derness and affection which can make me set any value on life. Without your letters, I am sure that I should not exist long. "Your own " HENRY." CHAPTER XXXIV. There is a little church-yard on the side Of a low hill Most beautiful it is; a vernal glade Inclosed with wooded rocks! where a few graves WILSON. To those who were acquainted with Mr. Welburn-to those who knew and loved his son, and every one loved who knew him, the WHITE COTTAGE still possesses a peculiar interest. The eglantine which was so carefully trained up the sides of the cottage, has been indeed neglected, and part of it cut away, as obstructing the light. The jessamine has run into wild luxuriance, and its long shoots hang down with an appearance of desolation. Yet the room in which Henry slept, still retains all its furniture, as when he occupied it. The table still remains on which he wrote his letters to Julia. How often, in the stillness of evening, has he there fervently prayed to God that he might, in another world, be united to her whom he had so truly loved in this! His only delight was in corresponding with her. Julia's letters, full of tenderness, made him continually regret the happiness he had refused, and which his misfortune forbade him to enjoy. Wherever he rambled, he constantly earried her letters with him, and when he found a sequestered spot where he could lie on the ground undisturbed, or from whence he could see or hear the Atlantic Ocean, he would sit down and read them: His eyes would dwell on every expression of tenderness; he would gaze upon the words, and whilst he continued to look at them, his imagination would fly to Julia. He would delight to fancy how she felthow she looked when she wrote so tenderdy. He would picture to himself her attitude; her hair so beautiful, so simply braided, half shading by its curls the eyes which had looked upon him with so much kindness, and welcomed his presence with such animation the hand whose affectionate pressure had told him he was be. loved-the arm which had rested upon his shoulder the form which for a moment had been pressed to his bosom, as if then entirely his own--All these recollections would be painfully contrasted by his present situation. He knew indeed that Julia was devoted to him-every letter he received assured him of this. But Henry longed for her society: he sighed for that home and wife, which his fancy had so often pictured. These he felt that he must never possess, and he secretly mourned over his solitary fate. Mr. Welburn imagined that the solitude of the WHITE COTTAGE only nourished a fruitless melancholy; and he proposed to his son to travel, or advised him to enter upon the duties of a clergyman. Henry felt that this was what he ought to do ; but he dreaded lest the finger of scorn might be lifted against him, and lest he might be marked by the multitude as one, who, passing through the world, was forbidden by Heaven to taste of its blessings. The sensible mind of Henry was tortured between a sense of duty, and an unwillingness to venture amongst his fellow-creatures. Julia, to whom he told all his thoughts, reasoned with him on these ungrounded fears. Her affectionate entreaties at length prevailed, and he determined, if the endeavours of his father to procure him a small living should be succesful, that he would, if possible, become a |