required this guarded behaviour on his part. She had heard that his governesses, the Miss Mortons, were sectarians; and that their little community were brought up in such strict religious observances, that some of her acquaintance-who, to do them justice, were in no hazard of injuring the health and happiness of their own offspring, by instilling such notions into their minds, intimated that they considered her as an unfeeling parent in subjecting her child to such austere instructors, who would curb his spirit, and inspire him with ideas the most gloomy and improper for his tender years. But as it did not appear that there was any thing specified to the prejudice of the Miss Mortons but their devotional propensities, she was not apprehensive that these could prove at all disadvantageous to a child, who might learn so many worse things than any sort of sincere religion could teach him.

But she was a little anxious and uneasy to find him so spiritless, and she began to question him more earnestly about his pursuits, the books he read, and so on. His clear and decided answers made her quickly comprehend that his studies were of a serious, perhaps what would be called of a methodistical cast. But if they produced an effect upon his manner so pleasing as she had witnessed, such sweetness, such affection, she knew not where the objection to them could properly be made. She scarcely knew whether she was pleased or not to find his little mind thus directed—thus strongly influenced-as she conceived it to be; for, with the vivacity of feeling which formed a feature in his character, she could observe that he was not likely to be lukewarm in whatever bias he took,

He made her more than usually thoughtful and pensive. Her mind fell into a state of musing more elevated than it had yet experienced. Ideas of the kind which then occupied it, had never before excited her attention, or only in that vague, mysterious manner, in which impassioned souls in the hour of anguish instinctively recognise a great, an indefinable being, that governs that afflicts-and to which in their extremity they involuntarily address supplications, because they feel that His power is at work in their destiny-that His justice must be propitiated-and His mercy must be implored. This was all that she yet knew of devotion. Her little Edmund was the first to teach her better.

She went to bid him good-night when he retired to rest. He was kneeling down to say his prayers as she entered the room. He rose in some confusion, and hesitated, as if unwilling to pursue his intention: but she said she wished to hear him; and without further reluctance, simply and quietly, and as if it were so usual with him as to excite neither surprise nor emotion, he placed himself at her feet, and repeated the form of words he had been accustomed to use. His little heart was calm and undisturbed -but Catherine's! as a cherub from Heaven had spoken-it melted within her! She thought of this neglected child, learning from strangers what his mother should have taught. She thought of that unhappy mother, the prey of conflicting passions, subjugated to every impulse, and how far removed from what appeared to be within an infant's reach-the privilege-the hope the comfort of prayer. Had it been poured forth by the most sublime, the most accomplished eloquence, it would feebly have effect

ed her in comparison with the soft infantine accents. in which she heard, with a truth of devotion it had never inspired before, that Divine supplication-the summary of every want-of every hope!" Thy will be done"-were words which hitherto had fallen unmeaningly from her lips, uttered without consciousness, and alas! how much without resignation! But now her heart of stone seemed to be touched; and as the tears streamed down her cheeks, she felt as if but to offer the sacrifice of stubborn inclination had something soothing in it, and she repeated after her child, not indeed in words, but in the uplifting of her wounded heart, "Thy will be done!"

She kissed him as he rose from his knees, and pressed him to her bosom-and then she retired to her chamber, to commune with her own heart. A new sense seemed to have sprung up within her— something happier, better than any thing she before possessed. But she wanted a friend! She felt that all was as yet confusion and obscurity within her; and that, whatever was the benefit she might confer upon herself, she still required some kindly hand to guide her. Amongst her acquaintance she knew of none who were even commonly religious; that is to say, she knew of none who were even constant in such a semblance of devotion, as consisted in frequenting a place of worship once on a Sunday. She had long been certain that her case was beyond the reach of human aid. The total insufficiency of every thing worldly to console, or to direct her, was perpetually exemplified in the dissatisfaction, the disquiet, which had marked her life. She was formed for nobler emotions-for higher hopes-than had yet possessed her!

CHAPTER VIII.

BUT these emotions-these hopes were yet but very vague and undefined. The little incident that had awakened them, gave place to remembrances, which it appeared as if nothing had the power to wipe away from her thoughts. The loss of St. Aubyn, and of those happy days she had known with him, before her tranquillity was ruined by the indulgence of ungoverned imagination, her present total desolation, and the bitterness of her remorse-these were recollections which devoured every capability of happiness. In this state of wretchedness she was solitary, and unassisted by any offices of friendship or sympathy. Her only relation, Lady Vincent, ast a matter of decent attention, had paid her the condolence of a week's visit, on hearing of her loss. But perceiving the small account which Catherine made of her society, by refusing always to see her when she could have the preferable indulgence of her grief in solitude, and soon growing weary of inhabiting a house so totally the seat of mourning, her Ladyship had by this time pretty nearly taken a final farewell of her unfortunate niece, contenting herself with having addressed to her a letter of four pages, containing an abstract of all the remedies against grief with which her reading, or other sources of information, had furnished her ; but which, as Catherine did not peruse it, failed of producing the effect her Ladyship anticipated from it.

VOL. I.-I

Little Edmund had approached the nearest in offering consolation to poor Catherine's wounded spirit; but Edmund was gone back to school, and with him was gone her only comfort.

It was about a week after his return to the Miss Mortons, that, sitting one afternoon in a languid, listless manner by the window of her drawing-room, which fronted the street, Catherine perceived a funeral passing along; and drawn to gaze at it by the peculiar interest, which makes all who look on such a scene, involuntarily identify it with that which one day is to be acted over them, she stood silent and attentive-marking the solemn motion of the hearsethe coaches which followed it—the insignia of wealth and consequence which were displayed-and musing with not unprofitable thoughts, upon the vanity which with so much pomp and circumstance conveyed to its last retreat, what was now as valueless as the dust to which it was returning.

As thus she was moralising, her female servant entered the room upon some account or other, and Catherine inquired of her if she knew whose funeral it was which was then passing the window?

Having glanced at it, the girl replied with a hesitation and embarrassment which scarcely belonged to so simple a matter," that she did not know."

Her manner was such as to surprise Catherine, who could conceive no imaginable cause for it. But little accustomed to have her wishes disputed, and feeling a strange curiosity upon the subject, she desired her to inquire of some one in the street, and bring her the name of the deceased.

Perhaps, but for the opposition it met with, her inclination to know any thing about it would have passed away.