the solemn hour of night, on the breast of Father Power. The packet soiled and faded, bore in feminine characters that had been washed with many a tear, the inscription hardly legible, "Al Signor Power." The world had made him a monk but God had made him man! a Seasons had passed away, happy, fleeting, prosperous, when all at once, my uncle now well stricken in years, announced his intention to visit the western world once more. He would see before he died, the resting-place of his Elizabeth; and if he never returned, was sure he should retain a place in our memories. Astonished beyond measure at the announcement, I combated, but combated it in vain. He had well pondered his intention; he would go, he said, and he would go alone. I was happy and independent; able to guide and to govern, as well as to protect those who were dependant on me. A brief period must necessarily close his career; and why not gratify his last desire ere he died. Amid our tears and lamentations, he departed. We saw him no more-no, that benevolent loving countenance we never be held again. * * * * After a long, long interval, I again take up the pen. changed; but in one thing unchanged, I love my Julia-she loves me, tenderly as before. Two stalwart sons grace my board; and a daughter lovely, winning, the image of my Julia in her prime, completes our happiness. By a singular coincidence, my old friend Wriothesley, now a peer of the realm, has two daughters and a son. Frequent interchanges of visits are made; and from the demeanour of the young people, it is clear that something must come of it. Somehow, this young Lord Wriothesley is never from the Hall; and he pays me attentions whereat my sons are in no wise jealous indeed, they sometimes laugh at his zeal which only redoubles the more. My sweet child's looks are variable; sometimes she grows suddenly pale, at others blushes like the rose in June. Occasionally, she kisses and fondles me with strange affection; and I fear I get kisses that are not always strictly mine! I too, have become erratic. I must visit Spain-the Americas; but mean nevertheless, to lay my bones in the land of my fathers. My children-strange to say, are satisfied-they think nothing of crossing the Atlantic. Young Wriothesley even, solicits permission to accom"What," said I-"leave your papany me. rents, your "-I paused; what was I about to say? "Your daughter," whispered the young man-no never." He knelt before me; a fair form half voluntarily, half otherwise, bent be side him. Would I, pleaded the youth, in accents that reminded me of times long pastwould I sanction his suit-their union? timid face with eyes swimming in tears, also looked up in mine. I clasped them in my arms, as I yielded my assent, and my blessing along with it. "But your mother, my sweet Julia." "She has consented before" repeated a loved form by my side. Mr. Aitkins, now an aged, and, although no children blessed his path, a contented man, with his Maria by his side, united the happy pair. In other respects, the nuptials were celebrated with all the pomp that befitted our ancient lines. Accompanied by young Lord Wriothesley and his blooming bride, I set out in the suite of the Spanish Ambassador to whom I was formally introduced, and in due time reached Madrid. About a couple of leagues from that ancient capital on the road to Seville, there is an old oratorio or chapel dedicated, as an almost oblite rated inscription imports, "Al Santissima Trinidad," to the most Holy Trinity. Here, we one day drove; and through proper intercession, were conducted by a decrepit friar to a low crypt or vault that had been set apart for the use of a particular family. It had however-it so fell out, been never used save once. A white marble slab bearing deeply but irregularly graven, the one word-"Isabel," closed the entrance. It was carefully detached. Torches now revealed the long-concealed interior; and on trestles covered with the relics of a velvet pall, rested the coffin of that illfated lady. The urn containing the faithful heart, was reverently deposited thereon. A low sound which soon subsided, followed the performance of this solemn rite. This, which a vivid imagination might have ascribed to another source, doubtless arose from the crumbling down of the dear remains agitated by the slight contact. The aged friar crossed himself, and soon the stone was replaced and cemented |