"Should this be true, can you not, in turn, renounce him?"

The girl's features became animated, her hands were clasped, and her eyes raised.

"Renounce him! woman's heart does not so soon forget; we cannot so readily obliterate impressions of early years. Never, even though he desert me, can I be false to him-never can I cease to cherish his memory."

The ardour evinced by Hester carried a conviction to the heart of Flemming that she spoke the truth. The knowledge that her affections were placed on another did not cool his own passion, but it gave to his feelings a harshness and a bitterness they did not before possess; he was neither tranquillised nor satisfied, but in his bosom the evil principle began to war with the good; and this struggle was doomed thenceforth to divide his being, now prompting him to acts of generosity, and now leading him to crime.

Flemming did not take a formal leave of Hester, or endeavour to excite her sympathy by dwelling on his own hopelessness and suffering. Pride assisted him now in smothering all that burned within, and he quitted her presence, apparently resigned to inevitable circumstances, and the defeat of his pretensions.

The heart of Hester rejoiced at the mastery which Flemming seemed to have gained over himself. She beheld the sunlight restored to the surface of the smooth stream, yet her eye could not penetrate into the dark and troubled waters beneath.

TO A LADY NEARLY BLIND.

BY CAROLINE DE CRESPIGNY.

O, LADY! darkly through this darksome world
Although thou wanderest, God can give thee light;
But should thy day "suffer eclipse," unfurled
May still to thee be visions heavenly bright,

Which by the spiritual eye are seen—
Visions so dazzling, that full well I ween,
If by thy night such glory could be bought,

Thou wouldst not give earth's chequer'd scene a thought;
But rather deem this thine infirmity,

Sent to make manifest a work of love,

And wean thy soul from frail mortality.

Yet, could my prayers the "drop serene" remove,

Or draw God's grace unto thy spirit down,

What light and joy would burst upon my own.

MARIA ERNACH'S FIRST AND LAST PILGRIMAGE.

BY THE AUTHOR OF "SEVEN YEARS IN THE WEDDED Life of a ROMAN CATHOLIC."

THE LAST PILGRIMAGE.

I.

ONE strange anxious desire filled Maria Ernach's soul; one strong irrepressible wish was ever present to her; it fevered her mind and body when awake, it destroyed her rest in sleep, and coloured her dreamsthe desire to go again to Mariazell. Months had passed, yet the singular mystery which overshadowed the untimely end of him she had so loved, was in nowise removed; all clue to the murderer was yet wanting, but it seemed to Maria that if she were once again upon the spot, this mystery must be cleared away. Added to this, was the no less earnest, though somewhat more romantic, wish to stand by the grassy mound beneath which he reposed, to weep over him, and strew flowers on his grave, that should his spirit, as she fervently believed, be hovering near, he might at least see that she was true to him in death as in life. She said little; but as the time for the annual pilgrimage to Mariazell again drew near, her restless anxiety for the journey was such, that it almost amounted to a species of insanity.

The Signor Romelli pursued his visits to the cottage as of yore, but for six good months after Francis Clairfait's death he spoke not a word of love to Maria. His behaviour, kind and affectionate, was more like that of a brother, and his attentions, in which appeared nothing that the most sensitive mind could take alarm at, contributed, if anything could, to soothe her. But gradually and cautiously the character of them changed, and at length he spoke openly of love. Maria shuddered as she listened. She entered into no explanation; she alluded not to the past or future, but simply gave him an unqualified denial, and a prohibition to speak of such matters to her. Romelli relapsed into his old caution, but just before the return of the pilgrimage the real nature of his attentions again began to manifest itself; and Maria, in her wild anxiety with regard to other matters, now passed them by unheeded and unchecked. Like last year, Madame Ernach was loud and vehement in her opposition to Maria's joining the pilgrims, but her present objection had chiefly reference to her daughter's health, which was now very delicate. Maria heard the ever-recurring arguments that were urged against the journey, but she listened not, heeded not; had a very angel from heaven appeared in her path, like unto Balaam of old, she would scarcely have turned aside.

