'Still, I cannot see the necessity of fighting. Would it not be better to leave a blow unrevenged, than to approach your God with a brother's blood upon your head?'

No! The very angels would scorn me. The imps of hell would shrink from me as a coward. Say no more, Montague, I am firm. I cannot live this way. 'Tis but one brief hour since that blow was struck, and yet I have been in torments greater than those of the damned. I dare not meet the eyes of my fellows. 1 cannot hear a laugh but it seems as if in mockery of nie. I have not heard a word but I thought it was in contempt for me. I have not met a person but it seemed as if he could see the place where that blow was struck. No, Montague, I could bear anything but that; a blow must be revenged.'

Can you not leave the country until the affair has passed over, and then in cooler moments vindicate yourself?'

'And be called a coward ever afterwads. No. I ask for no advice Montague. Will you go out with me, or not?'

Delany, I will not.'

'Then I will go alone.'

For some minutes neither spoke; each was engaged with his own sad thoughts.

'Montague,' at length said Delany; 'I have one favor to ask of you. If I fall, will you tell Lucy I loved her to the last?'

'I will.'

Thank you, Montague, thank you. You have been my friend throughout this affair. If I had followed your advice, I would not be situated as I And now, am now. If ever you think of me, try and forget my faults. Montague, we must part. I have much to do before morning, and would like to be alone. Here is my hand, it is the last time you will ever clasp it.' Do not say that, we may yet arrange the matter.' 'Never! I swear it before God.'

6

Delany, after his companion left him, called for writing materials, and ordering the landlord to call him at four o'clock, sat down to write to his only relation, a brother. He wrote all the circumstances of the affair, neither concealing or extenuating anything. His conduct to Lucy, the baseness of Emily, everything was spoken of calmly; but when he came to that last meeting between himself and George, all calmness disappeared, a wild, frenzied style took its place. Yes,' wrote he, he struck me, struck me as he would a dog. Wild, revengeful feelings are strong within me, I shudder when I feel their force; a doubt comes over me, as to my sanity; but that blow tingling on my cheek, assures me that my mind is unimpaired. At times I doubt whether I am myself; that blow assures me that I exist. My God, what peace can I have, until it is wiped out! Wiped out? And how? By blood. Yes, blood must be spilt, blood will be spilt; but that blow will remain fresh in my memory through life. As long as I live, I will feel it burning upon my face, I will not live, though, even if I do not fall by Pembleton's hand. I will not exist to be a bye-word and laughing stock. 'Tis like the mark of Cain, that biow. It is written in letters of fire, never to be erased. My brother, this is the last you will ever hear Before you receive this, I will be numbered with the dead; but A word, a farce. what is death compared to my present wretchedness? Dishonored, hated, without one friend, I will die. But he shall die first. My soul recoils from spilling a fellow-creatures blood. Revenge stands by and says "He struck you." Heaven and Hell stands before me; the one in all its glorious beauty, invites me to live and be happy, the other, abounding in all that is horrible, fills my soul with terror. A voice from the holy places of my heart beseeches me to choose. "He struck you." Again those

from me..

words ring, in my ears, driving me on to revenge and despair. My fate calls me on, I follow. 6 o'clock. I have met him, I had the pistol in my hand. My arm was raised, I was resolved to destroy him. The word was given, he fired, but I could not. I threw the weapon down and left the spot. Thank God, I did not kill him! And now, my brother, farewell, the hand that traces these lines will soon be cold. The wicked heart that has committed all this wrong, will soon cease to beat. God bless you.'

After writing this, he wrote the following to George Pembleton, which he immediately dispatched.

'You wished for my blood, you shall have it, I will soon offer up my life as an atonement for the wrong I have done your sister. May it make you happier. Montague can explain my conduct to you from beginning to end. Farewell. DELANY.'

After he had concluded this letter, the wretched man arose and taking a glass which was in the room, placed it before him on the table. His demeanor was calm, too calm, for it did not comport with the fire in his eye, or the bright fever spot that burned on his cheek. He then took a razor from its case and examined its edge, and stropped it, as if he was going to shave. In a short time he examined it again, running his fingers over the glittering steel to try its sharpness. He was apparently satisfied with it, for he sat down, and taking off his neckcloth, cut a horrid gash in his throat with it. The thing is too dull,' said he, and he recommenced stropping it. Once more he raised it with a deliberate hand to his throat. Some one knocked and interrupted him, by calling him to his breakfast. He told him that he would be down directly, and then, with a firm hand, he drew the keen edged instrument across his throat. The blood poured in torrents from the wound. Each moment he became weaker and weaker. His eyes glared. He fell from his chair. A shivering ran over his frame; he was dead. His only fault, was not a fault; he had not sufficient firmness to follow the right, consequently he became the dupe of every one who had more fixedness of purpose.

About fifteen minutes after this occurred, two gentlemen came to the *room, and after knocking some time in vain had the door burst open. 'I was fearful he would do it,' said the gentleman who first entered. 'Do what?' asked his companion, who stood behind so that he could not see the interior of the room.

All the answer the gentleman made, was to stand one side and point to the spot where Delany lay.

'My God! we are to late.'

'Yes, Pembleton, Delany is dead.'

'We must never let Lucy know how he died, Montague. It would break her heart.'

No, she must never hear it.

A tear stood in George Pembleton's eye, as he turned away. 'Would to God we were sooner,' said he.

