till the hour of danger: reflect, therefore, seriously on what you ought to do.

"My spirit, when you read these lines, shall hover around, and bless you, whichever way you decide.'"

Florence folded up the paper again in silence; and, after a pause which her two friends sensibly felt, added :

"Possibly, my dear friends, this has caused the change in me which you have sometimes condemned. But tell me whether, situated as I am, you would not have become troubled, and almost annihilated, by the prediction which announced your death on the very eve of your happiness?

Here my recital ends, To-morrow the Count returns from his travels. The ardour of his affection has induced him to fix on the third day after his arrival for the celebration of our marriage."

"Then 'tis this very day!" exclaimed Amelia and Maria, at the same moment; paleness and inquietude depicted on every feature, when their eyes glanced to a clock on the point of striking nine.

"Yes, this is indeed the decisive day," replied Florence, with a grave, yet serene air. The morn ing has been to me a frightful one; but at this moment I find myself composed, my health is excellent, and gives me a confidence that death would with difficulty overcome me to-day. Besides, a

secret but lively presentiment tells me that this very evening, the wish I have so long formed will be accomplished. My beloved sister will appear to me, and will defeat the prediction concerning me.

"Dear Seraphina! you were so suddenly, so cruelly snatched away from me! Where are you, that I may

return, with tenfold interest, the love that I have not the power of proving towards you?"

The two sisters, transfixed with horror, had their eyes riveted on the clock, which struck the fated hour.

"You are welcome!" cried Florence, seeing the fire in the chimney, to which they had paid no attention, suddenly extinguished: She then rose from her chair; and with open arms walked towards the door which Maria and Amelia anxiously regarded, whilst sighs escaped them both; and at which entered the figure of Seraphina, illumined by the moon's rays. Florence folded her sister in her arms.-"I am thine for ever!"

These words, pronounced in a soft and melancholy tone of voice, struck Amelia and Maria's ears; but they knew not whether they were uttered by Florence or the phantom, or by both together.

Almost at the same moment, the servants came in, alarmed, to learn what had happened. They had heard a noise as if all the glasses and porcelain in

the house were breaking. They found their mistress extended at the door, but not the slightest trace of the apparition remained.

Every means of restoring Florence to life were used, but in vain. The physicians attributed her death to a ruptured blood-vessel.

Maria and Amelia will carry the remembrance of this heart-rending scene to their graves.

MONIMIA THORNTON.

A TALE.

Is a pleasing romantic retreat within sixty miles of the great metropolis, near the borders of a thick forest, and far from the follies and deceits of a wicked world, is placed a neat and lowly cottage, where once dwelt Monimia Thornton, the innocent and only darling child of a fond mother. Monimia's father left this world of sorrow and disappointment before she was sensible of his protecting care, or capable of lamenting his loss. In this cottage Monimia drew her first breath, and for sixteen years enjoyed the affectionate smiles of an aged and widowed mother; for she was the pride of her maternal heart, and the joy of her widowhood. But it is melancholy to think how uncertain is every thing, and how very unstable are all human possessions! Eternal suns and cloudless skies are not to be expected in this world. Our earthly joys are all alloyed our temporal pleasures have all an end.

Soon after Monimia had attained her sixteenth year, she was deprived of her affectionate and lovely parent by the cold and unrelenting hand of death. She mourned over her dear mother's remains with an unaffected sorrow, and it was more than two years before her reason resumed its empire. No tongue could give utterance to what she felt, or pourtray the intolerable anguish of her mind. Her mother had made it the business and purpose of her being to please and make her happy, for benevolence had been at the root of all her actions. Monimia, therefore, owed much-very much to her, and dreadful and insupportable was the event which separated her and her poor mother for ever. While we are in human form, and susceptible of human impressions, it is not in our power to rise above the reach of sorrow on such overpowering occasions, though we may moderate the intensity of our anguish by calm reflection, assisted by the healing hand of time. And thus it was with Monimia ;-she did not entirely give herself up to despair. Her loss, no doubt, was great :— pangs of eternal separation from those we love, are far beyond all power of expression. But Monimia felt assured that her dear mother had gone to a better world; and although she had sighed one last adieu, and turned her eyes from her for ever, she doubted not that her recompense was unlimited and immense, and that her happiness was completely secure. She therefore saw the justice of what had happened, and humbly gave