"Such obstinacy!" grumbled the vexed old lady to herself, as, the eve of the pilgrimage having come round, she found Maria still firmly bent upon the journey" such dreadful obstinacy! I never saw two persons so much alike as she and her father."

Meanwhile Maria, having made her preparations for the morrow alone and in silence, walked out of the house as the sun was setting, and rested herself upon a rustic seat at some little distance. It was a favourite spot with her at this hour, for she had many an evening sat there with Francis Clairfait. Strange that she should now be fond of indulging in a consolation, which at its best could be but a mournful one.

June.-VOL. XCII. NO. CCCLXVI.

M

As she lingered there brooding over the past, some one stole gently up and seated himself beside her. It was the Signor Romelli; and Maria, vexed at the interruption to her thoughts which his coming occacasioned, rose, after a few indifferent words of greeting, to return to the cottage.

"You are eager for home, Maria," observed the Italian, gloomily; "yet the evening is not so far advanced.”

66

My mother is alone," she replied; "and I have also one or two household matters to complete. I shall be away, most probably, for some days."

"It quite distresses me, Maria, to find you persist in going this year. Your health is not equal to it. You must indeed relinquish it, late as

it is."

"I will hear no arguments on this subject," she interrupted; "it would be but waste of time. I am not the heedless girl I was last summer, when a word would have turned me either way-a mere child, swayed by every breath of wind."

"I do not see that you can be much else now, if you speak of years," laughed Romelli. Only twelve moons have passed over your head

since."

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"But an age in heart. It was spring-time with me then; it is autumn now."

"And your summer?" he rejoined, in a bantering tone.

"I have had none-I shall have none," she answered, hollowly. "Good night, signor," she resumed, once more rising and offering her hand. "I will say farewell to you now, unless you mean to call again at

the cottage."

seat.

"I came hither to speak to you, Maria," he said, detaining her on the "God knows I have waited long enough, and the passion in my breast has become so great from repression, that it will no longer be contained within bounds."

And, crowding word upon word, the very truth and earnestness of his matter imparting to him eloquence, Jacopo Romelli poured forth his confession, urging Maria, in impassioned terms, to consent to their

union.

She sat quite calm and collected, listening without emotion to all this torrent and energy; and then, simply telling him that she had answered him upon this subject months before, and that the same answer would apply again, attempted to move away.

"Not until you give me some hope," exclaimed Romelli, the sting of her coldness piercing to his "Let it be ever so distant, say heart. very that in time you will be mine-in time.",

"It would be no kindness to you to say that which is untrue," she

answered.

"No kindness-hear her !" he exclaimed, lifting his head to heaven. "To listen to such words from her lips I have prayed and wept; I, a strong man and careless, who recked, for aught she knew, as little of weeping as of prayer. And she says it would be no kindness!"

Signor Romelli, you mistake me-I know not if it be wilfully or otherwise. How can I speak of a hope that will never be realised? And for marriage-I shall never marry, either you or another."

"Hope-hope-give me hope, Maria-let it be ever so far off-but, give me hope."

"I give you none, now, or for hereafter."

"Maria Ernach,” he whispered, "have you heard how the Italians love?—and the wildest passion that ever sat in the breast of one cannot more than equal that which I have borne in silence for you. I am not an old man; I have, probably speaking, many years before me; and you deliberately consign those years to despair. I would lay down my life for you; I would wait on you night and day. Why should this coldness be visited upon me in return?"

"Now, then, listen to me," she exclaimed. "I will repose in you a confidence that has never yet been breathed to human ear. You describe your love for me: know that such love, ay, even greater, I felt for Francis Clairfait. I had long suspected, hoped, that he loved me; but that night which we passed at Mariazell was the first time I knew it beyond all doubt. He told me of his passion-he knew it was returned: ere this, but for that night's fatal ending, it would have been known to the world. Speak not to me of love, Jacopo; it lies buried in Francis Clairfait's grave."

The Italian, while she spoke, had become deadly pale, and bit his lips almost to wounding; but he answered her immediately.

"It may be true what you say; but those recollections will pass away, and in time you will love another-one who will care for you and watch over you more tenderly, perhaps, than he would have done."

