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and to come with her. The abbess, who hoped that such a change might be beneficial to her health, consented, though she extremely regretted parting with her, and soon after their return to their convent, she made the necessary application for her transfer to Novogorod.

Prascovia shortly afterwards left the latter place, followed by the good wishes and regrets of all her acquaintance and companions. She was obliged to wait two months at her new residence, before she could be put in possession of a small wooden house of two cells, which she had caused to be constructed for herself and her friend, for want of such accommodation in the convent. Yet, she was considered as belonging to it, and all the sisters, who were already acquainted with her, looked upon her arrival as a great happiness, and gladly performed those duties for her, which were beyond her strength.

She lived in this way until the close of 1809; and, like most persons afflicted with consumption, Prascovia, though resigned to an early death, did not think that her end was near. On the evening before her death, she walked with less fatigue than she had for some time, through the convent, and, wrapped in a pelisse, sat down at the steps to enjoy the exhilerating influence of the sun, on a wintry day. She mused pensively on the events of her life, and remembered the more vividly those of her infancy, as the aspect of nature contributed to carry her back to Siberia. Observing some travellers glide rapidly before her in a sledge, her heart began to beat as if kindled by some cheering recollections. "Next spring," she said to her friend, "if I am well enough, I will pay a visit to my parents at Wladimir, and you shall go with me." eyes beamed with joy, while death already discolored her lips. Her companion could not without difficulty assume a composed countenance and contain her tears.

Her

On the next day, the eighth of December, 1809, the festival of St. Barbara, she had still strength to go into the church to partake of the communion; but at three o'clock she was so reduced, that she laid herself undressed on her bed, to take, as she thought, a little repose. Several of her companions were in the cell, and, not aware of her situation, talked gaily and laughed, in the hope of amusing her. But their presence became soon too fatiguing for her, and, when the vesper

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bell was rung, she desired them to join their sisters in the chapel, and recommended herself to their prayers. "You may yet to-day," she said, pray for my recovery, but in a few weeks you will mention me in the prayers for the dead." Her friend alone remained, and she begged her to read to her the evening service as she was accustomed to do. The young nun, kneeling at the foot of the bed, began to sing in a low voice; but after the first verses, the dying Prascovia having made her a sign with her hand, accompanied by a faint smile on her lips, she arose, bent over her, and could with difficulty catch these words: -" My dear friend, do not sing-it prevents me from praying-read only."

The nun kneeled again, and, while she recited the orisons, her expiring friend made, from time to time, the sign of the cross. The room was now becoming dark.

When the nuns re-entered with candles, Prascovia was dead her right hand was extended over her breast, as when she crossed herself for the last time.

:

MY FIRST, MY ONLY LOVE. A SERENADE.

The sun hath left the azure sky,

And laid him down to rest,

And moonlight is streaming beauteously,
Like hope on the youthful breast:

And the stars so bright, and fair to view,
Are smiling from above,

Unequalled, save by thine eyes of blue,
My first, my only love!

The zephyr's sigh is heard among

The forest's spring-deck'd trees;

And the nightingale's sweet melodious song,
Is borne on that lovely breeze :

Then awake! 'tis nature doth entreat

Our steps to yonder grove,

And the night we'll pass in converse sweet,
My first, my only love!

K.

SONNET.

ON THE PORTRAIT OF MRS. PEEL, BY SIR T. LAWRENCE, P.R.A.

A face of saddest beauty: pale as death,
Yet placid as the ocean, when the wind
Moves softly o'er its bosom, when no breath
Ruffles its surface, and the mighty deep
Is hushed, and stirless as an infant's sleep!

On that proud brow there is the stamp of mind;-
In those dark eyes lie lightnings that would blind,
If tamed not into meekness :-proudly fair,

That swan-like neck, down which rich clustering hair,
Dark as the night, is floating. Yet, even there
Amid such loveliness a cloud hath been:

Beneath that mournful smile I deem that care
(For shadows aye will dim the brightest scene,)
Struggles to be still, and strives to look serene!
Birmingham.
R. SHELTON MACKENZIE.

MARIA MATTHEWS;

OR, THE ANGRY FATHER.

A SKETCH FROM REAL LIFE.

"These letters are sufficient evidence," said Mr. Matthews, in an angry tone to his daughter, as he turned over the contents of her little trunk, which he had accidentally found open. "I have before forbid your carrying on any kind of correspondence with Captain Merton, and yet from these I find you not only write to him, but actually have your rendezvous of meeting but I shall take care to place you beyond the power of his evil machinations. He is not a proper acquaintance for any young woman who has a due regard for her character, and I have before told you so; to-morrow morning, however, shall bear you away far enough from his base intrigues."

Maria hung down her head, looked foolish, and said not a word. Mrs. Norton, the housekeeper, endeavoured to interpose in favor of Maria; but her words were vain,-the angry

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