the morning's dawn brought with it no consolation. There was apparently not the slightest alteration in the state of Charles.

Satisfied that all was over, Matilda, composed by this sad certainty into that settled sorrow, which is only so much better than suspense that it leaves no possibility for the disappointment of hope, was still stationed by his side, hanging over him with feelings which testified themselves in broken sobs and incessant tears. But there was no terror in her grief; awful as was her trial, she felt inexpressible consolation in not having sunk under it.

"I was called to pass through it alone, and I have been enabled to triumph over despair-I have been permitted to be of use-it has been granted me to be of some comfort to you, my poor Charles !" were exclamations which continually mingled with her tears, as now she lifted up her heart devoutly to her Maker, and now cast herself upon the bosom of her senseless husband.

Time advanced, and the hour for the usual visit of the apothecary was at hand.

She almost wished she might not be harrassed by his arrival. She knew that he could afford her no hope; and her mind at the present moment was in a state which she would fain have preserved from the possibility of being disturbed.

It was with a sinking heart, therefore, that she heard, as she supposed, his signal at the door, and approached to answer it.

But a new tide of human feelings again rushed upon her, when, on opening the door, she perceived

standing at it her dear, best friend, Mr. St. Aubyn himself.

"My dear-dear Matilda!" was all the fond exclamation he could articulate as he raised her hand to his lips. "My poor mother knows nothing of this," he said, after a little pause.

A few words of brief explanation satisfied Matilda (had she wanted any such satisfaction,) that not an instant had been lost in hastening to her, as soon as, on calling at her lodgings, Mr. St. Aubyn had learned what had befallen her. They had quitted Brighton before her letter had been sent, and by some mistake it had never reached them. The im. possibility of removing Charles, and the melancholy certainty which the first sight of him imparted, precluded his urging any intreaties for their immediate removal.

He, therefore, determined to remain with her; and Matilda, though weeping over the thought of involving him in such a scene of complicated misery, was too much weakened by suffering to oppose his design. It was but for a short period-a period which they both passed in fervent prayer. Another hour made rapid advances in the fate of poor Charles. Severe struggles, convulsive heavings, foretold that all was coming to a close. In vain Mr. St. Aubyn attempted to draw Matilda from his side! she still knelt there, her face bent down upon his hand, which she held firmly grasped in both her own.

A long interval elapsed-and after one deepdrawn, suffocating sigh, she heard him struggle no

more.

She raised her head, and fixed her streaming eyes upon his countenance. She then turned upon Ed. mund a look which wanted no words to tell its meaning.

"It is over!-my dear"-he said, as if replying to it, and forcibly raising her in his arms, he took her into an adjoining room.

These words, long as she had been prepared for them, struck like a bolt of ice upon her heart-and she sunk down in speechless ánguish.

St. Aubyn hung over her in an agony of sorrow; but while both of them were yet incapable of speak. ing, other succour unexpectedly appeared in the person of poor Charles's guardian, Mr. Willett, accompanied by his eldest daughter, Elizabeth, one of Ma. tilda's earliest friends; and who, having just returned to town from a long journey, and hearing on their arrival, of the arrest of Charles, and his subsequent removal to the King's Bench, had hastened to the relief of the unfortunate Matilda, little anticipating the sorrow they came to witness. To such friends St. Aubyn could consign the beloved of his heart, which he did with emotions that could not tell themselves in words" With you I know she will be safe!" was all he could pronounce, as he resigned her to Mr. Willett.

He then, as it were, with a desperate effort, rushed from the room.

CHAPTER XVI.

In order to make the reader acquainted with the precise state of St. Aubyn's mind at this time, it will be necessary to revert to the period at which Matilda left Mrs. St. Aubyn a few months since at Brighton.

Catherine was then in a state of strong and peculiar excitement-an excitement which must appear so incomprehensible, to those who are unaccustomed to reflect much upon mysterious subjects, that I fear now, as in an earlier period of her life, she will seem to many to have indulged imagination, till its impulses bordered upon the suggestions of insanity.

But such was not the case: her mind was highly raised but it was perfectly sane. She believed that she was at this time under an extraordinary and particular dispensation of Providence: but it was a belief united with so much prostration of heart, such genuine repentance, such a fervent desire to act right, as widely distinguished it from the unmeaning ravings of a mere fanatic.

The desire of her son to pursue the labours of his profession in the East, she had pondered upon with maternal unwillingness to yield to his quitting her, and a strong persuasion that it was a sacrifice she was called upon to offer to the will of God-till the

time for peremptory decision had arrived, and St. Aubyn, still lingering after the prosecution of his wishes, for the last time urged her for her resolution.

"In another month the ship was to sail," he told her, and a particular friend of his, upon whom the chaplaincy was to devolve in case he eventually declined it, had informed him that, however influenced by sentiments of attachment to St. Aubyn, he could not any longer remain in a state of uncertainty respecting his own part in the affair, and must, therefore, press for his immediate determination."

Thus urged, Catherine replied with firmness, "I will in a few days, Edmund, give you my final opinion upon this point. There is one friend whose counsel at this time would be very dear to me—I mean Ann Morton. I have for years talked of visiting her if you will accompany me, I will set out directly."

:

Edmund readily assented to this proposal: and before the evening of the following day, after an absence of nearly thirty years, Catherine was once more pressed to a heart which, in that long-long interval had never ceased to beat for her with the strongest of its human attachments.

The variations which time had made in the situation of Ann Morton were simply these. She had grown old-the labours of her school were ended, her sister was dead, and she was living in the same town in a neat little cottage, with just a competence for the moderate comforts of life," waiting for her summons," as she expressed it, and truly making her soul meet to receive it.