and langour of Lucy's appearance. She was dressed, but reclining on a couch near the fire, and an expression of suffering slightly contracted her brow. 66 Lucy, my darling," said Mrs Bouverie, as she bent over her, and tenderly kissed her pale cheek, " you are not well; you are in pain. What do you feel, dearest ?"

"I shall soon be better, dear Isabella," replied Lucy, in a low tone, as if the effort to speak increased her pain. "I am better now, but only weary, for I could not sleep last night from this pain in my chest."

"Did you feel that pain yesterday," enquired Mrs Bouverie, as she seated herself upon the couch by her sister's side, and took her burning hand in hers; "I thought your cold seemed better yesterday."

"I was better yesterday morning; I felt quite well when we set out, but my feet got wet with the snow while standing beside Sydney, and I felt this pain soon after we had entered the cottage. It became worse during the night, but it is not so severe now, so do not look so distressed, dear Isabella," she continued, smiling faintly as she pressed her sister's hand affectionately to her lips.

Mrs Bouverie turned away for a moment to hide the tears that suddenly filled her eyes. Lucy had been to her, especially since the death of Lady Herbert, more like a child than a sister.

Her constitution from childhood had been delicate, with a slight tendency to pulmonary complaint, and the joy with which, for the last year or two, Mrs Bouverie had marked the increasing strength of that fragile form, and the glow of health mantling upon the delicate cheek, now but increased the agony of the sudden fear that sent a chill to her heart.

"I do not think it is necessary for me to see him, dear Isabella, but if you wish it, I shall," replied Lucy, "and, meanwhile, I shall try to sleep. I think I could now."

Mrs Bouverie left Lucy, for a few moments, with the faithful attendant who had been her nurse in childhood, while she despatched an express for the physician, and communicated to Mr Bouverie the state in which she had found her sister.

She then returned to Lucy's dressing-room, and telling the faithful Stuart that she would take her place until the arrival of Dr Sefton, she drew the curtain, and, smoothing the pillows of the couch upon which Lucy reclined, took her place beside it, and soon saw, with satisfaction, a deep, though not very tranquil, slumber, stealing over her sister's exhausted frame.

Dr Sefton arrived before Lucy awoke from her sleep; and Mrs Bouverie watched his countenance, with trembling interest, as he bent over the unconscious sleeper. Lucy's disease was pronounced to be inflammation of the lungs, and Mrs Bouverie watched by her sister's couch with anxious tenderness for some days, ere she was relieved by any decided appearance of amendment, though, from the beginning of her illness, Dr Sefton had entertained a favourable opinion of Lucy's case.

During this interval, Sydney was unable to leave the sofa in the library, where he usually reposed during the day. Vernon spent beside him all of his time that was not devoted to study; and Lord and Lady Delamere, and Mr Bouverie, generally spent their evenings in the library; Gertrude shared Mrs Bouverie's watchings in her sister's room; and Constance and Sydney, thus left much together, spent the morning in their usual pursuits, with this difference only, that when she marked aught of langour in his tone or talk, as he directed her pencil, she would lay it aside, and read aloud to him from his favourite authors, or converse with him on subjects interesting to both. The anxiety that Constance had felt

during the first few days of Lucy's illness, was soon relieved by the progress of her recovery, and never had. the hours flown to her on such charmed wings as now, yet she paused not to examine the source of a happiness so deep, so different in its nature from aught she had known before.

Whilst the slightest cause for anxiety continued to exist, Mrs Bouverie would not be persuaded to leave her sister's room; but when Dr Sefton had pronounced her to be so decidedly recovering that his further attendance was hardly necessary, she at length yielded to the solicitations of Lady Delamere and Gertrude that she would seek a quieter repose than the sofa she had hitherto occupied near Lucy's bed could afford her.

"You will trust Lucy to my care for one night, Isabella," said Gertrude, as they walked together along the corridor that led to Mrs Bouverie's "I shall watch her very carefully, and come early in the morning to tell you how she has slept."

room.

