she is willing at any moment to depart. But she will see you, and then your disappointment will give way to triumphant joy."

She returned to the apartment of Mrs. St. Aubyn, and in a few minutes she brought word to Matilda that she was anxious to see her, and they proceeded to her room. Prepared as Matilda had been for witnessing a painful alteration in the person of this being so dear to her, she had not calculated upon the total change which had been wrought in her appearance since last they met.

Wasted to a shadow, and with a countenance already touched by the livid hue of death, it was only by her smile, the most beautiful, the most expressive that ever animated human features, that Matilda could have recognised that it was Mrs. St. Aubyn into whose arms she hastened, and upon whose bosom she gave way to a burst of sorrow which could not be controlled.

"This must be !-yes, I knew that this must be," said Catherine, repelling the efforts by which Ann Morton endeavoured gently to withdraw Matilda from her bosom. Let her have indulgence-she will not weep for me long. No, my own Matilda," she continued, fondly kissing her cheek, "you will rather rejoice with me, for I am very happy-I am indeed very happy!"

"God grant it-God grant it!" Matilda exclaimed with energy ;—“ but pardon me a little moment;" and she withdrew to the window, and struggled with her agony of feeling. In a few minutes she returned to the side of Catherine, down whose faded cheek a few tears were trickling, but they mingled with the

sweet smile which still kept possession of her fea

tures.

"What did you say to me last night, Ann ?"—she said, turning to her, as she occupied a seat on the other side. "I was full of despondency last night, my love," she proceeded, addressing Matilda; “ I thought of my dear Edmund, and my dear Matilda -and shall I never see them more? I said. Oh, if these two children of my love could but be given to me-but for one hour-one hour only! and thus I was tossed upon the waves of human anxiety; and it seemed to me that I must perish, so great was my despair; but she comforted me with the assurance that the Master was with me, though he seemed to sleep; and that he would rebuke the wind and storm, and I should yet find a calm. Good Ann, how truly have you prophesied! I am calm-I am full of hope!"

She paused a little while, and then with a degree of anxiety she proceeded: "Yet is there one mortal desire, one earthly wish, that still cleaves to me; and when I have strength to speak of it I will impart it-at present I am exhausted!" and she reclined her head upon the side of her chair, retaining Matilda's hand, as if desiring her stay, but incapable of continuing to converse with her.

Matilda sat by her side, watching with intense anxiety every variation of her face, which, sunk and hollow as it was, scarcely appeared to her as indicating that her mortal change was yet at hand.

VOL. II-S

CHAPTER XX.

THE whole of the following morning Mrs. St. Aubyn was too ill to rise from her bed, or to converse. In the evening she got up and appeared better; and though she was still silent, it seemed to be more from unwillingness than inability to discourse. She was apparently absorbed in some deep and agitating feeling which occasionally prompted a short ejaculation, a brief prayer for pardon, as though the idea which occupied her was one that ought not to mingle with the holy desires, and sublime aspirations, with which she wished to sanctify her soul, and make it meet for the presence of its maker.

"Only this mortal hope-only this!"-she more than once repeated, in a faint, subdued tone.

At length, apparently availing herself of the absence of Ann, who had been suddenly called out of the room, she addressed Matilda.

"I have been a visionary, dear Matilda, all my life; and even in departing for ever from this scene of shadows, some of them attract my fancy with a fond and lingering gaze.

"One now arrests my attention in the form of a being whom Edmund, my dear son, most tenderly loved."

Matilda started at this intelligence, for a surmise of his having formed any attachment had never occurred to her.

"Indeed!"-she repeated, scarcely knowing that she spoke." He loved her, Matilda, with a love such as a nature, constant as St. Aubyn's never knows but once. She knew nothing of his passion; and her affections being given to another-she married; and Edmund's happiness, as far as related to this world, was gone for ever. To banish her image from his thoughts, he willingly yielded to what he believed to be the command of heaven, and left his native land. With broken health, and a still fondly attached heart, he returns to his country. Oh, that I could but say that he returns to her, who is now free to receive his vows! Oh, that it might but be given me to join his hand in her's-and then, like aged Simeon to depart in peace!"

"Matilda, look up at me, my child-lift up your sweet face, and say, 'your wishes shall be gratified!"" "Oh, spare me a little interval, only a little interval, for thought and prayer!" said Matilda, raising from her clasped hands the agitated face which, while Mrs. St. Aubyn proceeded in her brief narration, had sunk still lower and lower, suffused with deeper and deeper hues, as sudden gleams of a truth so unexpected, and so big with meaning, broke upon her.

That St. Aubyn had loved her so long, so fervently, so silently-that for her sake he had quitted his country and his friends-that he still loved her

-and that it remained with her to gild the last hours of his fond mother with hope and comfort, by yielding to her wishes-were thoughts which scarcely left her the power of opposing the desire of Mrs. St. Aubyn, if to oppose it had been a strongly predominant inclination in her own breast. But Matilda had not been an unhappy wife without applying to herself a moral never to be forgotten. She had not united her fate with one too hastily loved, too superficially approved, without well understanding that a woman better secures her felicity by a union founded upon sentiments of esteem, and a perfect knowledge of the principles and character of the person she marries, than by entertaining the most refined and romantic passion.

It was, therefore, more the suddenness of the intelligence Mrs. St. Aubyn imparted, than the nature of it, which caused her to retreat from at present pursuing this unexpected theme. "To-morrow we shall be better able," she began to say, but at that moment a low and stifled sound of voices in the passage near her room, awoke the attention of Mrs. St. Aubyn.

"I hear a voice-it is-it is my son!" she said, clasping her hands together in a paroxysm of joy, which Matilda, under a conviction of her deluding herself with a vain expectation, endeavouring to moderate.

I fear you mistake, my dear Mrs. St. Aubynyou certainly mistake."

"I cannot, I do not mistake, Matilda," she repeated, as again a tone, which Matilda herself believ