"Never!" she exclaimed, vehemently; "to love twice is impossible; and were I ever dragged or cajoled to the altar, I should deem it but an act of sacrilege to his memory, and regard him the more for the grievous wrong."

"Is it even so ?—and you shrink not from telling me?"

66

Forgive, forgive me!" she said, laying her hand upon his, "and believe that I am not insensible to the preference you have evinced for me, or ungrateful for it, but my affections are buried with the dead. Oh, how I loved-how I love Francis Clairfait !"

She pressed her hands before her eyes in anguish, and the dark shade passed again over the Italian's features. He answered, in a low tone, "I will never give up the hope of possessing you, Maria, while life is left to us."

"Be silent,” she answered; "you are excited now, and do not weigh your words. If you wish our acquaintance to continue, you must drop the subject, now and always. Upon this point I am resolute. Another relapse to it, such as I have heard to-night, and I interdict all communication between us. Let us forget from this moment that it was ever introduced."

"You are unjust, Maria-cruel and unjust. Why did you not check my rising passion at the onset? From the earliest moment of our introduction, you saw that I admired you, and does such admiration never ripen into love? Why did you not repress it? A firm word, a repelling glance then, and it would have been done. But, instead of this, you encouraged it-you know have been that I was did. It you Clairfait's rival for your favour, implied if not acknowledged. And you led me on-you led us both on-a look of encouragement to one, a look of encouragement to the other-it was so, Maria; whether from coquetry, or vanity, or that you did not know your own mind, I care not-but it

was so.

may

"Ay," she answered, "and I have bitterly repented. I was fond of coquetry; I was filled with vanity; you and others told me I was beautiful, and I looked for the homage of many admirers as my due. I did but as others have done before me, the young and attractive, and saw not, in my vain thoughtlessness, the wrong I was committing. That, and many other things, have come home to me since. I should never have seen them in their true aspect but for the death of Francis Clairfait; since then, in all, save years, I have become old. Forgive me all, Jacopo."

"Yet you refuse me reparation, Maria!"

"I told you the subject must end," she said, rising. "You have already had my final answer, and to repeat it is painful to me.

He arose sullenly, and walked with her. Their first few steps were

taken in silence.

"And so you go this toilsome journey to fling flowers over his grave !" he broke forth, abruptly.

"No-not that."

"Oh, no, I understand-not that! to weep over it; to gaze on it. Truly I would be in Clairfait's place," he continued, sneeringly, " to have half such affection lavished upon me."

"Something whispers me," she said, bursting into tears, "that I shall not go in vain. Thanks be to Heaven, my faith in this is perfect. The compassionate Virgin was never yet deaf to anguish so great as mine-to prayers so heartfelt: I know they will be answered."

"Answered!" exclaimed Romelli, in amazement; "why, you do not suppose they can bring the dead back to life?"

"No. But I may discover his murderer."

"Oh, Maria, Maria! this is absurd in the extreme!"

"Is that you, signor?" called out the old lady Ernach, from the house as they came up, where she occupied her favourite place close to the open window.

"Do you want anything?" was the Italian's reply.

"What in the world have you been talking over up there? The affairs of the state, one would say, at a rough guess. I watched you both until it grew too dark for my eyesight. Madame Brennan said she would lay her three daughters' costumes against Maria's that you were making love. But I told her better. I know what love-making is as well as most people, and I never saw it made yet with the vehemence and gesticulation you have been using to-night. No, no, my good lady Brennan; let me alone for penetration: I can see as far through a millstone as you can." "Your eyes are none of the youngest, either," replied the Italian, whose irascibility was on this night easily excited.

"Neither will yours be, sir, when you have lived to my age," retorted the lady. "If they see as well as mine, and look as young, in ten years' time, I'll eat them. And you, Maria, must sit moping your time away from home. I thought you would never come back. You might find me dead some day before you return, and much would care!"

you

"Dear mother," replied the passive girl, "I did not know you were ill, otherwise I would not have gone out."

"Of course you knew nothing about it-you never do. And the swimming in the head that I have had all day!"`

"Has it been worse to-night than usual ?"