superscription. It was addressed, in that once familiar handwriting, "To Walter Musgrave, "Wansted Hall, "Northumberland." He arose from his seat, moved a few paces distant, and leaning against a tree, tremblingly broke the wax, which had been. sealed by the fingers of the Departed. The packet contained Mary Charlton's old Prayerbook, the Prayer-book once given him in that very bower where he now stood; returned by him from India; and now, after so many years, restored to him on the same spot again! And along with it there was a letter, a few faint, trembling lines, the last which the hand of Mary had ever traced. "Walter," thus ran their tenor, "I address you from my death bed, and too well do I know your noble nature to doubt, that, if these lines ever meet your eyes, you will pity and pardon her, who so deeply wronged you; but who has so bitterly suffered for her sins. It is not of myself, nor of the trials which I have striven to bear, as the meet punishment of my offences, that I have now to write. All that is past and over, and I humbly trust that my penitence has been accepted, through the Saviour of the penitent. I look back on the threshold of eternity, to utter a last farewell to the friend of my early days, from other motives than to speak of myself. Walter, you have charged me, by the love we once bore to each other, should sorrow and trial overtake me, to turn to you for aid; to you whom I had betrayed and deserted. Not for myself would I have done so, but the memory of those generous words arises before me now, like a beacon in a dark night, when I look at my child,-my good, my loving, my lovely child,-whom I am about to leave motherless, in a world where there will be but few to befriend her. Walter! if you ever receive this letter, it will be from her; and I ask you, by the memory of the Past, and for His sake in Whose sight we all stand in need of mercy and forgiveness, be a friend -be a father to my child. Be to my Mary what her own poor father will never be. Receive back from her pure hand the token of our early affection, and let the thoughts it will recall plead with you on her behalf, and on behalf of the memory of her who was once your own "MARY." "Mary, my child! Now you are indeed my own," said Musgrave, when, having at length mastered the overwhelming agitation which had seized him on the perusal of this letter, he returned to the seat he had quitted, and folding her in his arms, imprinted father's kiss upon her cheek. "Blessed be the merciful hand which has brought us together, and enabled me to fulfil this last sacred charge!" A step was heard approaching, a shadow darkened the entrance of the bower, and Mary, looking up with a start and a thrill of momentary fear, saw Lewis Græme standing before her, pale as a spectre, his eyes fixed upon her with an expression of agony, bewilderment, and reproach, such as she had never yet beheld, and which chilled the very heart within her. But Musgrave in the same instant started from his seat, and was by the side of Græme ere he could turn away. "Stay, my dear friend," he said, laying his hand upon the young man's arm, with an air of mild dignity which it was impossible to resist. "Stay, and do not, for the first time in your life, suffer yourself to wrong a heart which beats only for you. Mary, my child!" and as she tremblingly advanced and stood beside him, he joined |