trying every art to fascinate, was secretly and surely devoted to her. He was so handsome too-so gay-so fearless-so playful in his disposition-and in every thing so much like herself-Oh! it was worth all the world to hear the whispers of Harry Wentworth, when he tried amongst the crowd, to catch her attention for a moment, while she would pass on with affected carelessness, not unfrequently returning to assure herself of the reality. THE SPIRIT OF JOΥ. DAUGHTER of sorrow, weeping and sad, I'll bear thee away on a sunbeam so bright Pll deck thee with flowers so gay, I'll bathe thee in oceans of liquid ligh And chase all thy tears away. For I come from the mountain, the heath, and the dell, I have bid the grim deserts of darkness farewell, I live in the sunshine of summer's bright hours, All mine are the treasures of April's glad showers, I spurn at the temple, the tower, and the dome, Far, far, in the blue sunny sky is my home, These words, with an exquisite accompaniment, Ellen had been singing to a crowded | audience, with so much spirit and animation, that she seemed herself to personify the ideal being of whom she sung. Before her light fingers touched the harp, she had cleared her white forehead and sparkling eyes from the shadow of rich curls that veil:ed, without concealing, her beauty: and now the colour of her cheek was deepened by a blush of varying emotions, in which were mingled and combined some of the most powerful feelings that are wont to agitate the breast of woman; the shame of attracting every eye, the triumph of conscious power, and, mightest and most prevailing, the wild fervour of the enthusiast. Ellen's, as soon as her performance was ended, to divert the earnest attention of the company by some playful sally, quite irrelevant to the subject, or else to escape at once into obscurity; and, on this occasion, as on many former ones, she succeeded in finding a vacant seat beside Harry Wentworth, who seldom joined the herd of admirers, to worship the star of the multitude, but delighted to see that star direct its partial rays to him. CHAPTER III. "WHAT is all this harangue about?" said she to her lover, after they had listened, for a few moments, to a little party of grave personages, gathered round Miss Eskdale. "Your sister," replied he, "is edifying her friends on the subject of suicide; she is telling them the nature of different poisons, and what is the readiest mode of quitting the world." "Oh! that does not concern me," said Ellen, "for I shall never be tired of living; shall you, Harry ?" "Not if you will promise to live with me." "Now, tell me the truth for once," said she, looking up into his face, -" the truth, and nothing but the truth; for, mind you, I have a charm by which I know a falsehood, and you have told me a great many of late; tell me then, truly, whether you could live without me?" Wentworth paused for a moment, and then coolly answered-" I think I could." Ellen had been gazing on his face with the sweet confidence of a child, and, perhaps it was the steady look of her clear and cloudless eyes which, somehow or other, had impelled him, almost unconsciously, to speak what she had demanded, the whole truth; which he did at once, boldly, and thought no more about it; but, had he been a nice observer of woman's character, he would have seen that the ready smile of expectaIt was a habit some people said, a trick of tion had passed away from Ellen's lips, that the blush had faded from her cheek,and that though she instantly took up a new print, and began to expatiate upon its beauties with rapturous enthusiasm, she bent down her head lower than was necessary, that her thick falling ringlets might conceal her altered countenance, while she wiped from her eye the first tear that Harry Wentworth had ever made her shed. It might be that he did not know the degree of feeling of which Ellen was capable; or that, in his own heart there was no such deep and hidden fountain; for he never dreamed that he had given pain, and would almost rather have wept himself, than that eyes so beautiful should have been dimmed with tears. It was, however, but a light and passing cloud, and those eyes again beamed forth in all their wonted brightness; music and dancing drowned the evening in noise and confusion, and all was sunshine and glad summer beneath the roof of Mr. Eskdale, in spite of the wintry blasts that howled without. "What can be the matter with Ellen Eskdale?" said a lady to her companion, one evening, as they returned home from the play?" "Oh, in love, to be sure," was the reply; for her companion was a gentleman. "She need not pine away for that," said the lady, "for Wentworth seems as much in love as she does. She must be ill; that cold of hers lasts so long. Did you not observe, the other day, at Mrs. Beverley's, how she leaned upon the harp, and how dreadfully worn-out she looked after the first dance?" about her eyes, that might well have startled the fears of a more anxious and experienced parent; and her mother did at last begin to think something must be the matter; for Ellen could not sing as she was wont; the highest tones of her voice were almost entirely gone, and she seldom got through a piece of music without a violent fit of coughing. "Poor girl! she has quite outgrown her strength," said the mother; "she must have tonics." So Ellen tried tonics, and her cough was worse than ever; but it was not before she was obliged to give up dancing too, that the family had recourse to medical advice. "A slight pulmonary affection," said the doctor; and he rubbed his hands, for he saw before him a good winter's work. Some persons, on looking back, would have been alarmed to see how much had been given up during the last few weeks; but Ellen only laughed, and told Wentworth she was growing quite a saint; and that after Christimas, she would put on a plain cap and go and sit with sister Cartwright, at her class-meetings. All could have been borne; her bad nights, her cough, her weakness, and all borne cheerfully, but now the ill-natured old doctor forbad her going out, except in the middle of the day, and when the weather was mildest. Her evenings must be spent at home, quietly, and without any excitement. If the family would stay with