AN ALPINE TALE. CHAP. I. *So may we oft a tender father see, To please his prattling son, his hope and joy, And, stung himself, his busy hands employ NEARLY three weeks passed without any tidings from the castle; a period much longer than any which had intervened without the arrival of Alphonzo, since the renewal of his acquaintance at the glen. Heavily had their hours rolled over the head of Emily. Often would she wander involuntarily towards the brow of the hill, and past a wistful look in the direction of the castle, if possibly she might catch a glimpse of the accustomed form-but in vain, Days and weeks were numbered, but he came not. Some horseman might occasionally meet her view, and her heart would beat quick for a moment; but, the next, it only sunk into deeper dejection, as his nearer approach revealed a stranger, and elicited from her the sad inquiry; "Will he never come again?" Her disquietude, it is true, was alleviated by the consciousness, that it had been her desire to demean herself as became a disciple of the Redeemer; yet still, she could not exculpate herself from the charge, which had a foundation only in her tender solicitude, of having 'spoken unadvisedly with her lips.' The morning had gone by amidst these and similar reflections. She had visited the haunts which Alphonzo's presence had so often enlivened; but she found no rest among them-he was no longer there. She ascended the hill, hoping that its lighter atmosphere would remove the weight from her bosom, and restore the elasticity of her spirits; but she returned more oppressed than before. She descended to the vale, but there the air was insupportable. She sat down to table with the family; but it was in vain that she attempted to eat. Her heart was full, and her food remained untouched. Thus agitated, she had retired to her room; and there, bowing in humility, was laying open the distresses of her mind. At the mercy-seat, she met with a Friend whom she could trust, and who was ever ready to listen to her complaints. To him she could reveal every feeling in her breast, with all its delicate sensibilities, and without a blush. Her Bible was lying before her; and a tear, where resignation was mingled with the anguish that called it forth, had just fallen upon the page, when she was startled by a knock at the door. She rose hastily-it was her favourite attendant, similar in piety, and not less interested perhaps in the welfare of her mistress, who had educated her with parental tenderness, than was that little maid of old who directed the Syrian leper to the prophet.* A smile of compassion and 2 Kings, v. 3. affection illuminated the girl's countenance, as if she considered herself the bearer of good tidings to one she loved. Putting a note into the hand of her mistress, and saying; "It's from the castle, Miss Emily;" she hurried away, urged by a sense of natural good-breeding, that she might neither witness, nor interrupt, the emotion her message might excite. Emily eagerly snatched and opened it; scarce allowing herself leisure to follow successively its contents. It was from Alphonzo; and expressed in substance his unfeigned regret, that he had not been able to summon resolution again to confront her eye, since their last painful interview. Her words, he said, had sunk into his heart, and awakened many an agonizing, but, he hoped, profitable, thought. He could not but fear, that she would always find him får below her own standard of excellence; yet he trusted, that his one supreme desire was to be prepared to meet his God.' She might accuse him, possibly, for withdrawing from her presence so abruptly on a late occasion, but he had the solemnity of a promise to contend with, as well as the distressing agitation of his own heart. If she could ever think, he added in conclusion, of sharing his joys and sorrows in the dearest bonds of earthly relationship, she must never hope that he could be a guide to her; but, if she wouldlean on his arm, and direct him in the path he should pursue, his beloved Emily would find him a willing pupil, and a devoted friend. Like the light mists of morning before a summer-sun, Emily's apprehensions vauished, as she read. She could now divine the reason of his protracted absence, and with peculiar pleasure dwelt in her mind on the delicacy which had restrained him from visiting her. We need not say how often she perused the welcome lines, nor with what lively gratitude she now approached that mercy-seat, where but a moment before she had sunk down in such bitterness of spirit. These are the little tendernesses of hallowed love, in which every pious and |