appeared at the window to free them from their confinement. She was anxious to know by what possible means he could have got out of the vault, for she supposed herself acquainted with all the mysteries of the glen, and yet could form no idea of the way which he could have emerged from the vault into the open air. As they walked over the moor, she put several questions to the page, and heard from him, that, so far from intending to liberate Joyce, he was taking him to a place where he would be kept in perfect security, and moreover, that she would be implicated with him on the trial, unless she confessed everything respecting the murder of Jackstone, and the other villanies which had come to light. Fanga screamed when she saw the brother of the murdered Jackstone (for it was he) pounce upon Joyce and drag him so quickly on; but as she was in reality ignorant of any of the particulars relating to the murder of the Gunnersdown steward, she did not hesitate to follow them into the cottage. The first thing that Edwin hastened to tell her, when they got there, was, that Joyce was not his father, and that he

had stolen him from that very cottage on the night of the murder.

Joyce being secured, Edwin returned to the vault, where he had left Rosemaldon (he and the dog having descended while Edwin was engaged in providing for the safety of the Countess.) William Jackstone, his real father, accompanied him; and, having taken the precaution to possess themselves of the key of the secret door, they soon reached the hut, and proceeded to the vault. The unhappy prisoner was tenderly lifted from the pit, but so miserably enfeebled and agitated from the alarm which had so long oppressed her, that Rosemaldon thought it advisable that she should remain at the cottage for that night. Besides, although the storm was somewhat abated, the paths leading from the glen to the Abbey were almost impassable; and Ernest feared that the exertion attendant on her removal, would be too great for her weakened spirits. All these objections to the attempt he urged gently to her, as well as the necessity of preparing her family for the joyful tidings he had to communicate; but

she implored him earnestly to take her away from that dreadful place, and to suffer her to see the Abbey even that night. She seemed to feel so great a horror at the thoughts of being left there, that he yielded to her piteous supplications, and promised her that she should be carried across the valley at all risk. A chair was therefore prepared by his directions, and covered with blankets; into this the Marquis gently bound her, in order that no accident might happen in their dangerous walk. Rosemaldon himself pointed out to his companions the means of avoiding the steep declivities, and showed them the nearest and safest way, alternately providing for the safety of his charge, and tenderly soothing her as they moved along. The faithful dog, that had tracked Edwin through all the intricate windings of the glen, seemed resolved that he would not lose sight of him more; and accordingly, keeping close beside him, beguiled the page's wearisome journey, by performing some of those speaking frolics which animals seem to reserve more especially for their masters' hours of sorrow or distress. As they

drew nearer to the Abbey, it required all the persuasions of the Marquis to enable the bewildered Countess to command the feelings which menaced her. She clasped his hand, and implored him to let her pause awhile; but Ernest assured her so seriously that every minute they remained in this bleak damp air was fraught with danger, that at last she became composed, and sank into a silence which was only interrupted by her exclamations of joy and gratitude, as they neared her once loved home.

CHAPTER IX.

“I never framed a wish, or formed a plan, That flattered me with hopes of earthly bliss, But here I laid the scene."

COWPER.

THE Duke and Dungarvon became, at length, so seriously alarmed at the continued absence of Rosemaldon, that they determined to go out themselves, and see whether their efforts to discover some traces of him would not be more successful than those of their domestics. Horatia's agony of mind was beyond all description. Finding that the numerous lights which blazed in the windows had not the effect of bringing the wanderer back, she desired the servants to ring the alarm-bell; and when she