her, and Harry Wentworth, and two or three others would come, it might be endured; but sometimes she was left entirely alone: and, worst of all, had run through the last volume of the last novel before they returned. On Sunday, however, she had them all safely enough, and Wentworth too, and a merry evening they manag ed to pass together; for they had everybody to describe, and to mimic; and when Ellen had their follies second-hand, it was almost It was true enough: Ellen was now often as entertaining, as if she had seen them herso weary that she could hardly walk up self. But even these amusements began to stairs, when the family retired to rest; and pall upon her; and sometimes, when they in the morning there was a cold glassy look | looked round for her ready laugh, she had "As for the leaning upon the harp," replied he of the charitable sex, "it was to show off her figure; and young ladies always look languid, when they can, to excite interest." "Well, continued the lady, these beauties never last. I wish poor Mrs. Eskdale may not lose her daughter yet." = turned away her face, and was quite unable to laugh at all. Oh, the emptiness of folly, when mortal sickness falls upon the heart! It was at the close of one of these sabbath evenings, when her sister and Wentworth had been unusually animated, that Ellen suddenly burst into tears, and left the room. "What is the matter with that silly girl?" said Miss Eskdale; "she grows so fretful, there is no such thing as pleasing her." "No," said her sister Mary, "you should not say so; Ellen was never fretful, but her spirits are so weak now, that the least thing overpowers her," and so saying, Mary followed her up stairs. It was well that she did; for the poor girl having at last given full vent to her feelings, in a violent fit of hysterics, the rupture of a blood-vessel was the natural and fearful con- | Still there seemed to be no immediate danger. It was a case which needed care and quiet. Marston was an excellent nurse, and the kindest creature in the world; so there was no need to sit much with Ellen, especially as the dear girl was not allowed to converse; and thus she was left hour after hour, to muse in solitude; for those who were nearest and dearest to her, knew not that love that will steal into the darkened chamber, and watch by the bed-side of a beloved object, not only enduring, but choosing that faithful vigil, before all the pleasures of the world-that soul-felt and expressive stillness, when affection, like the evening dew, sheds her silent influence on the drooping soul. There was no immediate danger:-Ellen's excellent constitution rallied again, and she was able, once more, with the help of Mars ton, to pace slowly to and fro in her room, casting many a wistful glance at the dull window, that looked out upon a square of formal garden, where the shrubs were matted up, and here and there a wasted drift of dirty snow told of a chilly and humid atmosphere, with all its melancholy accompaniments. Ellen gazed, and gazed, till she was wearied out; and then she turned within, and opened her box of trinkets, which had pleased her so often; but now they failed in producing any other effect than a slight touch of painit might be a faint apprehension that what had been would never be again, which had well nigh brought the tears into her eyes; so she asked Marston for her music, but music, without either voice or instrument, is the dullest thing in the world, and this failed her too. What could she do? Swallow her sleeping draught two hours before the time, and beg of Marston to assist her into bed, for she was weary of herself and every thing beside. In a few days, however, Ellen had so far recovered as to regain the wonted tone of her mind, and with this transient and delusive convalescence, came busy thoughts of that world in which she had been so bright a star-that ungrateful world, that never missed nor mourned her waning light. As soon as her strength would permit, she amused herself with looking through her wardrobe. One by one, her rich dresses were unfolded; the dressmaker was called in, to alter them to her present shape, and ah! it was like a mockery of the grave, to see her tall thin figure, decked out in the vestments of fashion, and folly, and to hear her difficult and laborious breathings, and the short quick cough that perpetually interrupted her directions, as she told how the trimmings, the fullness, and the folds, were to be so placed, as to conceal the alteration in her wasted person. Oh! it needs religion to wean us from the things of earth! CHAPTER IV. THERE is nothing like a return to the domestic scenes, and pursuits of a family, for giving spirits to an invalid; and Ellen, when released from the prison of her own room, really fancied she was gaining strength. With her returning spirits, the hopes of the family returned, and with their hopes, the longing to be again in the world, just to tell Lady B. that dear Ellen was recovering; and then the party at Sir Robert Long's, could they refuse that, now that Pa and Sir Robert had had a difference about their game; it would look as if the ladies of the family wished to keep it up-no, they must go, and not one of them only, but all. Marston would sit with Ellen; so they dressed themselves, and kissed her very kindly, and left her; and she sat for a long time listening to the sound of the carriages, as they rolled along the street, each conveying its rich freight to the door of the wealthy Baro net. It so happened, on that day, that Wentworth had not been invited, and hearing that his mistress was again visible, and having nothing else to do, he went and knocked at that busy door, that was for ever turning on its hinges. Oh, how well did Ellen know his step, as he lightly skipped up the stairs! she tried to meet him at the door of the drawing room: but her breath failed her, and she could only look a welcome kinder than words. When her lover first beheld her, he started back; for there is a disease which makes rapid inroads upon beauty, in the course of a few days, without the sufferer being aware of any change; but he soon recovered him self, and began to apologize for his long absence, by a thousand excuses, which Ellen often interrupted by her