of his changeful countenance. He soon recovered sufficiently to speak, but his first words confirmed their worst fears; for they were the ravings of delirium. He laughed and wept alternatelyhe called on Ellen-on her mother-on Westall; but most frequently and with most impetuosity, he demanded Caroline. He seemed to imagine that she was on the brink of a precipice, and to feel that he vainly sought to rescue her.

So much did his madness appear to be stimulated by this fancy, that after a short consultation Westall and Ellen determined that an effort should be made to induce Miss Redwood to return immediately, to try what effect her presence might produce on her father. Ralph was sent to ascertain, if possible, the destination of the fugitives; and having succeeded in insinuating himself into the confidence of one of Fitzgerald's agents, he returned in a short time with the information, that they might probably be found at a village inn, at no great distance from the springs.

Westall's next care was to determine to whom he should apply to undertake so delicate an embassy, and while he was deliberating, Ellen said, "go yourself, I beseech you, Mr. Westall. Ralph and I can do every thing here, and you, and you alone can persuade Miss Redwood to return-to return," she added, with a faltering voice, "before it is too late."

"Alas! my dear Ellen," replied Westall, glancing his eye at Mr. Redwood, who after a parox

ysm of raving had sunk on his pillow, pale and exhausted, "it is I fear already too late."

"Oh, do not say so-it may not be—” said Ellen, and she bent over her father with a look of great anxiety, then turning suddenly to Westall, we may at least," she said, "save Caroline from the disgrace that must fall on her, if it is known that she has deserted her father in this extremity."

66

"Generous being!" exclaimed Westall, "you shall be obeyed, but I cannot leave you here alone."

"Ask Grace Campbell then, to come to mebut no," she added, looking towards the bed and observing that her father was sinking to sleep, "perfect quiet will be best-now go, and God speed you."

Westall departed, admiring with enthusiasm (as lovers are wont to admire the virtues that belong to the objects of their tenderness). the self-command of Ellen, and the generosity with which she could forego at this crisis of her life the indulgence of her sensibilities, to consider how she might preserve the honour of one who had so relentlessly inflicted suffering on her.

The moment Westall left her, Ellen sent the servant into an adjoining room that she might avoid the risk of breaking her father's slumbers by the slightest noise. Hour after hour she sate on his bedside, gently chafing his icy hands, wiping the cold dew from his forehead, and noting every breath he struggled to inhale, and every convulsive motion

of his distorted features. At length his feverishness abated-he ceased to be restless-the firm grasp of his hand relaxed-a gentle warmth was diffused throughout his system, and his respiration became quiet as an infant's.

Ellen raised her hands and eyes in silent and devout thankfulness, and withdrawing from the bed, she took from her bosom her mother's letter, and opened it with a mingled feeling of awe, of apprehension and of tenderness.

Could it be otherwise? it was the record of the wrongs of her departed mother first to be learned in the presence of her dying father. Repeatedly she fixed her eyes on the letter, but they were so dimmed with her tears, that she could not distinguish one word from another. At last an intense interest in her mother's fate subdued every other feeling, and she succeeded in reading the letter which will be found in the next chapter.

252

CHAPTER XXVI.

* Methinks if ye would know

How visitations of calamity

Affect the pious soul, 'tis shown ye there!"'

Southey.

"MY CHILD-If the injunction is obeyed with which I shall consign to my friend the box that is to contain this letter, long before you behold it the hand that now traces these lines will have mouldered to dust-the eye that now, as you lie on my bosom, pours its tears like rain upon your sweet face, shall weep no more for ever; and the heart that now throbs with hopes and fears for you, my love, shall have ceased to beat with mortal anxieties and mortal hopes.

"Sweet innocent-gift of God-image of immaculate purity-thy mother would preserve thee, an unsullied treasure for the riches of Christ's kingdom-a stainless flower for the paradise of God: thy mother would shelter thee so that the winds of heaven should not breathe unkindly on thee. But this cannot be. Thou must be exposed to the dangers of human life, solicited by its temptations, and pierced by its sorrows-and thy mother, thy natural guard and shield, must be taken from thee.

Thy mother can do nothing for thee-Said I nothing!-God forgive me. I can do I have done all things-I have resigned you to Him whose protection is safety-whose favour is life. I have believed his promises—I have accepted his offered mercy; and in faith, and nothing wavering, I have committed my orphan child to Him. And now, though thy path should be laid through the waters, they shall not overwhelm thee, and through the fire, it shall not kindle upon thee.

'My child, I am now to account to you for a resolution, which, should it please God to preserve your life, must materially affect your future destiny.

"I beseech you to permit no unkind thoughts of your mother to enter your gentle bosom. Remember that if I deprive you of your rights, degrade you from the station in which you were born, and remove you from honours and riches, it is that you may become an heir of the kingdom;' remember my motive-read the brief history and unhappy fate of your mother, and you will not-must not blame her.

66

6

My father's name was Philip Erwine. He was a scotchman by birth, the only son of a rich and respectable family. He was educated for the church, and preparing to enter life with the most happy prospects, when they were for ever clouded by a clandestine marriage, which the world deemed imprudent, and his father unpardonable, with a portionless, obscure girl, whose maiden name, Ellen VOL. II.

22