separated ignominiously from my child? Now, indeed, is every wish of my heart fulfilled; for, next to being innocent in the eyes of my God, I pined to be esteemed so in the eyes of my husband. Punish none of those of my persecutors who yet survive, I implore you; let our blessed reconciliation be a plenary pardon for all, a seal of universal mercy, or the happiness I anticipate from it will be incomplete. I have learnt compassion from suffering, and the idea that others were mourning whilst I rejoiced, others were fearing an eternal separation from all they held dear on earth, whilst I was clasping my recovered treasures to my breast, would mar my felicity, and chill the ardour of the exquisite emotions of natural affection.

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Better, far better, a few more years of exile, and then to be united in the realms of bliss, without any sacrifice, than that one tear should be shed, one sigh exhaled, to purchase it now. You say you reproach yourself for yielding credence to the falsehoods which aspersed my fame, that you cannot forgive yourself for your conduct to me; I can, and do forgive you-nay, more, I tell you to rejoice at it, for it has made me what I am-the humble-minded woman, the self-convicted of folly, although not of crime, the friend of the afflicted, and the sincere Christian.

"Think how thoughtless I was, how negligent of my duties, how indifferent to the sacred ties of nature, how careless of religion! And what has wrought the salutary change in me? what has rendered me capable of appreciating the blessings yet in store for me?-a doating husband, a darling child, choice friends, and ample means of gratifying the imperative benevolence of my heart -that very cruelty of which you reproach yourself, that very slander of which you complain. Yes, my beloved, affliction hath been good for me, trial hath purified me, and I feel that I shall be the happier for what I have endured, for there is no joy so lasting as that which has been attempered by sorrow, and no reputation so fair as that which has been tested by time and malice, and found spotless; for, as the sun seems to shine with increased effulgence after a partial eclipse, so does the virtue of a woman appear more dazzling after emerging from the temporary darkness of envy and suspicion.

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This, then, will be my last letter of vindication; in a few days I shall be in your arms. Oh! how find patience to endure even a few days' separation with such a prospect of ecstasy before me? They will seem longer, more intolerable, than the tedious and wearisome years of my exile. I look through the vista of hope, and see at the end my husband and my child beckoning to the happy Caroline Matilda. I come, my precious ones. Heaven vouchsafe me strength for such felicity !"

MY SISTER'S WEDDING DAY.

BY MRS. ABDY.

NOT eight o'clock !—dull, bleak, and wet-what horror to arise,
My lilac dress and satin shoes look hateful in my eyes;

A silver favour sparkles, too, amid my smart array,

"Tis the twentieth of November, 'tis my sister's wedding day.

Ten years ago I revell'd in the joys of coming out,

And was breaking hearts by dozens at the concert, ball, and rout,
While she, a shy and awkward girl, with pale and anxious looks,
Sat moping in the school-room, amid backboards, globes, and books.

I came out in the dashing line-I found it would not do ;
Next year I sported sentiment, the next became a blue;
I acted twenty characters, in each I showed my skill,
But years roll'd on, and I remain'd a flirting spinster still.

While she, the girl whom I had deem'd would prove a foil to me,
Who never planned an attitude or tried a repartee,

She found a wealthy dunce without the trouble of a search,
Who talked within a fortnight of a ring and of a church!

The yellow fog is gathering fast, the clock strikes eight, I fear
The youngest bridesmaid, Rosa Bland, will very soon be here,
Who oft laments my single state in accents soft and kind,
And says she really thinks the men are either mad or blind.

Now must I hasten to the bride the snowy veil to place,
Then must I seek the guests, and call a simper to my face;
And praise my sister's conduct in her days of maiden life,
And say I doubt not she will prove a model of a wife.

Yet stay-I once beheld a print, it seems to haunt me now,
Where a bridesmaid tore the garland of white roses from her brow,
And said her heart was desolate, and sat dissolv'd in tears,
Because she lost the sister she had lov'd in childhood's years.

Enough-I'll act without delay the drooping bridesmaid's part,
And say the loss of one so dear has pierc'd my feeling heart;
No rosewater shall touch my eyes, they look dim, strain'd, and red,
And I'll meet my friends with faltering pace, slow step, and hanging head.

I need not hide my discontent, in trouble, what relief

Can equal the indulgence of the luxury of grief?

And I feel no doleful bridesmaid can more genuine grief display,

Than a flirt of ten years' standing on her sister's wedding day!

THE SORTES SCOTTIANE; OR, TWO LEAP

YEARS.1

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A TALE. BY MRS. GORDON, AUTHORESS OF THE FORTUNES OF THE FALCONARS," &c.

CHAPTER VI.

So sehen wir uns wieder!

Schiller.

"Dear uncle," said Sybil, a day or two after the night last mentioned, "I have been inquiring about a place which I am very anxious to re-visit-the Holms, our old residence; I find that the house is standing empty, being at present unlet, and I should like so very much to go and see it again."

"Well, my girl, I'll drive you there to-morrow, if you like," said Mr. Murray. "But," he added, after a moment's" pause, looking attentively at his niece, "I wager now, if the truth were told, you would rather go there alone than with me, or anybody."

"Since you are so kind as to think of that, uncle Murray," replied Sybil, "I must confess I should prefer it, and I dare say you can understand why, without my explaining it. If it could be so arranged--"

"Oh! we'll see about arranging it," returned her uncle. "I don't see how Sybil can go all that way by herself," interposed Mrs. Murray. "My dear, it would be much more proper for your uncle to accompany you. And then, how is it to be managed, with all our engagements ?"

