Mrs. Wily sat down, with a cold, angry, and injured air; while Louisa, faint from fatigue, ill, and trembling, awaited the arrival of the doctor.,

He came, looked grave, ordered the proper remedies; and then entreated Louisa to go to bed for the rest of the night. The child fixed its large, serious eyes upon its mother's face.

"Mimi! don't leave me to that nasty Mrs. Wily-I want you to lie by me."

"My darling! so would I lie for ever!" cried the mother. And extending herself on the bed, the little flushed face was nestling in her bosom; and the mother and child fell asleep in each other's arms.

It was late in the morning when Louisa awoke after the feverish sleep she had taken. The doctor had ordered the child to be kept in bed that day, and to be guarded carefully from cold, &c., &c. All the well-known palliatives against that dreadful disorder of childhood-croup-had been employed.

It was past the usual hour of breakfast, even in that house, when Louisa entered the room with faltering steps, a request upon her lips; for timid was she now, whenever she had the slightest favour to ask of her husband.

"The little girl is ill!" she began. "Pooh! nonsense! Lady William. How you do terrify yourself for nothing!" said Lady Fanny.

Now, it must be told, that this very day had been fixed upon by Lord William for returning to town, and that most of the individuals of the family party had their reasons for wishing to be there. Upon the succeeding day a splendid entertainment was to be given by the king and queen, who were now in London; and to this our party had been bidden. Lord William, who had been considerably annoyed by the gossip which his affair with the signora and his rumoured estrangement from his wife had occasioned, and by a certain coldness, which he fancied, rather than detected, in the manner of that most amiable woman, who, as a sovereign, exercises the best influence of her rank by setting the example of every mild and domestic virtue, was anxious to appear upon this occasion with his family; and peculiarly desirous that Louisa should thus lay at rest the current scandals.

Lady Gertrude and Lady Fanny chose to be chaperoned upon this occasion by Lady William rather than by the marchioness, and she, on her part, wished to be excused attendance, in order that she might escape the expense of a new dress; and had prepared herself to be indisposed accordingly. That Lady William should be well enough to appear, had therefore been the universal wish; and her health had

in consequence, for a short time, become the object of a solicitude strongly contrasted with the usual indifference upon that subject.

"The little girl is ill," she repeated.

"And you," said the marchioness, “have been up all night with her."

"And look," said Lady Gertrude, "half dead this morning; whatever the child may be."

How preposterous!" said Lord William, contemptuously. "Are we become such domestic slaves, in this children's age, that an infant cannot cough, but its mother must refuse herself natural rest?"

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'Indeed," said Louisa, endeavouring to rally against this attack, "I have been asleep all night; but the little girl is ill, and unable to leave Brighton to-day."

"Then, in the name of all that's good, let her stay," said the husband. "I presume there is no absolute necessity for my travelling like the patriarchs of old, with my men servants and my maid servants, my flocks, herds, and little ones. I should think an arrangement of this nature might, by possibility, be made, without an air of such extreme perplexity and uneasiness."

"And we will

"No doubt," said Louisa, much relieved. follow you, as soon as the little girl is better." "We! It cannot surely be your intention to remain here."

"I should very much wish it."

"when I

"Time has been," with an air of resentment, have seen looks not the most tranquil, at my proposing to travel alone. Now, when it is my desire, for reasons perfectly well known to you, that you should go with me, the slightest excuse will serve for a separation."

Oh, Lord William! I entreat you do not say so; you know my duty, my greatest happiness, is to be with you. But the child is ill-very ill; can I-ought I—to leave her ?" with pleading looks.

"Can-ought! You speak as if the child were dying. She has her nurse and proper medical attendants, I presume, and they must be as well aware as yourself, of what is necessary; and must have, to say the least, as much skill and experience.'

Alas! what mother's heart ever was, ever ought to be, satisfied with such arguments? Well she knows no skill can rival the tender sympathies and watchful attention of her doting care-no soothing medicine tranquillize like her voice-no anodyne lull to repose like her caresses!

But what could Louisa urge, where all she urged was certain to be disputed?

She sighed, and was silent.

Lord William was grown pitiless, from utter want of sym.

pathy with every sensation of her's. And he had lost that fond indulgence which weighs mental pain, not by its apparent reasonableness, but by its intensity-that indulgence which we all, miserable as we are! demand so imperatively from one another.

Louisa returned to her nursery to be convinced that the fever of her child was rapidly increasing—to be followed by the marchioness, who declared that there was no cause for apprehension-to have the declarations of the marchioness echoed by the very inferior medical man who had chanced to be called in, as soon as he understood, in vulgar phrase, "which way the wind blew."

She returned to the drawingroom with the aspect of despair.

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"Oh, Lord William! if ever you believed me, believe me now! My child!—our child!-is worse than they think. Let me stay with her, and watch her!"

But Lord William had been listening to the evil insinuations of his sisters.

They had represented the anxiety of the heartstruck mother, as equally excessive and perverse; as an affectation, an exaggeration of feeling-the accusation too frequently brought against the hapless Louisa, by those incapable of estimating the feeblest sentiment of her heart.