Poor Delany's corpse was buried the next day. No long string of mourners followed him to his grave. No priest of God performed the last rites over his resting place. Even his grave was not with those of his kind; he was buried in a field at the back of Mr. Pembleton's farm. George and Montague, were the only ones who stood beside his lowly tomb. Is it not strange that one whom all delighted to love; on whom earth's choicest favors seemed to have been showered; within whom all that was good and honorable, seemed to have been concentrated, should die as Delany did?'

CHAPTER XII.

Lucy never asked after Delany; no one mentioned his name, or when it was mentioned, it was with so much of constraint that it seemed a forbidden topic. Things resumed their old appearance. George was ordered off. Mr. Pembleton kept his seat in his chair, and Lucy, though sad, was kind and affectionate to all. So profound was her ignorance concerning his death, that she indulged in dreams of future happiness, in which, Delany was to bear a conspicuous part. But it was not destined to last long. One day, when sitting by a window, thinking of the past, her attention was draw to two men who were walking on the lawn in front of the window. 'So he cut his throat?' said one.

'Yes, he cut it from ear to ear.'

'What did he do it for?' asked the first.

'Oh, I don't know. He got some kind of a flighty idea into his head about the girl in the house there.'

• What did you say his name was?'

'Delany.'

A few minutes afterwards, Lucy was discovered in a fit on the floor. Assistance was immediately called, but in vain; she had spasm after spasm until she died the next day. Poor Lucy Pembleton, she, the good and beautiful, is dead. She, who was more sinned against than sinning, is gone. But yet she is not dead. She sleeps the sleep of death 'tis true, but still she is not forever cold and speechless.

'Not dead? A marble seal is prest,
Where her bright glance did part,
A weight is on the pulseless breast,
And ice around the heart.

No more she wakes with greeting smiles,

Gay voice, and buoyant tread,

But yet ye calmly say the while,
She sleeps, she is not dead.'

Yes, she sleeps, she is not dead.' She lays where many a wearied spirit would like to lay. She is enjoying a calm, peaceful repose, she sought in vain during life. Cut off in her youth, as she was, her life re'sembled the summer flowers; she was born, she blossomed, and she died. A week after Lucy's death, Montague wrote the following letter to George Pembleton:

'DEAR FRIEND:-You will by this time have heard of your sister's death. I will not speak of her virtues, you know them; but I will turn to the home made desolate by her being taken from us; to your fath er, whose happiness has gone, who is broken-hearted. Poor old man. He now sits moping in his chair for hours at a time, with

out speaking, or even moving; or wauders through the house from room to room as if in search of some one, and then he sighs and goes back to his old place in the library. She whom he seeks is dead. I fear that it will not be long before he follows your sister. Dick has been the kindest of creatures to him, and trys to cheer him up, in vain. I bave spoken to him and reasoned with him, trying to turn his thoughts into some other channel, but without effect. "I'll be with her soon," is all be says in answer to me. I think that you had better come to him if it be possible, as it will be necessary to carry him to new scenes, where there will not be so much to call up the past, as there is here.'

When Montague had sealed and despatched this epistle, he took out a small locket he had obtained of one of Mr. Pembleton's servants, who said that it belonged to Emily Courtland. Montague gazed for some time at a lock of rich brown hair that lay on one side of it, and then touching a small spring, opened it, and beheld the miniature of a beautiful woman. fis strange that she should have this; it is my mother's likeness, and yet she said that it was her mother's,' said he. 'Can it be that she is the little sister of whom I have heard so much? Can this Mr. Courtland be my father?'

And now I must come to the end. Now I must not only bid farewell to those who have played their parts in this tale, but also to those who have been so kind as to read it. 'Tis sad at all times to say farewell, but more so now, as in so doing, I cast my humble work before the public, to have its merits or demerits determined on.

But what are you going to do with Mr. Montague and the others who have figured in your tale?' asks some oue.

Why, Montague left Axel and went further West. He is, I believe, doing well, and still retains his love for sweet Lucy Pembleton, as inviolate as if she were alive. Dick married the widow, and has proven himself a clever person, by telling this tale. Emily Courtland is dead. Mr. Court and is the same bad old man he ever was. George Pembleton has left the army, and gone to Europe with his father. The old homestead is closed. No more is the merry laugh heard within its walls. No longer do kind faces cluster around its hearth-stone. The old library is now lone and cheerless. The blazing fire, the kind words, the happy hearts are there no n'ore. one walks through its passages, or enters its rooms, the echo following his steps seems like the knell for the departed. All is changed.

Gloom is upon thy lonely hearth
Oh silent house! Once filled with mirth,'

As

Sorrow fills one's heart as he thinks of the joyous hours now gone forA tear rises in his eyes as he beholds the rooftree of a happy family made desolate.

ever.

THE END.

Cockton's Greatest Work---Superior to "Valentine Vox."

BY HENRY COCKTON, AUTHOR OF VALENTINE VOX," "THE STEWARD," "SYLVESTER SOUND," &c. Ellustrated from the English Edition.

The evils of an ill-assorted marriage are so truthfully and strikingly depicted in this work, that it cannot fail to exercise a beneficial influence upon society. At the same time, the book is written with every excellency of style, all that simplicity, and beauty of diction, and interest of plot and narrative which peculiarly distinguishes Mr. Cockton-London Morning Post.

The author of "Valentine Vox" has fairly eclipsed himself in the present work.-New Monthly.

We are always delighted with Cockton's writings; they dress useful truths in such enchantment, that we cherish their good and wholesome influences as food congenial to the soul. His present work, "The Sisters," is not excelled by any previous effort.-Examiner.

NEW YORK: H. LONG & BROTHER, 43 ANN-STREET.

COPIE MANED. On receir' of 50 cant post paid) addressed as above.