In heaven I shall still be their mother. Shall I not?-Shall I not?” And her tears burst wildly forth as she threw her arms round Lindsay, exclaiming: "Let me not, in this fearful hour, be guilty of presumptuous sins!"

Her appeal inspired Lindsay with temporary confidence to speak and to console.--" Through all eternity, my blessed girl, we and they shall be united !"

The reply tranquillized her instantly, and in a few moments addressing both her husband and sister, she said smiling:"There is no inquisition in the grave how long we have lived:"-and soon after sank into a gentle and what appeared to be a refreshing slumber.

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