Providence would grant her a heart which would beat at the same impulses with her own; a soul whose sentiments were akin to hers, to whom she might breathe her thoughts and sentiments, which she withheld from hose around, from the apprehension of their being despised, or ridiculed as unintelligible.

That long-wished for heart, soul and understanding, seemed at length relised in a form which had already caught her enamoured faucy; and she entertained for their possessor, the most delicate and enthusiastic adoration Her virgin heart, more than ordinarily susceptible, yielded to the intoxicating instigations of her imagination, and surrendered itself to the energies of love, in its deepest and most intellectual sense.

Her father so long absent from the world, knew but little of its deceit and treachery; suspicion was the most unwelcome inmate of his breast; and here there was nothing to suspect: he thought it was no more than natural, that the young people unhappy man he made no distinction for the difference of their sexes) should prefer their own society, to those of riper years; while his daughter, whose innocent and unsuspecting heart fearing no danger because it knew no sin, became her lover's companion, as often as he desired, and he was too well acquainted with the arts and refinements of vice, to let any opportunity escape, without forwarding the end he had determined to obtain.

Often, with this lovely enthusiast hanging on his arm, would he ascend the highest cliff which overhung the distant sea. There they would watch the declining orb of light and beauty surrendering its powers into its Creator's hands. Here as its last dying rays lighted up her expressive countenance, with its fading splendour, she would exclaim, "O! thus, O! thus may we die like him in happiness, and undiminished glory; our end like his more glowing and beautiful than the hour of his meridjan splendor." "Blessed hope," re

iterated her lover, and pressed her palm, as if with the assurance of its completion.

Could a voice then have cried aloud from the Heavens, or arisen from the dust, it would have answered NEVER! Had the light of his eyes at that moment reflected what was passing in his soul, they would have presented a picture where selfishness and crime were the prevailing objects. They would have foretold her end would be one where shame, misery, and repentance would be exchanged for innocence and glory. Could he, it may be asked, look at that tender and confiding creature, so young in years, in hope, even the seeds of vice not embryo in her heart? Could he for an instant have imagined her a thing of disgrace, or longed to make her such? Could he in reward for the confidence she had so illimitably placed in him, reward her with treachery? Could he render those eyes which now seemed devoted to heaven, fearful of encountering its light? Yes! he could do that, and wish for more, though he knew the penalty on one side would be the chill bed of death, and on his own the never ending disgust and abhorrence of the world.

Could a voice at that moment have arisen from the dead: had the angel of innocence that till now had presided over her fate, been present, the guileless soul of Ellen would have been saved. As it was, it fell with all that was bright and heavenly in her nature, to the depraved and sensual monster Desire-and left her not repentance and tears-for the emotions of her soul were too great for those relievers. Wretched and unhappy, how was she able to return to the sinless arms of her parent? how was she to meet his look? How, when left alone to her own sad feelings, could she meet the gaze of that power her bursting soul told her she had irremediably offended.

Man, man, art thou a man, and canst treat the being that was given for thy solace, amidst all thy miseries and afflictions, thus: if thou art, thou

art a libel on nature, which blushes to own a monster like thee as her offspring. Is it not strange, wonderful to think, that he who sees a being devoted to himself, looking up to him with faith and confidence, enjoying the treasure of an unsullied conscience, the protection of her God, and the good opinion of the world, can calmly, and deliberately for the sake of the gratification of a mean and paltry emotion, plan his actions to render her the disgrace of the earth, an object of anger in her Maker's eye, a thing for the finger of scorn to point at ?

-Man! proud man! Drest in a little brief authority, Commits such crimes under high Heaven, As make the angels weep!

When they arrived at the door of her father's cottage, the sense of her humiliation overcame her. What was she about-for the first time, she was going to enter his threshold to disgrace it: she went out of it the most celestial being on earth, a virtuous girl, and had returned to it—what she

was.

Her father would take her in his arms, and clasp what?-a thing polluted, and disgraced-a rank and flowerless stem. "Never!" she exclaimed, in a voice which even made the hardened libertine tremble. As she uttered these words, she flung herself on her knees before the moon, which was rising from the murky clouds as if ashamed to gaze on her, and as it spread its pale beams over her agonized face, she cried aloud, "Great God, I kneel before thee for the first time, a wretch defiled! wreak thy anger on my sinful head, but spare, oh spare in thy merciful goodness mythat aged man, visit not my sins on his head, grant him resignation and happiness, till thou takest him to thyself and I swear this form of mine shall never shame a home that has hitherto been devoted to thee!"

