she pointed out the low grass mound, and said she prayed that her parent's spirit might be gladdened by the knowledge of how happy and how beloved was the child he had left a friendless orphan. It may be a superstition, but it is a grateful and a kindly one, which deems that the righteous dead watch over those they cherished in their pilgrimage on earth. Rebecca knelt beside the grave, but shrunk back— for that instant a dark shadow fell upon it; she looked up, and saw the harsh and haggard face of Richard Vernon. "Back, lost and guilty one!" said he, pushing her aside with no gentle hand; pollute not with your wretched presence the churchyard of your God, and the grave of your father. You mocked at my words when I prophesied of shame, and, lo! it has come upon you. Away!-as the servant of Him whom you have forgotten, I forbid you to remain in this sacred place!"

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Rebecca turned towards him with anger, which even her pity could not subdue.

"I know not," said she, coldly, "by what right you forbid the wife of a De Vere to approach the church his fathers built; but I leave it; for I would not further unkindness should pass between us."

"Verily, this audacity passeth belief! I know, Rebecca, how you have mingled with the light and the profane; Iknow how, of your own will, you cast in your lot with the ungodly; I heard too, only three days ago, in yonder accursed Babylon, how Aubrey de Vere had carried off the fair actress to be his paramour;-and yet you dare speak across your father's grave with a lie in your mouth! Wretched girl, kneel-but in sackcloth and ashes-for the sake of him whose dust is at your feet-repent, Rebecca Clinton!"

"Nay," interrupted his auditor, "call me not by a name which I no longer bear. Were it only mine own credit that was touched, I might patiently abide your words; but I

may not stay to hear such slander cast upon a true and honourable gentleman, upon my husband."

Before he could reply, she had passed on. His first impulse was to follow her; but as he marked her rapid steps, he desisted, and remained gazing on her lessening figure till lost in the distance, with an expression in which bitterness and sorrow were singularly blended. Rebecca had scarcely reached home, when she received an urgent petition from one of the servants, that she would visit what the doctor, who awaited her arrival, said was his death-bed. She was somewhat surprised at the vehement terms in which the request was couched, for the man declared that he could not die in peace till he had seen his mistress.

"Perhaps," thought she, "he leaves one behind him friendless, helpless, even as my father left me—such desolation shall fall on none that I can aid."

She entered the large airy room which she had herself ordered to be prepared for him when first seized with sickness; and dismissing the nurse, took her place by the pillow of the dying man. It was the equerry who had personated the clergyman at her marriage! Short and terrible was the narrative to which she had to listen: she spoke not, she moved not-but, pale and cold, sank back in the arm-chair. "Great God, I have killed her!” shrieked the penitent. His voice recalled her to herself. She rose, and turning to the bed, stretched her hand towards the emaciated creature who lay there in all but the agonies of death: “I forgive you, and pray God to forgive you too; make your peace with Heaven. May the pardon I yield to you be extended also to myself!"

She went down stairs directly to the laboratory, where De Vere sometimes amused a leisure hour with chemical experiments, and taking from one of the shelves a small phial, hid it in her bosom, and proceeded to her chamber.

"I am going to be fanciful in my dress to-night,” said she to her attendant. Her long dark hair was loosened from its braids into a profusion of drooping ringlets; she bound the crimson shawl around her temples; and again assumed the embroidered robe in which De Vere had first seen her. The toilette finished, she flung herself on a pile of rich cushions in the library, to await his arrival; and at that instant he entered-having come through the garden on purpose to surprise her.

My beautiful masquerader, I must leave you often," said he, tenderly, "if you are to grow so much more lovely in my absence."

And lovely indeed did she look at that moment. We have before remarked that the Oriental style of dress was peculiarly well adapted to the character of her face and figure, and the passionate flush of her cheek gave even more than their usual brightness to her radiant eyes. Aubrey deemed it was delight at his return, and hastened to heap before her the many precious gifts he had brought.

"I did not forget my sweet friend in the hurry of London. Your throat is the whitest, dear one," said he, as he hung round her neck a string of precious pearls.

Supper was now brought in, and Aubrey smiled to see how carefully his favourite dishes had been provided.

"I am not hungry," said Rebecca; "but I will not talk to you now;" and taking up her lute, she began to play, and sang a few simple notes rather than words.

"You have been librarian too," exclaimed Aubrey: "I see all my scattered volumes have been collected: why, what should I do without you?"

"You would miss me!" and laying aside the lute, she came and rested her head on his shoulder, at the same time taking the phial and drinking its contents.

"Miss you, dearest !-how wretched, how inexpressibly wretched should I be without you!"

"I am glad of it!" she cried, springing from her kneeling and caressing attitude, and flinging down the phial, which broke into atoms. "Do you see that? its contents were poison, and I have drank it—drank it even in your very arms! I know all, De Vere-your false marriage, your mock priest. You thought it but a jest to dishonour and to destroy one who trusted you so fondly, so utterly. Go find another to love you as I have done! You planned inconstancy from the first, when I most believed in your love. Well, a little while, and you are free!”

She fell back in a paroxysm of bodily agony, and hid her face in the cushions, but De Vere saw her frame writhe with torture. Suddenly she started up-“I cannot bear it-give me water, for the love of Heaven!"

Her exquisite features were distorted, the blue veins were swollen on her forehead, and her livid lips were covered with froth: again she dashed herself on the ground, and her screams, though smothered, were still audible.

De Vere hung over her in anguish scarce inferior to her own; his call for assistance brought the attendants, and with them the physician, who had just left the chamber of death above.

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"It is hopeless!" said he, in answer to Aubrey's frantic questions; no skill on earth could counteract a poison so deadly, and taken, too, in such quantity."

Gradually the convulsions became less violent, and De Vere bore her in his arms to a sofa by the open window. The cool air seemed to soothe her, and she lay for a few moments perfectly passive; the work of years had been wrought upon her sunk and ghastly features. Slowly she raised her head, and put back the thick tresses that pressed

upon her brow; she drank the wine the doctor offered, and her recollection returned.

"Aubrey," whispered she, and suffered her head to rest upon his bosom, my own, my only love, forgive me,”but her voice failed as she spoke : again a frightful change passed over her face-De Vere held a corse in his arms!

THE FRANCISCAN.

BY MISS PARDOE.

MANY years ago-it were idle to say how many-a youth of sixteen took the vows in the chapel of Saint Francis. He was a welcome accession to the brotherhood; for, although not nobly born, he brought with him a weighty dower, the produce of the many successful ventures of his deceased father.

His person was tall and graceful, somewhat too haughty for his birth and calling, and strangely betraying his nature. His voice was the most musical of the choir, and his eye as keen as that of the mountain eagle. Such as I have described him did he live for several years among the brotherhood of Saint Francis, pitying some and despising others, feeling and looking as though he held himself to be superior to all.

Perhaps there is no assumption before which the common herd of mankind prostrate themselves more blindly than this; some few murmured, but their murmurs were too studiously subdued to reach the ear of the young monk, and he came and went at length unquestioned; and when they saw him busily engaged far into the night, with a spirit untired by the fasts or penance of the day, poring over huge