"I'll tell you how," exclaimed Mr. Murray, suddenly. "I understand the lassie's feelings, and I'll manage it. You know, my dear, Frank and I are going to take a five o'clock dinner at Roslin on Thursday week, with my friend Peter Wood, the day that you engaged yourself to spend with Mrs. Hall, and Sybil with her cousin, Mrs. Maitland. Now, Sybil, if you can get your cousin to excuse you, which I dare say you can, and take an early dinner here, Frank and I will drive instead of riding, and go that way, which is not much of a round, to Roslin, drop you at the Holms about four o'clock, and catch you up again by nine or so in the evening. I dare say there are some cottages there that you can go into if you feel eerie."

1 Concluded from page 41.

"I think she will be pretty well tired of the Holms by that time," observed Mrs. Murray.

"Thank you, my dear uncle; you are very kind," exclaimed Sybil. "We shall settle it so then."

Multifarious engagements amongst old friends and acquaintance occupied almost every day between that time and the anticipated Thursday, and in the course of their fulfilment Sybil experienced the unspeakable suffering of hiding a sick and aching heart beneath a smiling exterior. On one occasion only did she hear any mention made of him concerning whom she was intensely longing to receive some further intelligence, yet whose name she could not have pronounced for the purpose of inquiring for it. One day, however, at a large dinner-party, a question being addressed to an elderly gentleman who sat within two of her, on the same side of the table, a sudden pause in the conversation enabled her distinctly to hear his reply.

"Ay, poor fellow, he's gone. Many a merry day Jack Forbes and I have had together. And my young friend Grantley has stepped into a very fine property. His marriage with Miss Dunbar, too, will make a great addition to it. There has been some dreadful boggling about that business, but I hear it is positively to go on now, as soon as decency will permit."

"Miss Lindesay, may I have the pleasure of helping you to some chicken?" inquired the gentleman next to Sybil, just at this juncture.

The former speaker, our old friend Mr. Crawford, looked hastily down the table.

"Is that the late Colonel Lindesay's daughter, can you tell me?" inquired he of his next neighbour, in a low voice; "I didn't recognise her before."

"Yes," was the reply, "she is just returned to Edinburgh. A pretty creature she is; but she looks dreadfully pale and out of spirits to-day."

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By Jove!" ejaculated Mr. Crawford, to himself. hadn't spoken so loud."

"Wish I

He uttered not another word for the next quarter of an hour, but directed repeated glances down the table at the lovely girl, who, with cheeks almost as colourless as her white silk dress, seemed to be making a not very successful effort to converse with the gentleman beside her. What Sybil had overheard was indeed no more than she had already been told, but every fresh repetition of painful intelligence such as this seems to stab the heart anew. It was on the day succeeding this dinner-party that her visit to the Holms took place, and the impression left by the above conversation seemed, if possible, to deepen the emotions of sadness with which she found herself once more on her way thither.

Many and strange were the recollections that thronged upon

the heart of Sybil as she alighted from her uncle's carriage at the gate of her former home. All things looked so unchanged, so completely what they used to be, that she could almost have believed the painful interval since she had last stood there a dream, and that she was but returning from a short excursion, to find her kind father's smile and tender kiss awaiting her arrival. She entered the lodge of the gate-keeper, an elderly woman, who immediately recognised her, and was loud in her expressions of joy, mingled with lamentation, at the sight of Miss Lindesay, from whom the worthy woman had always received the utmost kindness. Having sat there awhile, entering with an interest for which she had always been remarkable, into all the little details of old Nanny's life since they had last met, Sybil inquired whether she could get into the house, and was answered in the affirmative.

"The house," Nanny said, "was empty, except just a wheen bits o' things that the family last there hadna removed yet-beds, and kitchen things, and siclike; and it was her business to keep up fires, and open the windows on a fine day, and her gude dochter Beenie had gaen up the day to do that for her, for she was unco lame and feckless wi' the pains. So Miss Lindesay would be sure to find Beenie in the house."

Leaving a gratuity in the hands of old Nanney, and a piece of her own work, prepared expressly for the occasion, which greatly delighted the old woman, Sybil proceeded slowly up the avenue, every step recalling the past more strongly to her mind, for all was as she had last seen it-nothing altered save her own heart; and can it be said that even that was changed?

She reached the front of the house. All around it was in good order; the shrubs and flower-borders trimmed, and the gravel rolled, as in days of yore; but the old-fashioned mansion itself had that desolate look peculiar to the abodes of man when deserted by their inhabitants; the windows were almost all closed, few, and those few but partially, open; and the bell, when Sybil pulled it, echoed with a strange and dreary sound along the unfurnished passages. Having satisfied Beenie, who opened the front door, and who proved to be a stranger to her, of her peaceable intentions, and obtained permission to go through the house by herself, Sybil, with a beating heart, proceeded along the passage which she had last trod in company with her father, the day of their departure from the Holms, when she strove, for his sake, to check the agony of tears and sobs that threatened to stifle her, on bidding it a last farewell. She reached the drawing room-the empty, deserted, drawing-room-where so many happy hours had been passed, where she had sat singing to her father in the evening twilight, and Grantley Forbes had hung over her in silence-but a silence how eloquent! She gazed upon the empty corner where her father's chair was used to stand till she could have fancied