resembled her patron saint Rosalia in beauty, should emulate her in piety also: he added, that he had believed her vocation certain, and he trusted that no imprudent attachment would prevail on his brother to unite the fate of his child with one whose very birth had been marked by misfortune, and whose existence was detrimental to their family.

Caronía, freed from the influence that the haughty cardinal had acquired over him, was not at all convinced by these reasonings: he was, however, embarrassed; and he now endeavoured to throw impediments in the way of that intercourse which he had before promoted. Something of the state of his feelings was marked by his manner to his nephew himself, to whom, though perfectly civil, he was much less cordial than he had heretofore been. Manfred, as soon as he was convinced that the change was real, and not imaginary, as he had at first been willing to believe, determined no longer to defer addressing his cousin.

He sought her in the room she usually occu pied-it was empty; but in the garden he felt

certain to find her. As he approached a beautiful and retired part of the grounds where they had often sat together, he heard her voice before he saw her self. He paused to listen: she was singing one of those popular ballads of which the Sicilians are so fond: it had been adapted to a national air, of great pathos and simplicity. These legends generally commemorate a tragical event. The song of Rosalia was of this character.

It

ran thus :

His fearless heart beats proud and light,

The fair array to see.

At eventide, his banner torn,

And soil'd with blood and clay,
From the lost battle, faint and worn,
He rides his lonely way.

At night, his armour hack'd and pierced,

With many a gash between,

The dark blood stiffens on his breast,

As be lies on the green.

He did not fall in open fight,

His death-blow was not there;
They came upon him in the night,
And slew him unaware.

Manfred approached cautiously, so as to procure a sight of the musician without warning her of his presence. He paused; and as he gazed he conceived that the enraptured mind of an enthusiast could not fancy a more perfect image of one of the heavenly inhabitants. She was seated on the inverted capital of a column, by the side of a fountain, the waters of which were forced to a considerable height and fell with a gentle plash into a marble basin. An opening in this bower, amidst the ilex trees that surrounded it, permitted a glimpse of the sea. and the promontory of St. Rosalia.

A gentle breeze which had recently sprung up played in the stone pines and cypress trees, causing their melancholy music to unite with the gentle murmur of the distant ocean. The disk of the setting sun was not visible, but its place might

be marked by the intense glow and the vivid colour of the leafy screen that shaded it, as well as by the few divided rays that penetrated through the thick foliage, brightening with a golden light the objects which they touched. The head of Rosalia, as she bent forward in cadence to her song, sometimes received the beam and sometimes sunk into shadow. She wore neither shawl nor ornament; and the white veil, which no unmarried woman in that country is without, had dropped from her head, and, descending from her shoulders, fell in ample folds upon the ground. As the slanting ray played round her head, resembling the halo of glory which painters bestow upon the blessed, she would have made an admirable representation of her celestial patroness, in her holy retreat upon the mountain to which she has bequeathed her name.

Rapt in admiration, Manfred hardly dared to breathe, lest at the sound of any living being the beautiful vision should be dispelled. Accident, however, or some secret sympathy, made her turn her head. She caught a glimpse of

his figure, and slightly starting, she called to him.

"Your song was a melancholy one, Rosalia," he said, approaching; "but this beautiful spot can suggest no such thoughts, nor is yours a breast where they can find a lodgment; - so formed to give happiness to others, you should yourself be happy."

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My song," she answered, "is an old ballad that my poor mother taught me when I was almost an infant. It is nearly all I remember of her; she has sung me to sleep with that song when I was a naughty child. I am not melancholy," she added gaily; "but, I know not how it is, this place and this time of day always

Why is it that

suggest solemn images to me. the sight of so much beauty should have this effect ?"

"Because, my sweetest Rosalia, when two fond cousins are thus seated side by side, in a spot which in beauty might vie with the paradise of our first parents, the thought that their fault has prevented the immortality of our enjoyment steals across us, and we feel sad to