travel, and of foreign vice, and I did promise. I did not feel it hard; yet it was so-for I loved." Magdalene paused, and the faintest flush that it is possible to imagine just tinged her cheek. 66 "I loved one who had loved me long; the curate of our village: just what a pastor should be,—he had the highest ambition of any man I ever knew.” "Indeed!" exclaimed Mary, "and was that befitting in a Christian minister ?" "It was," she replied. ting! He sought to make all small things great. He would take the poorest orphan in the village school, and cultivate his mind for immortality—is not that ambition? What is the world's vain aching, when compared to such ambition?" "Ambition such as his was fit 66 Many will think,” said Mary, "it was far-fetched." "And so it was," sighed Magdalene, "far indeed-from Heaven!" She paused again, and sighed, and her eyes looked dark and heavy, though no tears escaped them. "We might have been wedded; but then those boys must have gone abroad alone: they were so wild, so madly enthusiastic, so careless of the provident ways which husband a small income, that, even if I had not promised, I should have felt bound to journey with them, as they were but little more than children !—it was a struggle.' “But the curate, Magdalene, where is he now ?" "What!" said Mary, jumping at a conclusion to which all young girls come, "What! did he die of love?" "No," replied Magdalene, "men seldom die of that, or women either; but they die of the wearing out of hope, of disappointment,-the spirit withers and withers away within them, until there is no sap left-they die—not of a sudden sorrow, but of its wasting. My duties clashed, for I did owe him a duty-a duty won by long and patient affection. I acted for the best, but God disposed otherwise than I intended. He pined away and died; not unlamented or forgotten. I left him, though I saw that his hope, as regarded worldly things was not green, as it had been— its spring time was quite gone, and though it had never known summer, it had fallen into the autumn of its days, missing all summer, and all sunshine. I left him livingwhen I returned, the grass was thick upon his grave!" "Poor Magdalene !" sighed Mary, "I shall love you more than ever." "But where did I leave off? Ah! death snaps all ouL threads. We sold whatever we possessed, and gathering all together, we travelled first to Paris, then to Venice,no, then to Rome, to Venice, Florence, Naples. At first, my giddy brothers would have spent all they had, they were so thoughtless; but after a little time they grew more discreet, more wise, and laboured like two slaves, Philip still the most earnest, Albert the most gay, for music claimed half his attention at the least; and while he drew he sung. I never could understand why, but, certainly, Italy did not agree with Albert as it did with Philip ;—both loved the sun, but for Albert it was too warm; and he would pine and languish, his white brow so hot and moist, his thin fingers hardly able to guide his pencil. strength would come with evening; then, indeed, he would revive, like a sick plant in the soft dew. Philip would sometimes chide him, for Philip made his time do double work; but yet it was beautiful to see them so united." "And you, Magdalene, did you not love Italy?" His “Indeed, my heart was frequently in England,” she replied, "and my dear brothers used to call me cold; but they did not know me well." "How hard it is to judge," said Mary. "When first you came to me, I thought you cold-cold and proud." “I dare say,” she replied; "a smiling servant is as necessary to a lady's happiness as a well-fitted dress; but though I often thought of what I loved in England, there was much to fill the mind with, every step I took abroad; the soul feels so enlarged by travel. Women, I think, in general like it less than men; perhaps it is because it has so little to do with the affections: but my glory was in the excellence of my dear brothers, they improved so rapidly. Their studio, for they still worked together, became frequented by men of talent, some poor, some rich,—some English, and some native artists,—painters and poets,— and others who buy to sell again, at great advantage to themselves. Amongst those, there was one, a man not young nor old. Albert met him somewhere near RomeI forget those Italian names, but it was among some ruins; he had gone there for shelter from the sun, and was employed in sketching. The stranger praised his work, and he, poor boy, told of his brother's cleverness, and boasted, as he ever did, how he surpassed him in all skill, and grace, and knowledge. The man came to our lodging; a dull place it was—a portion of a gorgeous palace, where what is left moulders o'er what is past. Yet we were happy there; and Albert's voice, and Albert's music, would often mock the melancholy that hung sometimes from the old walls, like time-worn tapestry. "This man-this monster-came, and came again. Philip and I disliked him; yet we knew not why; he employed my brothers to sketch and model, and paid them well, though the story went, that he disposed of what he got in a strange way; there was a sort of omnipresence about him—now here—now gone. At Venice, they believed he was a sort of water-serpent, robbing by night, and playing high at houses of questionable fame, with strangers. Others thought him a smuggler: some even hinted he had to do with bandits. He had been much in England, and was fond of talking of our country. He spoke English well, and was accomplished too. We had no right to question one who was so liberal in his orders, and punctual in his payments. Albert called him his 'Golden Mine;' and certainly, for many weeks, ay, months, he was a mine of gold, polluted gold!