and she did not suppose that I could consider myself free to accept any other addresses than his. So much was Villiers petrified by this intelligence, that he almost immediately sought an interview with Benson who confirmed it, by offering to shew him my letters, which he still retained.

"For the sort of unwarrantable chattering on his sister's side, which had led to this, Benson affected to be very angry, as he informed me in a letter which he sent me, explanatory of his share in the transaction, and containing protestations of unchanging af fection, and intreaties for an interview; all of which, you will readily believe, I spurned with contempt. I wrote him only these few lines:

"You may rest satisfied-your work is done— you have robbed me of every hope of happiness in this world-let me then hear no more of a name, which I can never think of without detestation.'

"I did hear no more of him."

"Nor yet of"-Catherine hesitated.

"Alas! of Villiers ?-Yes, of his death. He went to India, and there died; but I cannot-I cannot speak of this."

"No," said Catherine, fondly taking her hand, and soothing the burst of anguish with which she gave this intelligence, "we will mention him no more."

"This sorrow," continued Ann, "was but the beginning of chastening. I was to be many times tried in the furnace of affliction. I had but just regained tranquillity, when my father, through unfortunate speculations in business, from the height of affluence was suddenly reduced to a state of absolute want. To heighten our troubles, my aunt had put it out of

her power to be serviceable to us in our misfortunes, by forming an imprudent marriage, in defiance of all her resolutions to the contrary, with a man young enough to be her son; and whose first act of authority was manifested in sending back my sister to her father's house. She had only been returned a month when my father failed, and upon her this misfortune fell with peculiar force: for she had been brought up hitherto in the lap of ease and comfort, without anxiety for the present, or care for the future.

"It now became necessary that we should turn our powers, whatever they might be, to some useful purpose; and our connexions being numerous, and an opening for such an undertaking offering in this place, we were induced to repair here for the purpose of establishing ourselves at the head of a preparatory school.

My poor father removed from London, and took up his residence with us. But his misfortunes preyed upon him and undermined his health, and he lived but a very short time after this calamity occurred.

"From this period I have little or nothing further to say of myself. The storm had gone over my soul, but I was still far from God. I had sought him, indeed, in the ravages it had made upon my peace, but He was not there. It was in the still moment of reflection, when one by one my sorrows had passed away, and my vanities departed, that, like the sinful woman, whose accusers had vanished, I found myself alone with my Saviour."

"You are an extraordinary creature," said Cathe rine, with something between a smile and a sigh.

"I am now a happy one," replied Ann, "and that, perhaps, is to be extraordinary."

"But your sister," inquired Catherine, "how did she imbibe her religious propensities?"

"It was my own story you requested to hear," said Ann, with a smile; "I cannot undertake to add my sister's."

Catherine saw and respected the motive that restrained Ann from speaking upon this point. Miss Morton's religion, as Catherine conceived, resulted chiefly from that love of distinction, which occasionally impels those, who can gratify it in no other way, to make themselves the members of a party, which, if it possessed no worthier objects to support its credit, would certainly deserve the opprobrium that is too commonly heaped upon it.

CHAPTER XI.

THE succeeding year of Catherine's life passed away, and insensibly bore off with it the poignant remembrance of her early sorrows. They now lived in her memory as past grief commonly lives in the impassioned mind, as a touching recollection which awakens sentiments melancholy indeed, but sweet and soothing.

In the society of her good friend Ann Morton, the occasional visits of her sweet boy, the exercise of her mental acquirements and her devotional duties, days, weeks, and months flew rapidly away;

and never had there been a period in her life, in which she was so nearly in possession of that species of tranquil happiness, which experience proves to be the best adapted for continuance.

But there were moments-and Ann Morton, in the ardour of her religious enthusiasm, herself abjuring all worldly affections, beheld them with anxiety amounting to terror-there were moments, when a lingering after change, and an occasional weariness of the unvarying life she now led, bespoke that all was not yet so subdued as she could wish in Catherine's ardent temperament. As the heaviness of sorrow and the sting of disappointment lost the power to oppress and pain her, the vivacity of her disposition returned, and, even in the midst of the most serious discourse with her friend Ann, frequent strokes of smartness and gaiety would draw from her companion a reproving shake of the head, with which she tried to discountenance the smile that could not be repelled, when she listened to the sprightly remarks that fell from the lips of this child of nature, who, in conversation with one so entirely in her confidence as Ann was, might truly be said to think aloud, so totally was every rising thought laid open to her view.

One morning about this time, Ann received a message that Mrs. St. Aubyn wished immediately to see her.

"I have had a letter from my aunt Lady Vincent," said Catherine, as soon as she had welcomed her friend," and I want-I scarcely know whatfor I cannot say your advice, since the step I ought to take is certainly clear enough. But you are won

dering what this preamble tends to. There is her letter;" and she took it from her pocket, to give it to Ann for her perusal.

ter.

Though the epistle was a very long one, the extreme magnanimity to which Lady Vincent had wrought herself not being to be disclosed without considerable pomp and circumstance of diction, it may be told in a very few words to our readers. The fact then was simply this, that her Ladyship, like the rest of the world, growing older, began to feel the want of society and attention, which she found she could not so easily command as formerly, when her health and means of enjoyment were betInstead of going out most nights in the week, she was now, by the growing infirmities of advancing life, compelled to stay at home the greater part of her time. To be alone, was to inflict upon herself a penance which she scarcely knew how to endure; but she found it now so difficult, upon the score of her own attractions, to assemble any of her numerous acquaintance about her, that she cast her eyes upon Catherine, in the certainty of obtaining her as a resident under her roof; and in the hope, that with the aid of her beauty and accomplishments, she not only might still keep in with the world, but secure to herself a companion, which was infinitely preferable to none at all. Moreover, as in the course of nature, she must certainly die, however unwilling to do so, and, in all probability, before her niece, it was as we well, she considered, to make a virtue of necessity; and as she could not with propriety do otherwise than bequeath to Catherine what property she had to leave, (which indeed was not much, the principal part of her fortune consisting of a jointure,