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to the feelings and senses of our common humanity, degrading to the Son of God, and places an enormous power in the hands of the priesthood, who are thus invested with an authority so unlimited."

Mr. Murray paused, for he had become warm, and almost feared he had offended Hubert, but as he noticed an appearance of deep attention he ventured to continue: "I will only refer you to one more place in Scripture, in which St. Paul, writing to the Corinthians, says, 'The bread which we break, is it not the communion of the body of Christ?' "Now if you argue that Scripture is to be taken literally, when it says, 'This is my body,' here the literal words are, the bread; must it not then be more in accordance with the mind of the Spirit, so to interpret Scripture, as not to contradict the evidence of our senses, and throw so great a stumbling-block in the minds of the unconverted ?”

"I own," said Hubert, "what you have said appears reasonable, but Transubstantiation is a doctrine taught by our Church, as such I receive and venerate it."

"Ah, my dear young friend, would to God I could show you she teaches not the truth as it is in Jesus; oh! that you could see with my eyes how darkly she obscures the Gospel light, what cruel insults she offers to the Son of God, and how fatally she enslaves the consciences of her deluded votaries."

"Mr. Murray," said Hubert, "unless we drop the argument I must leave you, I have suffered too much, too deeply already, and I dare not again suffer my feelings to mislead me; much as I prize your friendship, I dare not enter on these topics, which I have faithfully promised to avoid, as I value my soul's salvation."

"We will converse then no more, but do not leave a friend who esteems you."

Rather more than six weeks had passed since Hubert had met with the Willoughbys, and still he lingered in a spot he had long resolved to quit. Nearly every day he walked with Mr. Murray, and visited some of the many lovely scenes around them; the latter faithfully kept his promise, and never renewed the topic on which they differed, yet religion was not altogether excluded; the works of the God of nature often led them to speak of the Being who formed this earth, so lovely even in its degradation; and also to speak of a time in which they both believed when this scene of disorder and confusion should be succeeded by a time of universal happiness; yet was their intercourse necessarily less delightful, from the mutual restraint they maintained on the great subjects on which they differed.

One morning, when Hubert entered the room in which Mrs. Willoughby and her daughter were sitting, Mrs. Willoughby noticed an expression of unusual gravity on his countenance, and inquired if he was not well. Perfectly so," he replied, "but I have received letters that render it necessary for me to leave Venice immediately."

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"Shall you not return?" inquired Laura. "I hoped we might have seen your cousins whom we knew in England, as you once said they talked of travelling this way, when your sister returned."

At the mention of his sister's name Hubert's assumed composure vanished, and an expression almost of anguish caused his hearers to inquire anxiously if she were ill. "Not that I know of," replied he,

in a voice of constrained coldness, but as he met the mild eye of Mrs. Willoughby fixed on him with a look of kind anxiety, he struggled unavailingly to appear as if nothing had occurred, and resuming his seat which he had left, covered his face with his hands for an instant, then abruptly rising, said, "I merely called, madam, to apologize to Mr. Murray, that I am unable to keep my appointment with him, since business of importance calls me away; I must leave you, perhaps, to return no more, but I leave you with many thanks for the kindness received, and many prayers for the happiness of the friends of my lamented Ernest."

“But what means this extreme haste, and this determination to treat us with such sudden reserve?"

"I can explain nothing-I must bid you a long farewell-you may not see me again, till "-he hesitated. "Till you are a priest of the Romish Church," said Laura, endeavouring to smile.

"Have you been consulting the astrologers, Miss Willoughby?" replied Hubert, smiling in his turn, "and have they revealed this to you?"

"No,” replied Laura, sadly, "my own fears have been the only astrologers I have consulted."

"Farewell," said Hubert, extending his hand to Mrs. Willoughby, "my business is so urgent I dare not delay, but believe me, if my Church requires of me one sacrifice more painful than another, it is to cease to feel an interest in the friends of my still lamented Ernest."

Thus saying he left the room, and leaving our readers to conjecture (with Mrs. Willoughby and Laura) the cause of his sudden departure, we intend to visit another station.