-the yellow pestilence clung to him worse than a thousand plagues. One night I went with my brothers to the great theatre, the opera of Rome, and there, amongst the singers, was this man; the second tenor. I knew him well; but Albert said it was impossible, he had left Rome that day, the name, too, of the singer was Mercato, the name we knew him by, Rinelli. We talked much of it, walking home, and Albert, though he confessed the likeness was so strong, was angry at our obstinacy, for Philip thought with me. Another night, it was hardly night, but evening, we three were walking near the Corso, when a gay carriage passed us-curvetting on a pretty horse, close by its side, was this same man; even Albert knew him then, for he heard his voice, as laughing with a lady, but too well known for the celebrity whose influence blasts, not blesses, he talked in French, as pure as ever dropped from a Parisians lips; and then, when his eye rested on us, he turned away abruptly." "Was he disguised?" inquired Mary. "He was, and he was not. When he had visited us, he was dressed in the plainest dress of an Italian gentleman, his figure slight, his hair, rather light, was turning grey, though his face looked young; the features beautiful, but the expression bad. At the theatre, of course, he appear ed in character; but on the Corso, his hair was black, yes, black as jet; his figure certainly enlarged, and his demeanour that of a French soldier, such as we read of; his dress, too, was military; and when he turned away, I saw my brothers exchange looks. What rendered all this the more perplexing was, that the man had professed much love for me; and though I repelled it, still he persevered, and my poor Albert thought, at first, that it would be good for me to make such a connexion, for my brothers little dreamed how completely I had left my heart in England. We sacrifice nothing for our friends, if we tell them we have sacrificed. “It was curious to observe how completely this man managed to convince my brothers that he had neither sung at the opera, nor ridden on the Corso at the times they mentioned: he assured them he had been at Venice, and laughed and jested so at the idea of his having a double double, that even Philip was content with repeating, half a dozen times, it is very extraordinary!' Philip, indeed, made many inquiries of young men, who used to frequent the opera continually, and from them he learnt, that the person who played that particular character that night was a stranger to the boards, and filled the part to oblige the singer who should have played, but was prevented by illness. What made it more singular was, that the director was so pleased with the stranger's voice, that he offered him an engagement, which the other firmly declined, Rinelli still continued his visits and his patronage; and-most miserable!-his attentions to me. They at last became so marked, that I was afraid to venture out alone, and the very sound of his footstep made my blood run cold;—yet what was I to do?-the small means we brought from England were nearly exhausted—we had but little left;—with all my care and labour it was nearly gone. Night after night have I risen from my bed, while those dear boys slept, and in that gloomy room, gloomy when lit but by one small taper, I have worked—ay, washed-that they might be like others, and at small expense. The abstraction of genius is one of its especial gifts: if it were not abstracted from the world and its ways, how could it ever bear the poverty which worldlings die of? But for this man, I do believe we must have starved; and yet my brothers never cared for means;—and when I reflected I was glad of it,—for they were happy, though the load of care would often sink me to the earth. Had we been independent, I would have spurned him from us; for, despite his talents, I do confess I hated him most bitterlyhated and feared him-both. But poverty!—what sins has it to answer for!-it is Satan's chief tempter-it not only stamps with its mark, so that those who run may read; but it burns into the soul, and leads to actions which force one to despise one's self. He never should have entered within our doors, but that we were poor! Albert, dear boy, grew weaker each succeeding day; his genius sometimes would fight against disease; and then his cheek would blush like a young maid's, and leave two deep red spots beneath his temples. It seemed the spirit warring with the flesh; for all the youths who watched the progress of his labours, wondered at its excellence. I felt my heart grow closer and closer to him, as he grew more pale; and Rinelli seeing this-for there was no drop of natural tenderness in him-was kinder far than ever, and would buy his sketches, and all that he did, and add many praises to the price. "Poor Albert, he wiled away many of his hours, for he believed in the virtue and goodness of all earthly things, and could extract perfume from things that others called scentless; and pluck the briars of life without seeming to feel their thorns. He could not understand how it was I did not value this man as he did, and I could not endure to give him pain, by saying why; indeed, half my dislike was founded on I knew not what! He importuned me most continually with his love—it was in vain that I declared I could not return for it the least portion of esteem; he even peered into our poverty, and held it up in all its misery before my eyes, as a great reason why I should receive, as he called it—his honourable love! Ch, how I wept and prayed, mingling my tears'with my hard industry. One evening, very late, Rinelli had, he said, been obliged to go somewhere away on business; I was watering some English flowers that Albert loved, in a small court which led into a garden, a sort of public garden, where the Italians often crowded during the moonlight nights, when a woman stood suddenly before me, and inquired if I were Magdalene Marsden? I said I was. She laid her hand upon my arm, and when arrested by the action I looked steadfastly on her, I saw she had been handsome, but there was a mingling of fierceness and sorrow in her aspect, which gave me the idea of one who, if |