'No, dear Gertrude," said Mrs Bouverie, "it would fatigue you too much, I fear, to take my place. Stuart, you know, has been accustomed to attend upon Lucy from her childhood, and I can with perfect comfort leave her to her care.'

"Stuart shall sleep in the dressingroom, as she does when you pass the night with Lucy," said Gertrude, "but it would be a pleasure to me to take your place; do not refuse me."

"Do as you will, then, my dear kind sister," said Mrs Bouverie, "only take care of your own health, it is hardly strong enough for night watchings."

always thus with you; from whence does the change arise?”

Gertrude paused for a moment, then replied, "My spirit has learned, Isabella, to bow to the decrees of God, from a conviction that the Judge of all the earth' must do right. What although my life has been blighted, and my heart's affections withered at their source, it matters little, if sorrow have taught that heart to consecrate its devotion to the Father of our Spirits, the doings and sufferings of a life-time are too little to offer as a sacrifice to Him, yet would I lay them at His feet." She stopped abruptly, then said, "But I detain you, Isabella, from the rest you need, good night.”

"Do not go yet, Gertrude," said Mrs Bouverie, retaining the hand she held, I am not inclined to sleep, and talking with you for a little will refresh me. You truly describe your present feelings as a quiet without repose," she continued, drawing her gently to a place beside her on the couch where she sat, "but not such is the rest to which the Redeemer of the world invites the weary and heavy laden; nor is it the joyless devotion of a withered heart that he would claim from the creatures He came to save. You look upon God, Gertrude, as a being removed from the sphere of our sympathies, to be propitiated by the service and sufferings of his creatures, not as the kindred Redeemer who, by his own sufferings, has secured their salvation, and to whom every sinless emotion of their nature is familiar."

Gertrude paused for a moment, then replied thoughtfully, "Let us beware of touching these sacred mysteries with an unhallowed hand, dear Isabella," she said; "yet to you I would willingly express the feelings that sometimes are almost too much to bear alone. The happiness of earth has passed for ever to me, and ah! though it were at the expense of a life-time's suffering, how does my soul long to possess a sure hope beyond it. Sometimes in reading the Bible an irresistible attraction seems to draw me to the Saviour of the world, and I feel that in Him there must be rest for the weary, that in Him there might be hope,

even for me; then, with renewed earnestness, do I seek, by confession of sin and repentance before God, and by careful observance of all the appointments of our church, to prepare my heart to receive aright the inestimable benefits of his salvatiou. Yet the consciousness ever remains that I still continue at an immeasurable distance from this fitness of heart. In despair I sometimes feel tempted to abandon the pursuit of that which seems so difficult to attain, but I know that such thoughts are sinful, and only call for renewed repentance and increased diligence in the path by which alone I can hope to attain what I seek."

"Never in such a path will you find the rest you seek, dearest Gertrude," said Mrs Bouverie. "There cannot exist in your heart one emotion of true repentance, there cannot arise from it a single feeling of pure devotion to God, until, in the words of inspiration, "you have received the atonement,' not until you have traced the evil of sin in the sufferings of the immaculate Son of God, can you truly sorrow for the part in these that your sins have borne-not until you are able to say 'He hath loved me, and given himself for me,' can your grateful adoration rise to Him who hath redeemed you.'

ceived the atonement," she repeated, thoughtfully, at length—“ that is, by the agency of the Divine Spirit imparted through the ordinances of the church." "It is assuredly by the agency of the Divine Spirit," replied Mrs Bouverie, "and the ordinances of our church are appointed channels, though not the only channels, by which that agency is bestowed. But it is promised freely, Gertrude, to all who seek it, and not alone in the sanctuary of God, or at his sacramental table, but in the quiet of your room-at the footstool of your Father in Heavenmay you receive that divine illumination which will enable you to recognise the Saviour of the world as yours, and to rejoice in him with joy unspeak

