I could not survive the consciousness of her ruin. Miss Farinelli, every hour of your life thank God that you are a Protestant, that you belong to a faith which does not abhor every human affection and annihilate every relative duty."

As Beatrice was about slowly to leave the room, an idea which had been banished before recurred again to her mind, that possibly there might be more sense than nonsense in Lord Iona's gay rattling supposition, that some small spark of preference had arisen between Lady Anne and Sir Allan, which it were in the nature of things might be fanned into brighter existence, and as the generous mind of Beatrice meditated upon this one remaining hope, not a thought occurred to herself that the total extinction of Allan's early attachment should be a subject of regret. Conscious of her unknown origin, Beatrice carried the remembrance about with her so incessantly, that she never had allowed any romantic thoughts or feelings to associate themselves hopefully with herself and Allan; therefore if a thought arose to her mind that she was destined to be for ever alone in the world as to its tenderest attachments, still she fixed her grateful eye on the benign countenance of her venerated benefactress, and felt that such love as hers was all she must ever seek, and more than she could ever deserve. The meditations of Beatrice were interrupted by suddenly observing that the dark sinister eyes of

Father Eustace were fixed upon her with a gaze of fierce and eager scrutiny, most startling and unaccountable, but the next moment he gathered up his features into a look totally destitute of expression, and his eyes remained immoveably cast down during the whole remaining night.

"Her spirit seem'd as seated on a throne,
Apart from the surrounding world, and strong
In its own strength;—most strange in one so young."

BYRON.

"If you please, Madam," said McRonald that evening, after receiving some orders from Lady Edith, "I cannot understand why wax-lights were burned in our Chapel yesterday, while the sun dazzled my eyes. I like no changes," added the old man, ominously shaking his white head. "It always alarms me, if I am made to stand when I used to kneel in our service, or to kneel when I used to stand. Mr. Clinton is altogether getting very long in the candle now."

"The custom of lighting candles in the daytime," replied Lady Edith, "was begun when Christians had no church but the dark catacombs at Rome, where daylight never penetrated; but you are right, McRonald, to be watchful against one step in advance to Romanism. A seeming trifle, like a flag on the main-mast, often intimates a great deal."

CHAPTER VIII.

"Here easy quiet, a secure retreat,

A harmless life that knows not how to cheat;
With home-bread plenty, the wise owners bless,—
And rural pleasures crown their happiness.”

DRYDEN.

LADY EDITH had retired late, and "uneasy lay her head," though she did not wear a crown. With restless grief and anxiety she thought of Allan, and even the greatness of her sorrow on his account did not so engross her, but she had still some solicitude to spare for Mr. Clinton, some sympathy for Lady Stratharden, and much pity for poor lost Bessie Mc Ronald. Thus, like a tree cut down to the very ground, Lady Edith's own life was prostrated to the earth, yet in the hopes and prospects of others she found sources of interest such as her own could never more supply.

Towards morning, Lady Edith, hearing the deep-toned sound of a bell, rose to look out of the window, where she found a soothing pleasure for some time in observing many a light cloud careering swiftly across the hemisphere, which veiled from time to time the calm effulgence of the crescent moon and of the silent stars. How beautiful, in

every aspect, are the varying pictures of cloud and sky! Masses of snow had fallen during the night, and were hanging on every branch of the old oak avenue, stretching nearly a mile long, and ending in a perspective like the roof and window of some vast cathedral. Every trunk and branch was white as marble, and every leaf on the evergreens beneath seemed as if carved in ivory. A few snow-flakes, like fairy-gems, sparkled as they fell, and the hoarfrost lay like a sheet of frosted silver over the extensive park and distant hills. The beautiful chapel was hung with long icicles, which glittered like drawn swords hanging from the roof, and also fringing the porch, under the shadow of which they were but dimly seen.

"All was so calm, so still in earth and air,
You scarce would start to meet a spirit there.
The vault is blue,

Without a cloud, and white without a speck,

The dazzling splendour of the scene below."

As Lady Edith stood admiring this glorious landscape, clearly shown by the silver lamp of night, suddenly the whole building, as if by magic, became lighted up inside, the fine gothic arches were brilliantly illuminated from the interior, and the reflection of the stained glass windows lay stretched, like a many-coloured rainbow, on the snow beneath.

Lady Edith would have felt recompensed for the loss of a month's sleep, by witnessing the

solemn glory of such a scene, where a million of stars above, and the ancient church beneath, filled her mind with thoughts of time stretching on to eternity. As she stood impressively but pleasingly meditating on that Divine Creator who had called herself and all these glorious objects into being, the loud sonorous bell suddenly tolled again for the service, and there issued forth from the Castle a procession of figures advancing in the dim moonlight and along the untrodden snow towards the chapel. In the female group which advanced first, Lady Edith at once recognised the light and graceful form of Lady Anne, leaning on Miss Turton. Keeping at a respectful distance, Bessie followed, escorted by Father Eustace, who seemed talking very earnestly to her. Behind these, to the grief and consternation of Lady Edith, she unmistakeably recognised in this Popish troop Mr. Clinton, walking slowly beside the tall, robust, and stately Mr. Ambrose, who supported on his other side the slight, stooping, feeble form of Sir Allan Mc Alpine, advancing with painful effort over the untrodden snow; and as he once looked back, for a moment, towards the Castle, his face, pale and spectral in the moonlight, looked to Lady Edith like the face of a spirit. Had she seen him stretched on his death-bed, the grief could not have been more profound of Lady Edith, the truest friend he had upon earth, at seeing the