her long-lost daughter that she saw. Forgetting all her sorrows, she clasped her hands together, and in breathless ecstasy gazed on the features so beautiful and intellectual, until she could almost have fancied that it was herself who stood on that flowery terrace, a young and happy bride, as she had often done when first she came to the Abbey. Rapt in fond bewildering remembrances, Olivia fixed her eyes on the moon, which was still shining as brightly tranquil as it did in those blissful days. How dreadful was the contrast to her present destiny, doomed to linger out her weary life in the dark and noxious vapours of a cave! Just at this moment, when the bitter tears of anguish were flowing down her pale and withered cheek, Horatia looked. up.

We have before described the effect produced on the unconscious daughter by the mysterious vision she beheld in her chamber, and her sudden resolution to discover what it could

mean.

Fanga, alarmed at the sound of her advancing footsteps, took the hand of Olivia, and almost forcibly withdrew her from the apartment down

the steps. By the time Horatia reached the room, all was as she left it-Horatia marvelled, glanced wildly about, then returned to the terrace again. Fanga and her charge had just reached the narrow archway, which communicated with the secret passages, and was the only spot of open ground they had to traverse, when, to the horror of the old nurse, she beheld, on opening the small door, the figure of a man passing close to them. It was Rosemaldon, on his way to some arch of concealment, from whence he could watch unobserved the figure of Horatia. The Countess again caught a view of her daughter: she would have flown forward to embrace her, had not Fanga held her arm more tightly. The astonishment of Ernest at the sight of these two mysterious-looking figures, so different in appearance from each other, was indescribable. Fanga saw his eyes fixed on the features of Olivia; and, terribly alarmed at the too probable consequences of her indulgence, she whispered in his ear that the poor lady was a maniac whom she had the care of, and that she only wanted now to get her quietly home again without permitting her to frighten the Lady Horatia on the terrace.

Rosemaldon immediately passed the hand of the trembling Olivia through his arm; but, as they were stealing along, Horatia turned her face full towards them, and the unhappy mother, regardless of her promise to Fanga, disengaged herself from them, and touched Horatia's hand. The Marquis, however, succeeded in gently leading her away.

There was something in this passing meeting between Lady Dungarvon and Ernest, which made a lasting impression on his mind. He felt an interest for the pallid helpless female who seemed so completely heart-broken, for which he could hardly account; and, but for his desire to obtain an immediate interview with Horatia, he would have followed her from the garden. He had scarcely parted from them, when he was stopped by Joyce, who had just returned to the Abbey. The steward made him an obsequious bow, regretted, in very obsequious terms, that the strict orders he had received from the Earl and Lady Horatia, rendered it his duty to inform him that no stranger was suffered to enter within the Abbey

Con

gates, except Sir Archibald de Winton. This announcement confirmed what Sir Archibald had already hinted to him, that, in spite of the general prohibition, he had managed to gain admittance into the Abbey, and to ingratiate himself into the affections of the heiress. sidering, therefore, that she already preferred another, and that his visit might be deemed an intrusion, he submitted with a tolerable grace to the necessity of retracing his steps, but paused for a moment before he went, to question Joyce about the unfortunate lunatic whom he had recently seen. The steward replied that it was a lady, he believed a foreigner, who had lately come into the neighbourhood, and that her name was not known; but, had it not been night, Ernest would have seen a countenance before him whose expression would have startled him,—as it was, he sighed to think that any one should, on this fair earth, be doomed to such fearful misery, then walked along the banks of the river to Gunnersdown, his mind occupied with the image of the beautiful, too beautiful Horatia.

CHAPTER II.

"Spirit of the unfathomed deep,
Who mid the storm your vigils keep;
Catching with greedy ears

Of sinking mariners

The dying groans.

Yet o'er the white unshrouded bones

Will sometimes weep.

Oh! leave them to their watery grave;

And ye, who on the flagging whirlwind sleep,

Awake, arise, a living soul to save,

Spirit of the unfathomed deep!"

INVOCATION FROM THE FISHERMAN'S HUT.

JOYCE walked slowly from the garden where he had parted from the Marquis, and entered his own solitary tower, to muse on the plan which it would be advisable for him to pursue,