able and full of glory.' Ah! Gertrude, you will there find how sweet is the rest which he gives to the weary, and that not in the cheerless quiet of a wintry heart, but in the joyful hope of eternal life, a hope full of light, and love, and immortality, would the God of your salvation have you to serve him." A faint gleam brightened for a moment the countenance of Gertrude as she listened, but it passed, and the sadness returned which habitually dwelt there. "Ah! Isabella," she said as she rose, 66 your belief is a cheering one, but I fear not unmingled with error; not such is the doctrine taught by some of the holiest fathers of our church. Yet I blame not your faith-the error surely cannot be vital which leads to practice such as yours. But for me-forgive me, dearest-but I feel that I am safe only in following the guidance of our church's authorized teachers—too blessed, if in the path they point out, I may find peace at last."

As she spoke these words, she kissed Mrs Bouverie's cheek, then, as if unwilling to prolong the conversation, bade her an affectionate good night, and immediately left the room.

On the following day, Vernon received his expected despatches, and hastened to communicate to Lord Delamere that they had determined his grateful acceptance of the home which he had offered him at Delamere Castle. "I rejoice to hear it, my dear friend," said Lord Delamere warmly, " and it shall be our care to make it a happy one."

Vernon wrung the hand which Lord Delamere held out to him, but replied not, and turning away in sudden emotion, left the room. He hastened to his room, and, closing the door, continued for some time rapidly pacing the apartment. The wind was howling in fitful gusts round the Castle, and driving heavy showers of sleet and rain against the windows. Vernon's eye unconsciously rested on the desolate scene without, but he heeded it not; he hastened to the further extremity of his room, and throwing himself upon his knees before a table arranged after the form of an altar, he touched the spring of a

case which lay upon it-it opened, and disclosed a crucifix. "Mother of God," exclaimed Vernon, as he leant his throbbing brow close to the feet of the image, "have mercy upon me-still the agony of this conflict, and enable me to crush every emotion that would oppose the holy will of the Church." He was silent, but continued for some time upon his knees; and when he rose, no other trace remained of the conflict that had shaken his soul, but the swollen veins in his temples, and the deadly paleness of his cheek.

He approached a small writing table, and lighting the lamp that stood upon it-for the short winter day had already closed-he placed himself before it, and began to write.

"Most Reverend Father in God--I have received your instructions, and hasten to transmit to you the sketch you desire, of the character and position of the different members of the family amongst whom, for the interests of the Holy Church, I have been placed.

"The heads of the family, Lord and Lady Delamere, are kind, generous, single-minded—educated in the doctrines of the Church of England, yet seeking somewhat of vitality in religion beyond what they have yet found. They may, I think, be gradually and imperceptibly led to seek it beyond her pale.

Their daughter, Miss Bouverie, is devoted to religion, yet unsatisfied. High-minded, enthusiastic, and contemplative, she finds not in the Protestant faith enough to attract the intellect or engage the heart. In the Holy Catholic Church alone will she find the exalted sanctity to which her lofty spirit aspires, and the repose for which her deep affections yearn. My friend"Vernon paused for a moment, and pressed his hand upon his brow, then by a sudden stroke of his pen erasing the words, he continued, "The younger son of the house-he by whom I was brought within-may be influenced through his affections alone. His intellect is powerful, his feelings ardent, and his imagination quick and vivid. With Mr Bouverie, I have yet had less intercourse than with any member of the family; an undefined yet impenetrable barrier seems to exist between us-kind, yet reserved in manner, and vigorous in

H

mind, with calm and clear judgment, and affections deep but regulated-His character is one that will not be easily approached.

"Mrs Bouverie is singularly attractive in person and manner, and much may be feared from the power of her influence over the entire household. Mild, gentle, and unselfish-entering with the tenderest sympathy into the varied feelings and circumstances of those around her-with a depth of intellect only veiled by her feminine modesty, she will adopt no opinion save from a solid conviction of its truthnor be satisfied regarding its claims without the most patient and thorough investigation.

