felicity. She looked at the heavens, and felt as if death would teach her the secret of their birth, and make known to her the sublime mystery of all their harmonies. She beheld the valley tranquil, and enlightened by the moon-the dark shade of the woods-and the silvery light of the mist, which lay upon the meadows. All this appeared to her but as a fine painting, imitating an original still more beautiful. She thought she saw, as through a prism, colours which only dazzled her. This prism broken by death, the confusion of the colours would, she imagined, be lost in a light which would shew to her objects in their perfect beauty. She thought upon her husband-and the idea of him made her anxious to get rid of life. She felt as if she would hasten to love him yet more tenderly; as if conjugal enthusiasm would become more vivid in heaven, and as if love in eternity would be inexpressibly more delightful than she could feel it then. The past and the

present, as connected with this world, were to her annihilated-she thought only of the present as connected with immortality. "Yes," she continued to repeat to herself, "I will love in eternity, with a rapture I cannot know now. A light from the throne of God will beam upon my spirit when it shall advance before Him-then will delight the most intense begin! Almighty Father, I am ready to depart! Oh! let a beam of thy glory play around my soul, as I ascend to Thee!"

She knelt, and looked to heaven -a bitter sense of insanity shot through her brain with the keenest anguish a transient gleam of reason came upon her mind-it was but for a moment. She hastily withdrew her hands, which had been painfully pressed upon her forehead she advanced to the dressing table-her face was deeply crimsoned by an unconscious blush, as she took in her hands the instrument of death-She looked upon it—

raised her eyes to heaven, and smiled. It was her last, most beauteous smile-a smile of the deepest madness.-She heard footsteps on the stairs--the door was fastened-some one tried to open it, and then knocked.--The voice of her husband tenderly pronounced her name-her face instantly grew pale-she raised her arm with a determined energy-The door was burst open her husband entered-he rushed towards her-it was too late-the deed was done-after one convulsive sob, she expired upon his bosom.

CHAPTER XX.

What though beneath our feet the earthly mould
Of virtue, beauty, youth, and genius lie

In grim decay! Yet round us we behold
The cheering emblems of eternity;
What voice divine is theirs?

WILSON.

THE dead give little trouble.-A coffin, a shroud-a grave-and a few attendants to commit the body to the dust, are all that is necessary to the temporal denouement of human life.

Mr. Welburn and his son, as chief mourners, followed the body of Mrs. Welburn to the grave. The inhabitants of

the vale of Dalsy, and of the hills and glens which bound it, came in crowds to the funeral. Some to stare out of mere curiosity; others to gossip about the manner of her death; and a few with feelings of real grief at the loss of their benefactress. Henry leaned upon his father, bathed in tears. He trembled as he heard the funeral service drawing to a close; and when the earth sounded upon the coffin of his mother, he felt as if he could gladly have sank into her grave, and have been buried with her. Mr. Welburn was apparently tranquil; his countenance was pale, but shewed little sign of grief or of any emotion. His wife was a suicidehis only child carrying madness in his veins-himself a widower-yet he wept not. As he witnessed the last offices paid to her he had so tenderly loved, the strange mystery of life and death occupied his thoughts. His affliction was softened into a silent contemplation of the existence