CHAPTER XXIII. Yet ev'ry sorrow cuts a cord, "SUDDEN joys, like griefs, confound at first." Thus it appeared in the experience of Matilda, while seated at the window of her own room, in agitated and pleasing meditation respecting the happy prospects which had suddenly brightened on her path; for still she had that feeling always attendant on great and unexpected events, that they can scarcely be real. It softens the blighting anguish of recent sorrow when our hearts refuse to credit what our senses have too surely announced,—and it moderates the first intoxication of pleasure when the fulfilment of hope seems yet but a dream of fancy. It is long before even happiness itself can make us happy; but for the first time Matilda now felt at liberty to think, to hope, and to feel as her heart directed, while the expectation of present happiness was sanctified and enhanced by many serious anticipations of duties and trials, in which she should no longer have to act or to suffer alone, and of the mutual confidence and sympathy with which she might hereafter hope to give and to receive encouragement in the difficult and dangerous struggle of Christian attainment. The remembrance of her probable succession scarcely crossed Matilda's mind; for nothing seemed worth a thought connected with worldly objects, but the consciousness of Sir Alfred's attachment, and the recollection of all he had said during their recent interview, while he traced out the origin and progress of his affection, shewing how justly he all along appreciated her motives of action, and how thoroughly his preference had been founded on principle, and confirmed by perfect esteem, added to youthful enthusiasm. Matilda's mind was yet agitated by emotions unlike the glassy smoothness and tranquillity of its ordinary state, when her attention became slightly attracted by a gentle tap at the door. Before she could speak it was slowly opened, and Matilda, looking hastily round, beheld Eleanor standing near the threshold. Her cheek was pale, her eyes were downcast, her whole countenance convulsed, and while her lips quivered with a vain attempt to speak, it was evident that she had not voice to articulate the words which died away inaudibly on her lips. Matilda rushed forward and threw her arms round her cousin, embracing Eleanor with the most fervent and heartfelt expressions of affection and endearment, while tears fell thick and fast from the eyes of both. "Matilda" sobbed Eleanor, "I repulsed your affec tion, and insulted your feelings, while you were in my power; and now, when it can never be repaired-when it should have been your turn to retaliate, I come for pardon. Will you believe that my repentance is sincere? Can you forget the past, and love me as formerly? I know your generous mind, and that you will neither say a word, nor think a thought, that could hurt my feelings. Oh, Matilda!" added she, burying her face on her cousin's shoulder, and weeping without control, "say that you forgive me-that you do not suppose the discovery of this day causes my distress-that all your injuries are buried in oblivion-that, for the sake of our early attachment, and of the departed friend who blessed us both, you will believe my repentance, though late, to be sincere. Our situations are changed-let me learn. from your kindness a continual lesson how I ought to have treated you-let me humbly endeavour to acquire the same spirit with which you bore every trial, and let our future lives teach me in what way I might have better deserved your friendship." Eleanor spoke with such rapidity and vehemence that all Matilda's attempts at interruption were vain, but she still riveted her arms round her cousin, and wept like herself. "Dear-dear Eleanor," said she, warmly, "if there are any trifles in our past intercourse, which either of us might wish to forget, we must think and speak of them no more." "You may forget—but I never shall!—oh no, Matilda! let me remember them for ever! Any bitterness which may be mingled hereafter in my cup of sorrow, must be received with an humble remembrance that I was tried by prosperity, and that it would have corrupted and destroyed me." “Indeed, dear Eleanor, this is a dangerous test to us all and while we mourn for the insignificant oversights which may occur in an earthly friendship, how deeply should we both lament to think of our Omnipotent benefactor and friend, who has loaded us with so many benefits, and whom we are still so prone to forget. Towards Him only, dearest Eleanor, you can never overestimate the penitence that we owe." “True, Matilda! and all has been done as you wish. I made confession to God before another thought was permitted to dwell in my mind, praying that He would grant me that true, deep, and influential repentance which shall never need to be repented of. Once already their recent interview, while he traced out the origin and progress of his affection, shewing how justly he all along appreciated her motives of action, and how thoroughly his preference had been founded on principle, and confirmed by perfect esteem, added to youthful enthusiasm. Matilda's mind was yet agitated by emotions unlike the glassy smoothness and tranquillity of its ordinary state, when her attention became slightly attracted by a gentle tap at the door. Before she could speak it was slowly opened, and Matilda, looking hastily round, beheld Eleanor standing near the threshold. Her cheek was pale, her eyes were downcast, her whole countenance convulsed, and while her lips quivered with a vain attempt to speak, it was evident that she had not voice to articulate the words which died away inaudibly on her lips. Matilda rushed forward and threw her arms round her cousin, embracing Eleanor with the most fervent and heartfelt expressions of affection and endearment, while tears fell thick and fast from the eyes of both. "Matilda" sobbed Eleanor, "I repulsed your affec. tion, and insulted your feelings, while you were in my power; and now, when it can never be repaired-when it should have been your turn to retaliate, I come for pardon. Will you believe that my repentance is sincere? Can you forget the past, and love me as formerly? I know your generous mind, and that you will neither say a word, nor think a thought, that could hurt my feelings. Oh, Matilda!" added she, burying her face on her cousin's shoulder, and weeping without control, 'say that you forgive me- -that you do not suppose the discovery of this day causes my distress-that all your injuries are buried in oblivion-that, for the sake of our early attachment, and of the departed friend who blessed us both, you will believe my repentance, though late, to be sincere. Our situations are changed-let me learn from your kindness a continual lesson how I ought to have treated you-let me humbly endeavour to acquire the same spirit with which you bore every trial, and let our future lives teach me in what way I might have better deserved your friendship." Eleanor spoke with such rapidity and vehemence that all Matilda's attempts at interruption were vain, but she still riveted her arms round her cousin, and wept like herself. "Dear-dear Eleanor," said she, warmly, "if there are any trifles in our past intercourse, which either of us might wish to forget, we must think and speak of them no more." "You may forget—but I never shall!-oh no, Matilda! let me remember them for ever! Any bitterness which may be mingled hereafter in my cup of sorrow, must be received with an humble remembrance that I was tried by prosperity, and that it would have corrupted and destroyed me." "Indeed, dear Eleanor, this is a dangerous test to us all and while we mourn for the insignificant oversights which may occur in an earthly friendship, how deeply should we both lament to think of our Omnipotent benefactor and friend, who has loaded us with so many benefits, and whom we are still so prone to forget. Towards Him only, dearest Eleanor, you can never overestimate the penitence that we owe." "True, Matilda! and all has been done as you wish. I made confession to God before another thought was permitted to dwell in my mind, praying that He would grant me that true, deep, and influential repentance which shall never need to be repented of. Once already |