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The setting sun had cast its parting ray of crimson on the yellow foliage of stately oaks, which towered in majestic beauty in the forest of Ardennes, Clarice had reluctantly, most reluctantly accompanied her mother on a visit to a friend who resided at some miles distant from the hall. Frances was sitting alone in the library, with an open book in her hand, but her eye was resting on the scene around her, while thoughts crowded in rapid succession through her mind; at last, in a low tone of voice, she exclaimed, "Oh! memory, memory, why art thou so active in recalling scenes of early days, of tender childish endearments, scenes which enfeeble my mind when it more than ever needs to be strengthened, and why art thou, weak and fainting heart, thus touched with soft and sinful compassion towards one so obstinate, so guilty?"

Frances ceased to speak, but as her eye again rested on the lovely prospect around her, a tear, an unbidden tear, slowly trickled down her cheek; so absorbed was she with the intensity of her feelings, she did not perceive that Father Adrian had entered the room, and was standing by her side, till he thus addressed her: "The hour for your departure has arrived, my daughter, all is ready, success has crowned our efforts, and propitious Heaven smiles on the sacrifice you contemplate. Our gracious Lady will be with you, to cheer, to comfort, to preserve you. I must part from you for the present, but we shall meet again, till then receive my blessing; a blessing never more warmly

given, more deservedly merited." Frances arose, and with forced calmness, attempted to kneel to receive the parting benediction, but her trembling limbs refused their support. She resumed her seat, and · yielded to a flood of tears. Father Adrian reproved her not, he sympathized with, encouraged, cheered her, for he feared lest her fortitude should forsake her when it was most needed. At last Frances spoke; "Father, before we part I wish to ask one question, or rather, to make you acquainted with words that rushed, last night, so forcibly on my mind that I could not drown them. I was naturally enough occupied with reviewing the past few weeks, the various conversations that had passed between me and my parent, the solemn assurances I had given her of having abandoned all wish for a life of seclusion; then I thought of the train of stratagems laid to entrap poor Clara, when words which I had not heard for years, rang in my ears, 'Lie not one to another.'

"I know well where I heard them; it was in the Protestant Church to which I once went in England, they were read from the Protestant Bible, but the force with which they occurred to my mind last night, was such as to make me think they were whispered by more than a human voice. Tell me, dear Father, from your knowledge of Scripture, are they the words of God?"

"What conclusion did you draw from these words?"

"That I had been wrong in not speaking the truth," said Frances, sadly, "indeed, till you persuaded me, I always shrunk from deception as mean and degrading."

"I grieve you have chosen the hour in which you are called to prompt and energetic action to discuss an unprofitable and abstract question. The place in which you heard those words might well lead you to question their goodness, and the effect they would have on your mind, of deterring you from the work of love you have commenced, lest you should be guilty of a pious fraud, plainly shows the source from which these suggestions proceed."

"What, then, do you advise me to do?

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"To dismiss those fears as groundless, to keep steadily in view that the end of all this deception is the salvation of souls and the promotion of our faith, and then calmly and collectedly to summon all your energies for the duty that lies before you."

A few minutes more closed the interview. Father Adrian gave his parting blessing to Frances, and then retired to his own apartment, accompanied by a member of his flock, with whom he remained closeted the next hour.

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The old clock had slowly tolled the hour of ten, and the domestics had assembled for family worship in the accustomed manner, having twice pulled the large bell which called together the various members of the family, when Father Adrian, who had for some minutes been patiently waiting, expressed surprise at the non-appearance of the ladies, observing they should not have been so imprudent as to have extended their walk to so late an hour.

After the lapse of an hour spent in fruitless search, alarm was excited among the domestics, who set out in various directions through the gardens and woods. The night was spent in anxious but unavailing

inquiry, and early the next morning Father Adrian, accompanied by old John, went to communicate the melancholy intelligence to Mrs. Cleves, the former endeavouring to soften it by every means which consideration or apparent kindness could suggest.

Mrs. Cleves heard the sad news with all the deep distress of a mother, but the eye of Clarice sparkled with indignation that she vainly endeavoured to suppress, though she succeeded in bridling her tongue till alone with her mother, then, tenderly throwing her arms around her, she exclaimed, "Oh, Frances, my deluded, my unhappy sister! Why, dearest mother, why did you not believe me? I saw it too clearly, but was not believed. Oh, Clara, my unsuspicious cousin, how have you been deceived ?”

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"What do you suspect, Clarice?" said her mother trembling. Suspect!" said Clarice in a transport of grief and anger, this is the vision revealed to Frances in the letter I told you of. She is gone to some nunnery or convent where we shall never hear of her more, and by craft or force they have taken Clara with her to renounce the errors or share in the punishments of heretics."