After a few violent sobs of passion, she turned to her betrayer, who stood motionless, gazing on her in the full convic ion of his villainy, and told him with an air of determination he

had never beheld her before assume, she was ready to fly with him. "It is you that have rendered me a thing of shame, and my shame will be thine." This was the only complaint or reproof that ever escaped her lips, and her heart smote her as she uttered it. Reader, this man was a nobleman! how he deserved that title, Ellen's fate will tell.

She fled with him; late as the hour was, they procured means for flight. She became his companion in solitude, but here every thing reminded her of the home and the parent she had left behind, and she became miserable. He took her to courts, she breathed the air of palaces, but their gaiety only made the darkness of her heart more insupportable. He sought the refuge of foreign climes, in hopes that change of scene might dissipate her melancholy, but all was of no avail; in the splendor of palaces and the pomp of courts her thoughts would wander to the home of her infancy, to the peaceful valley, and to the lofty mountains; to the cottage which her sainted mother once blest with her presence; and who perhaps now was in a happier sphere, weeping that the immeasurable space that seemed to be between them was never to be dissolved. She considered herself as a thing abandoned by heaven, as having committed a crime which the tears of repentance could never wash away.

She could fancy she saw her father daily declining and drooping into his grave, unbefriended and unrelieved. The thought was agony-she had sworn never again to enter his doors, but perjury seemed a lighter crime than ingratitude. A voice whispered into her ears, "wilt thou arise and go to thy father." And she determined to fly and end her life with him, as she believed her end to be fast approaching, for the sting on her conscience preyed like a worm on her heart, and gradually undermined her constitution.

Poor Alleyn was at first distracted at his daughter's absence, thinking some accident had befallen her; but

when her lover was absent too, the fatal truth at once flashed upon his mind, and when he heard it confirmed by the testimony of the inkeeper who procured the post horses, he thought himselfabandoned by heaven. He was never seen to smile afterwards. All traces were lost of that resignation and contentment which for merly were the leading features of his character. He seemed reckless of every ill that might occur to him, and at first had recourse to drinking. His affairs became embarrassed, which only increased his sullenness. At length he betook himself to the cottage, which had now grown hateful to his sight from the many delightful ascociations connected with it, and rarely stirred from it; and would, were it not for the kindness of his neighbours, have wanted the necessaries of life.

Happily it was not his fate long to brood over the remembrance of joys flown never to return, in anticipation of increasing misery and woe, though the means through which he was ushered to the haven of happiness were the most pitiable and revolting. A gang of ruffians from the coast, instigated with the hope of plunder, fired the cottage and stript it of every thing it contained; the owner made no defence, no not even prayed for that mercy which they were not inclined to bestow. The next morning, horrid to relate, the mangled corpse of Alleyn was all that was found in the ruins of his habitation. The winter passed away, and the flowers of spring, as if in mockery of the desolations around, were already shedding their sweets over the ruins of Alleyn's cottage; while around it the rank grass waved its head proudly in the air, like one who elevates himself on the ruins of his foe. It was on a smiling Sabbath morning when a young female, shabbily attired, with her long hair waving wildly in the wind, was seen traversing the quiet church-yard, as the most tardy of the villagers were entering the portal of the temple of the Lord. She hurried through with a wild and

distracted air, till she came to a grave which was newly made; she flung herself franticly on it, and clasped the senseless mound to her breast. The villagers passed into the church, the melancholy truth was apparent to them, the grave was Alleyn's and the mourner could be no other than his unhappy daughter.

She remained near an hour on the grave, when she determined to enter the church. It was the same aged pastor, to whom she had from her infancy always been the dearest favourite. He gazed on her as she entered, and she saw the tears burst from his weak eyes, and course each other down his aged cheeks. He was in the pulpit, about to deliver his sermon, when he stopped short, and either by accident or design, (the latter most probably) he uttered in a deep and impressive tone, those joyful and hope inspiring words to a sinner's ear. "NEITHER DO I CONDEMN THEE, WOMAN, GO AND SIN NO MORE.-Then spake Jesus unto them, saying I am the light of the world, he that followeth me shall not walk in darkness, but shall have the light of life." [1 St. John, c. 8. v. 11, and 12.] She looked up to him as if the sound of hope, and the love of religion, was once more kindled in her breast. She drank eagerly the sounds of his voice. He reminded her of our Saviour, when he spurned not from his feet the sinful Magdalene as she washed them with her tears; of his pardoning, without condemning, the woman taken in adultery, and those acts which best displayed the certainty of pardon, when purchased by the teas of repentance. When he spoke of the kindness and love of heaven, which delighted more in reclaiming one sinner from wickedness, than in the reception of a hundred taintless souls, his pious enthusiasm-the eloquent animation his eyes assumed-and her own soul confirmed the truth of his words, and for the first time she felt relieved by tears. The venerable old man saw the effect he had created, when he summoned up a graver and more