exclamations of pleasure, that he had come at last, and so opportunely. "I began to think that you would never come again, it is so long since you have been here. Oh, I am so glad to see you, it is so dull shut up here alone, when they all leave me; but come, sit down, and be as happy as you can, and tell me all that you have seen and heard since we last met; but do not make me laugh, for I have a wretched feeling here," (laying her hand upon her breast,) "and laughing hurts me worse than anything;" so they sat down together, and fixed their eyes upon the fire, and were both silent for a long time. "Did you ever see any one in a consumption?" was the first question which Ellen asked; and her lover started, for he had been thinking of the very same thing. "No, I never did, and hope I never shall; your illness is not consumption, dear Ellen; it is not, it shall not be." "Then what can be the meaning of all this fever; and why cannot I get rid of this horrid cough; I strive against it, indeed I do: and sometimes I think it is all fancy, I feel so well; but oh! Harry Wentworth, if it should be!" And she fixed her eyes upon him, with such an expression of wild and convulsive agony, that he almost shrank away. Wentworth was not entirely a stranger to the thought of death, but he had only thought of dying as a man, or a soldier, in the cause of honour, or on the field of battle; the certain symptoms of a lingering and fatal malady had never before been present to his observation; and now, when he looked upon the being he had regarded as least mortal, and met the glaring of the hollow eye, and saw the falling away of the fair cheek, the wasting of the once rounded lips, and felt the earnest pressure of the thin and feverish hand, his spirits failed within him; for it was beyond what his imagination had ever pictured, what his fortitude was able to endure, and he felt that he had no consolation to offer in such an hour as this. It is true he loved her-but how? Not as a fellow-pilgrim through a vale of tears, journeying on towards a better land :-not as a creature of high hopes and capabilities, whose talents are to be matured, and whose good feelings strengthened into principle. He loved her as man too often loves woman, for the sake of her bright eyes, her shining hair, and the symmetry of a graceful and elastic figure. He loved her as a fair and charmed creature, who was to be exclusively his own-to minister to his gratification, to soothe him when weary, and to supply fresh stimulus to his tastes, when sated with fruition. How then should he find consolation for such an hour as this! He could only fold to his bosom this frail and fading beauty -kiss off the falling tears-and tell her, that she would not, could not die. Oh! it needs religion to reconcile us to the thought of death! After this distressing interview, Wentworth had no disposition to come again; and, if he had, it would probably have been in vain, for the poor invalid was very soon confined to her own room, and strictly forbid to see any one, except her own family, who ❘ now were all sufficiently concerned at the sad change, and would probably have made any sacrifice of their wonted amusements to save her. Mrs. Eskdale was by no means an unfeeling woman, though her fears had been late | in taking alarm; but now she felt, in its full force, how much dearer to her was the life of her child, than all her wealth, her rich furniture, and her fashionable guests. such is the deceitful nature of this disease, that she did not feel at all certain it would terminate in death. Her physician was the only person who thought of revealing the awful truth, and a consultation was held on the subject, to consider whether it should be done, and how. "It may be right," said one, "but I could not tell her for the world;" and another, and another, excused herself, until, at last, the lot fell upon the physician, a man who had neither wife nor child, nor knew any thing of the sensibilities of woman's heart; so he took up his cane, and went straight into the sick-room, and sat down by the bed-side. "It has been thought right, ma'am," said he, and he cleared his voice; "it has been thought right, by your family, to depute me to be the bearer of unwelcome information;" and he paused again, for Ellen turned away her head. "I doubt not, ma'am, you understand my meaning; -all has been done that medical skill affords, but there are diseases which baffle the art of the physician; some thing, however, may yet be done to alleviate suffering; and allow me to assure you ma'am, that nothing shall be omitted on my part. Ellen gave no sign of intelligence, either But what could she do? The ablest phy- by word or motion. She had by this time sicians were consulted, and there was no buried her face in the pillow, so that, if he hope; her child must die! Regardless of had said more, she would not have heard it; the wonted placidity of her countenance, she and the physician, with the satisfaction of wandered from one stately room to another, ❘ having discharged his duty, rose, and graveby habit adjusting all the little ornaments ❘ly and quietly took his leave. which had been misplaced, without knowing Indeed, every one in the house seemed to what she did; and often both she and her think they were doing their duty. Pills daughter stole, on tiptoe, into the sick-room, were compounded, physicians were fee'd, asking the inexhaustible question, did Ellen parties were given up, bells were muffled, want anything; but never staying long be- and knockers wrapped in leather, what side her, for the stillness was intolerable to more could they do? Nurses were hired, them, and they knew not what to say,-Mar- receipts were borrowed, and fruits of every ston was an excellent nurse, and Ellen want- description were purchased at any cost,ed nothing. Poor child! she wanted that they could do nothing more! and still the best of friends, a friend who will kindly and poor girl lay stretched upon her uneasy bed, candidly tell her the truth; for though she her face turned towards the pillow to hide knew that she was daily giving up one thing the profuse perspiration that stood in pearly after another, and gradually losing ground, ❘ drops upon her forehead, and the still more |