Maria went up to her bed-room, where her mother still was. She laid the dress, which Bar nard had given her, on the bed; and throwing herself into a chair, burst into an involuntary flood of tears.

"What is the matter, Maria?" said her mother; "and what is that dress for ?"

"I am going, my dear mother," answered Maria; "going at last."

"Going, Maria! where?"

"To be married," said she; and again wept bitterly.

"Why, I thought William said yesterday, that you could not go for a day or two;-how he changes his mind! And what is that dress for ?"

"I must wear it to escape observation: I shall put on my own again at the Red Barn."

"At the Red Barn!" said the mother.

"Yes! William and I will meet there ;-we must not go out together."

"Maria!" said her mother, "all this seems very strange to me. I don't know how it is, but I don't half like your going now;-I had a dream last night."

Oh, mother"" said Maria, rising, and wiping her eyes; "there is no use in our talking about it-go I must: I feel that my character” "True," said the mother; "yet I wish it had been on any other day;-Friday is an unlucky day "

i

"Well, well," said Maria, preparing to dress herself, "it must be."

While Barnard was sitting below, old Marten entered, and found him with a pair of pocket pistols in his hand, which he was snapping and examining as if to see that the flints were in proper order. He started at the father's appearance; but quickly recovering himself, asked him how he did, and told him that Maria and himself were now going to be married.

The old man, who had nothing of the feelings of his wife on the occasion, expressed his entire satisfaction at the news, but added very abruptly, "What are you going to do with those pistols, William ?"

"Oh!" said Barnard carelessly, "I never travel without pistols. Nothing like being prepared for whatever may happen: but it is getting late," continued he. "God bless you, my dear sir! I must go out before Maria."

"God bless you, my son !" said old Marten ; " and I hope and trust you will take care of Maria.” "Don't be afraid of that," said Barnard; "I'll take the best possible care of her."

As he was going out, he called to Maria to make haste, or they should be too late. He received a bundle from her, and directing her to take a private path-way to the Red Barn, while he should take the public road, hurried off with the most unceremónious precipitation.

Maria now finished dressing, and came down stairs with her mother. The parting with her parents was deeply affecting: she was bathed in

tears.

"Don't cry, Maria," said her father; "you are going, I hope, to be happy.”

"Yes," said Maria, "I know I am; but I can't help crying."

"Husband!" said the mother, "I don't like Maria's going: I am terribly afraid some accident will happen to her;I had a dream last night."

"Pooh, pooh!" said Marten, "don't tell us about your dreams,the girl will be happy enough. Villiam's a good lad, and will protect her, he has his pistols with him."

"Pistols!" rejoined the mother: "well, God protect her !"

The parents then folded their unfortunate child in their embraces, and pronounced a long, a last farewell! and Maria crossed that threshold, over which she was never, never to return.

It was now high noon: the sun shone brightly in a cloudless sky, and not a breath disturbed the calm serenity of the atmosphere. Nothing could be heard but that low buzzing sound which almost seems to render silence itself more palpable. How little in accordance was the horrid tragedy, about to be performed, with such a day!-and yet, how tenfold more horrible from the contrast! There was something, too, in the death-like still

ness that prevailed around, to excite and cherish apprehension and foreboding, in a mind already depressed, from whatever cause. It was like the terrific calm which is said to precede the first shocks of an earthquake.

Maria felt a most unconquerable depression of spirits she knew the necessity of haste, but her limbs seemed to fail her as she walked, and to refuse to obey the dictates of volition-as we often fancy they do in some frightful dream, in which we appear to be making abortive efforts to escape from instant and tremendous danger.

She stopped, and leaned against a tree: the cottage where she had been born was still in sight. There it stood-its white walls gleaming in the sun-light, and partly shaded by the climbing rose trees, whose more than half-blown honours were shedding their fragrance far around. Within a little time they will fade, wither, and die, thought Maria ;-but they were not destined, like herself, a fairer flower, to be cropped in their bloom of beauty by a ruffian hand!

The sight of the cottage, and its surrounding scenery, produced a strange effect upon her mind: every object about assumed a vivid and painful distinctness to her eye; and the recollections associated with it rose in review before her fancy. In an instant of time, her whole life passed like a panorama before her mind's eye Her playful infancy, her careless happy youth,