"And do you believe Father Adrian knows where they are?" "Yes, dear mother, I do believe it, and was only restrained by your presence from reproaching him with the cruel treachery and deep-laid hypocrisy of which I believe him guilty."

"Clarice," said her mother in a firmer voice, “broken-hearted as I am, and needing consolation as I do, I will not allow you to utter such unjust words against a character so heavenly, so holy as Father Adrian; banish, I beseech you, these injurious suspicions, or, at least, never more utter them in my presence.'

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Convinced that the present was not the season for altercation, Clarice inquired what steps should be taken to gain any intelligence of the lost ones, begging her mother instantly to return to Ardennes, which request was immediately complied with. Arrived there, Clarice's first care was to examine the apartments of her sister and cousin, where everything remained in their usual condition, excepting that a crucifix, an image of the Virgin, and some devotional books were removed from the room occupied by Frances, which confirmed Clarice in her belief that her sister's departure was premeditated. Vain was all inquiry, for all that could be gathered was this, that the gardener had seen the ladies, shortly before sunset, pass through the gate that led into the park, as they had done frequently at that hour.

A week passed without any intelligence; but on the eighth day two letters were delivered by a youth, who stated that he had received them from an aged man, with the strictest injunctions to deliver them safely. The youth was a stranger, and had departed immediately on delivering them. One of these letters was from Frances entreating Father Adrian to pardon her, and obtain her mother's pardon, to whom she dared not write, lest natural feelings of affection should overcome her resolution of retiring from the world and taking the veil, requesting him to assure her mother and sister that she was happyhappier far than she had ever felt before. They might see her again and know of her abode, but not till the indissoluble and irrevocable vows were taken which should sever her from all earthly ties for ever.

The letter addressed to Mrs. Cleves was an anonymous one, stating to be written by the abbess of a convent to which Frances (who had long been the loved and chosen of heaven) had been divinely called in a sudden and miraculous manner. Of the departure of Frances the abbess asserted that Father Adrian was ignorant, and also her daughter, and vain would be every attempt to unravel the circumstances which had led to the sudden and unintended step on the part of Frances. This letter, which was long, and written in a strain of high-wrought enthusiasm, congratulated Mrs. Cleves as most blest and honoured in being the mother of such a daughter, beloved and peculiarly selected by the Virgin and Saint Francis to the signal performance of holy and devoted deeds.

When Clarice entered the room in which her mother was sitting, she found her in a strong hysterical fit, which was followed by a nervous fever of some weeks' continuance, during which Father Adrian soothed, comforted, and consoled her, and so well succeeded that she was, on her recovery, again seen to smile, though faintly, and talk with pleasure of the prospect of seeing her daughter Frances a veiled and cloistered nun!!

But we must change the scene.

'Tis twilight tide, and the shadows of evening are falling. Silence -deep, painful silence-reigns throughout the Castle which so oft resounded with the infant voices of Hubert and Clara. The master of that castle, the father of that daughter, so fondly, so dearly beloved, is alone in his easy yet restless chair. His daughter's harp stands by his side; its strings unstrung and broken, hang down neglected; and the father feels it an emblem of his own heart, well-nigh crushed and desolate. Yet why? Whence this bitter sorrow? Has the child of his affection repaid his love with coldness and ingratitude? Has she forsaken the guide of her youth, and forgotten the covenant of her God? No. What, then, is her crime?

"Her crime, immortal truth, 'tis thine to tell,
Her only crime is loving thee too well."

Yes; the light of Gospel truth had pierced the dark mists of Romish darkness, and fallen with their mild lustre on Clara's heart. She had received the truth in the love of it, and this is the cause why her aged parent, who loves her as his own soul, sits alone in the solitude of his castle in the bitterness of his soul, knowing that his child is confined within the walls of a convent, that she may learn not to blaspheme, and that she may at last, by means of a wholesome salutary severity, be restored to his paternal arms and the tender maternal bosom of the Church of Rome.

From the sadness of his reflections, Sir Hubert was aroused by the entrance of Father Joachim. A momentary struggle passed through the heart of the aged parent, but he subdued his feelings, and asked in a voice cold and calm, though weak and faltering, "Has the remedy succeeded? Is the disease of heresy removed? Is there hope that my apostate child will yet be restored?"

"The disease is desperate, obstinate, beyond my most fearful anticipations; but the remedy applied shall be desperate also. If solitary

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