"Her sister, Miss Villiers, resembles her in mind and character, though, from her youth, she has not attained the maturity of Mrs Bouverie. Miss Lyndsay, the orphan niece of Lord Delamere, resides here as her home. Exquisitely beautiful in person, and fascinating in manner, she is almost idolized by those around her, and is the darling of the household. Ardent, imaginative, and susceptible, self-willed and impetuous, with an intellect quick and penetrating, and dangerous in its power, both to herself and others. Her spirit is like an April day-now weeping over the past, and now rejoicing in the sunshine of the life that is opening so brightly around her. She is warmly attached to the Church of England, as the Church of her country, and still more as the Church of her father, whom she passionately loved— not a wish seeks aught beyond her pale not a doubt of her authority would be suffered to intrude.

"She loves Sydney, and is beloved by him. If she becomes his wife, both are lost. This must be prevented. The recklessness of disappointed passion, or the despair of a blighted heart, may drive her to cast herself into the arms of our Holy Mother Church-nothing short of this will." He rose, and throwing aside his pen with a sudden vehemence of gesture, took a few hasty turns through the apartment, then reseating himself, rapidly concluded his letter, and folding it, addressed it "To the General of the Order of the Society of Jesus" at Rome.

This learned work belongs to that class of literary undertakings, which, from their very nature, must form either great achievements or marked failures. Its object is to combine and apply all the materials which the industry of past ages, and the more fortunate researches and discoveries of recent times, have accumulated, regarding the history and condition of ancient Egypt, so as to construct out of them a chronological view of its own internal affairs and transactions, and exhibit the bearing which these, from time to time, exercised on the different nations of the ancient world. A moment's consideration will satisfy us, that he must be no ordinary man who can attempt, with any prospect of success, to grapple with such a subject. He must evidently be a person gifted by nature with a large and comprehensive mind -of such extensive erudition as to be perfectly at home in the vast field of heathen antiquity-intimately conversant also with what is now called the "Science of Egyptology," and able not only to thread his way with ease through the almost interminable maze of things new and old, literary and monumental, known and conjectural, with which the votaries of this science have to deal, but to direct upon them all such a penetrating eye and sound judgment, that each shall be taken merely at its proper value, and distributed into its right place. That such gifts and attainments are possessed in no common degree by the Chevalier Bunsen, is, we believe, generally allowed and understood. Naturally endowed with a capacious mind, which in him is also happily associated with an amiable disposition and a generous heart, this distinguished man has had the singular good fortune of being placed in the very situations which furnished him with the finest opportunities for cultivating his powers, and providing him with every advantage

for the execution of a work like the one before us. His earlier studies at the University of Göttingen were conducted under the direction of such men as Heyne and Heeren. On leaving this, which he did with the view of prosecuting his studies in Sanscrit and oriental literature, he went to Paris, where again he enjoyed the instruction of the most eminent scholars. Proceeding afterwards to Rome, he became first acquainted, then officially connected, with the eminent historian Niebuhr, whom he at last succeeded there as Prussian ambassador; and as representative of the Prussian court for a considerable time at Rome, and now latterly at London, he has, of course, wanted nothing in his maturer years which access to the best materials, and intercourse with the most enlightened society in Europe, could do to equip him for his undertaking.

In addition to these singular personal advantages, Bunsen has had his lot cast in what may be called a propitious age for the work he has undertaken. The key to the long-lost secret of the hieroglyphical and enchorial writing of Egypt has been now possessed for a sufficient time to admit of its being applied to the working out of certain and definite results. Within the last few years, very considerable progress has been made, both in understanding the Coptic language, which is radically the same with that of ancient Egypt, in which the monumental inscriptions were written, and in deciphering these inscriptions themselves. A number of eminent men in this country, as well as on the Continent, fired by an enthusiasm, which neither gigantic difficulties, nor enormous expense could daunt, have devoted themselves to the discovery of fresh remains, and to the study of every branch of literature, on which their successful interpretation depends; so that the Egyptology of the present day is not a little