"Just as you please-I control no one; neither do I pretend to control myself, or to conceal my disgust at unreasonable nonsense. What are a husband's most reasonable wishes, balanced against the slightest whims of a child? I wished you to go, Louisa-I wish it still. I am assured that the child can travel, without the slightest inconvenience. If you cannot part from her, take her with you. I request that you should go."

"Ah Heaven!" cried Louisa; "what must I do?"

"What you please," said Lord William, with the air of one deeply offended. "You hesitate! It is enough."

"Ah, Lord William! unjust! cruel!" she ventured-or rather, it escaped her-to say; "you do not-you never will know this heart. This heart!" pressing it, as indignantly swelling within her, it seemed endeavouring to burst her bosom.

"Cruel! unjust!-harsh terms! Terms unusual to my ears! becoming from the lips of a wife-at least not out of character, from those of mine."

"Alas! alas!"

"I detest scenes!"

Oh word of fatal introduction-apt expression for the insensible!

"Do as you please; only relieve me from these weari.

some discussions. Take the child-leave the child-or stay away yourself, and-disgrace me."

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'It is enough—you have said enough, and we will go."

"Ah! my little one! what shall I do with thee in this extremity?" said Louisa, as she entered her nursery.

"Ah mamma! take me! take me!" said the child, who, as quick children so often unobservedly do, had understood the whole matter in debate. "Don't leave me with Mrs. Be with me when I

Wily! I cannot die with Mrs. Wily. die, my sweet, my darling mamma!"

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"Alas, my child!—don't talk so; you are not going to die.” Mary says I shall, if I go with you, for I heard her. But I am sure I shall, if you leave me-Mrs. Wily is very cross. Take me, my mamma!—I want to die in your lap."

We will not linger over the distressing scene.

The child left Brighton with its mother that eveningLouisa herself, inexperienced as she was, not sufficiently sensible of the risk that she ran; and somewhat soothed by the positive assurances of Mrs. Wily and the doctor, that Miss Melville was as well as herself.

But as they approached Riegate the child became suddenly and alarmingly worse.

It was ten o'clock already. Louisa stopped the carriage. "She can go no farther! God in heaven! she is choking! -she can scarcely breathe or speak!"

"Take her out!-take her out?-put her to bed!" was the agonized cry.

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the

"No-go on!" cried Lord William, imperiously; child is only hoarse. If you want advice, get her to London." "She will never reach London!-she will die! Oh stop! stop! For God's sake let her be bled!-let her be bled!"" "Absurd! Take her to London, I say."

“Oh William ! if ever you loved me-if you have one grain of pity left for me-let us stop! She will die! she will die!" "She will do perfectly well, if my lady would not be so anxious," (fussy, she would have said,) cried the impenetrable Mrs. Wily.

"Oh William! William! don't believe her-believe me this once !-this once!-this once! grant my prayer! let us stop!" "No!-she is not in the slightest danger. I insist upon an end being put to this nonsense. Order the horses out." "Good God! Lord William, she is too ill to move; she must instantly be bled. Cannot you see it in every look ?— hear it in that horrid !-horrid noise!"

"She is hoarse-that is all. Will nobody order out the horses? Mrs. Wily, can she go, or not?"

"Perfectly well, my lord."

"Then she shall go."

"Then she shall not go !" cried Louisa, the mother triumph

ing at last over every other feeling, as the increasing distress of the child amounted to agony. "She shall not go! NoLord William, I never disobeyed you before—I disobey you now! She shall not go! My darling! yet-yet will I save you! Tear us asunder by force-I defy you, cruel, cruel father! See! she is dying before your eyes!"

She clasped the child fiercely as she spoke.

"I wish you a very good evening then," said Lord William; and with an ironical bow he left the room.

And the departing wheels of his carriage and four were soon heard.

For the first time that sound was a relief to Louisa. Indignation-detestation of what she considered his barbarity, was fast rising in her bosom. The master feeling in a woman's breast-the mother-had conquered.

To lay the child upon the bed-to send wildly for adviceto wring her hands in anguish inexpressible over the fast fading form-to listen to the horrible crokings that obscured that sweet prattling voice, once sounding as an angel's to her ears to watch the current of blood, flowing from the hands of the surgeon, too late to rescue, and only serving to weaken for the struggle-to abandon love, hope, delight—all that had given consolation to her wretched and wearied heartto feel more than the agonies of a mother over her first born ―her only one!—that dreadful wrench of nature!-such was her fate for two mortal hours.

Suddenly the countenance she watched with such intense interést began to darken. Over it came an expression of seriousness, of age; the lips were raised to ask one kissthose affectionate, honest eyes, bent earnestly upon her-the cold sweats broke out upon that charming infantine brow. A universal trembling seized Louisa.

"It is coming!-death is coming! She is going!-she is She going! She is dying!-she is dying!-she is dying! is DEAD!!!"

Her shrieks were really awful. Quick, rapid, piercing, they filled the air, and penetrated into every apartment of the inn.

The servants were crowding into the room-the mistress of the inn, appalled and hurried, stood gazing in almost stupid distress.

"Oh my child! my child! my child! would God I had died for thee-with thee! Oh my darling! my child! my only joy! my lovely, loving, my angel child! Would God I might die! Would God I might end here-and for ever-my miserable, miserable being! Oh that we were in one grave—that I were asleep by thy side-my child! my child!"

So she screamed, hanging over the bed, where lay, insens