"It is, Agata."

"And do you think,"—she asked, with still more earneatness,—"you, Senor—that your people are.right, and that God likes their religion as well as ours?"

"As far as man can judge in such a case, Agata, I do not doubt it; I profess that faith myself."

"Then, I am not the wretch they call me!" And the maiden depressed her .beautiful head, while her overcharged feelings, of whose nature I was as yet ignorant, found relief in tears. .-.-••

I drew nearer to her, and took one of her little hands. . And who," 1 asked, with tenderness, "who are theyr Agata, that call you so?" . . •

"They, they, every body,— They tell me I am wicked, because I love not those ugly priests, with their little bells, and their torches, and their incense; but —I know not how it is, sefior —- but, when I get here, and look upon lie beautiful sky, and the flowers, and when the moon shines bright upon my little stream, and I watch it dance jnd bend so prettily, I feel so melancholy, and my eyes fill with tears, and it seems as though I could fall upon my knees, and pray to the God that made all these lovely

And had I found, at last, in this poor girl (ignorant— wen below the ordinary ignorance of her countrywomen,1' —, yet with a mind that saw through the hollow superstitionswhich a vicious priesthood have made the bit and bridle to rule degraded Spain)—had I found, in this child of Mature, the very being my young imagination had so often painted? a being possessed of exquisite beauty, yet adorned with genius,—one whose feelings could sympathize with mine,—one in whose ear I could pour forth all the overflowings of my heart, without the chilling fear of being pitied as an enthusiast, or ridiculed for sentiments that could not be comprehended? Even the idea of such happiness.was rapturous. Forgetting that the acquaintance between us could scarcely carry the date of its existence to a few minutes, I put my arm around the slender waist of the girl, and pressed her to my heart, exclaiming, in the ardour of my admiration, "Sweet Agata!" She gently released herself, and looking in my face for a moment, with an expression of surprise wholly unmingled with displeasure, burst into tears.

Not knowing what to make of this strange conduct, I resumed the hand .1 had dropped, and, bending my head close to hers, whispered, "Why do you weep ?— Will you not tell me, Agata?"

"I weep because you are so kind;— No one evei speaks to me so softly as you do, senor."

"Why! have you no parents, Agata?"

"Yes,—No, no, they tell me I have .none. When I was a very little girl, the people I live with taught me to call them father and mother, and then they were very good to me; but now they say they are not my parents, and they do not use me well. They call me silly, because I cannot bring myself to work as they do, and to think like them, but love to wander by the pretty brooks, and hear the birds sing, and look upon the sky when the setting sun streaks. it with so many beautiful colours, or when the .thousand little stars are shining so bright. But for this I could not complain; for in food and dress they give me every thing I want: but I would rather wear rage, and fare no better than the poor sheep, than be laughed at as silly,* when I feel, and know, Senor, that my head is as clear as theirs." What pride in an uneducated peasant! •'.•••

"Yet, Agata, perhaps you misconceive them—seeing they are so kind in other respects?"

"O, no, I do not! If they are not my real parents, their kindness, is not their own. No, no, senor—everybody laughs at me—my acquaintances, and all. The young men, when they see me, shrug their shoulders, and seem to pity my misfortune :—1 would rather have them spit at me! The young girls look at my hands and feet, and thank the Virgin that they have hands that are large enough to work with, and feet that are made for something besides show; and when I pass them they sneer, and whisper, loud enough for me to hear, that though their parents are poor, they are honest, and they would rather be born of such, than of parents that might be ashamed to own them. No, senor, I have none to love me—none to care for me,—and when poor Agata is dead, there will be none to weep for her—no, none."

"Yes, Agata, I will care for you, I will love you,—and weep for you, and with you, Agata!"

The maiden raised her head. Her dark eyes were glowing amid their tears, and she fixed them on mine, for a moment, with a tender thankfulness of expression that told how nearly my words had touched her heart. Poor solitary! driven, by her, strong disgust of a society in whose vulgar notions and habits she could find no sympathy, to seek no other communion than the dangerous intercourse of her own imagination, unused to kindness, what wonder that, now she had found an individual, who looked upon her wild fancies, not with contempt, but admiration, one who insulted not, but soothed her high yet affectionate spirit,—what wonder that, her pride thus gratified, and the channel of her affections, hitherto choked up by neglect, thus suddenly laid open,—what wonder that she should be moved! It was with her as with the vine of her native climate, which, though it grow alone, will still put forth its tendrils; and those tendrils will curl—for Vol. II. IT

such is their nature; but bring within their reach some object, however slight, to which they may attach themselves, and at once they twist around it, with a closeness of union that nothing but the hand of violence, or the limit of their own duration, may sever.

I drew her to me, and pressed my lips gently upon her forehead. For a minute we sat in silence; but the loud quick beating of our pulses, told each (too plainly!) of the other's feelings—reeling, as we were, in the first intoxication of a passion, whose sensations were, probably, altogether new to Agata, and never might grow old to my weak heart. Suddenly the beautiful girl sprang up from her seat.

"O see!" she cried, "I must leave you now. The sun has been long gone down; for the clouds above the little hill before us are growing dark, and the blue mist is mixing all the lovely colours into one. I must leave you!"—and hastily wrapping her face in her veil, and putting on her hat and shoes, she moved towards tbc source of the rivulet.

"Stay, Agata! Do you not go by the way I came? You cannot get out by that path."

"I never heard of any other till I saw you, senor. I always come by this.—See, it is easy." And, indeed, following her light figure as she tripped along the side of the little limpid stream, I found myself, after a few steps, at the top of the hillock, down whose slope the descent appeared almost smooth. "Here we must part, senor," said my companion. "If the poor peasant girl should be seen with a gentleman like you, they would laugh at her mere than ever, and then she would die of

shame. Perhaps, I have been already too long

But I come here every evening, senor." This touch, of nature almost made me smile.

"Yes; but, Agata," I said, as I held the taper ends of her delicate fingers, reluctant yet to part with them, "I cannot come again till next Sunday."

"No ?"—and she sighed. "Then I will watch for you every evening till the time comes round, and think you are seated by me on the great smooth stone near my pretty brook, where I first saw the only one that ever tried to sooth my feelings. But you will come then ?— 0! how very, very long the time will seem to Agata!"

CHAPTER II*

Turn, Angelina, ever dear,

My charmer, turn to see
Thy own, thy long-lost Edwin here,

Hestor'd to love and (hce.

Thus let me hold thee to my hear;,

And ev'ry care resign

And shall we never, never part?

My life—my all that.s mine:

Goldsmith.

It was very late that night, before my body and the bedclothes renewed their acquaintance; but, the Sun had climbed almost to the top of the eastern wall, and was about peeping over its edge to see what the lazy world "as doing, before my thoughts would turn from their waking happiness to frolic in the dance of dreams. Agata, the beautiful Agata, employed every faculty of ray mind:—Memory retraced the past scene; Imagination drew, with finger of fire, the Sunday yet to come; -nd Reason showed in prospect the consequence of the passion I was indulging, and bade me pause before I stained myself with crime. But alas for Reason! of what wail are her counsels, when the honeyed voice of Love is breathing in our ears, and his bright wings fluttering before our eyes? —There can be no harm—I said to myself—none surely, in seeing this lovely girl once more. I am incapable of wronging any human being, much less