fast-room, or the library,' and immediately every article of furniture which I had been accustomed to see in the different rooms, rose up in my imagination with your form, and I fancied I saw you sitting at your work-table, and my brother writing near the window, as he so often used to do, while Mr. Leslie stood in the garden before you, examining the different beds, and seeming to watch the growth of each particular flower. (This reminds me of a strict charge which he gave me before he left; tell him the rose-trees are carefully attended to, his favourite camella japonica is in full bloom, and that sweet little spot in the shrubbery where

"

"The small flower layeth

Its fairy gem beside the giant tree,'

is more beautiful than ever; the old oak looks still more ancient and majestic, and the violets are even sweeter and lovelier than they were last year.) But now I can only say, 'Jane is at Charolles ;' I can form no idea of your local circumstances, and though I can in a moment fancy myself with you, there are no familiar objects around you, which can aid the wilful and momentary self-deceptionnone which can give an air of reality, as it were, to the pleasing idea.

1

"My thoughts recur to our dear Fanny, and as I write to you without any restraint, I shall not apologize for again introducing her. Poor girl! how soon will she have to bid farewell to this beau

tiful earth, to the smiling summer sky, and to all the loveliness of this world! Alas! how does death single out the young, and the amiable, and the beloved, as his victims; and those who seem most fitted to adorn and to benefit society, are often the earliest to be taken from it, and laid in the dark and gloomy bed where earth mingles again into earth, ashes to ashes, dust to dust! Yet why do I take this sad and uncheering view of Fanny's departure, when to her it will be a joyful change from earthly things to heavenly, from mortality to immortality, from time to eternity? Rather may I wish that her lot had been mine, for every day's experience convinces me that there is nothing in this world for which we need wish to live; all is sorrow and disappointment, vanity and vexation of spirit.' One dear friend, and another, and another, is taken from us; how many can I recol lect who were once my daily companions, that are now mouldering in the dark grave, insensible to the tear of regret which their memory occasions, and who can tell which may be next summoned from me, after I have taken my long farewell of Fanny Gordon? Oh! if my sister should be the next victim, where could I find a friend like her! Nothing could console me for such a loss, for I am miserable at the idea of Fanny's death, and how much more then if I were anticipating the death of Jane! I am very unhappy; send me a letter of consolation, for I have no one near me to whom I

can look for happiness, my sister is all to me! Those are most favoured who die in early youth, before they have mourned over the graves of their most valued friends; who are soon called from this scene of misery and suffering, to that place where shall be no more death, neither sorrow, nor crying; it is almost selfish to weep for such as these, and Fanny Gordon is one, yet how can I think without the bitterest regret, of losing her!

"You will blame me for giving way to such desponding thoughts, and I will endeavour to conquer them, by writing on a less melancholy subject. Last Wednesday evening (for the first time since you left) I took my tea with Mr. and Mrs. Vernon, and afterwards I accompanied them to the weekly lecture. I never was in the chapel before, you know; and I assure you I was much pleased with it, though you have often accused me of prejudice in favour of the established church. I own I am attached to its beautiful services, but he must be a bigot indeed who is not delighted with devotional simplicity, whether it is met with in the church of England, or a dissenting chapel. The very appearance of this unpretending house of God is prepossessing, it is so plain, with none of our church decorations;

'No mellow windows' soft and soothing light,
No painted altar-no white-robed priest,

No silken cassock, and no sable vest ;'

and every one seems so attentive, and so suitably impressed with a sense of the purpose for which he is there, that I certainly think their quiet and, I really believe, heartfelt devotion almost equals our beautiful Liturgy.' The congregation was more select than it is on the Sunday, and as I stood among the number of sincere worshippers, I could not help mentally exclaiming, This is none other but the house of God, and this is the gate of heaven !'

"Give my love to my brother, and tell him I receive his occasional letters of description with very great pleasure. I am glad you have deputed him to give me an account of your travels, for I should be very much disappointed if your letters were to contain nothing but your opinion of the different places through which you passed; but by the arrangement you have made I receive a great deal of useful information from Mr. Westbury, and much that is more interesting from you.

"Dear Jane, farewell! Remember whenever you have an unemployed hour, that you will receive a grateful acknowledgement if it is devoted to your attached "EMILY."

Some weeks elapsed before Mrs. Westbury replied to this letter; and when at length Emily received an answer, she found that it related chiefly to that passage in which she spoke of herself as unhappy. Jane expressed her surprise at the very

desponding style in which Emily wrote, and implying a fear that a diseased mind, rather than any temporal calamity, was at the root of her sorrow, advised her to seek for consolation, not from any earthly friend, but from One that was heavenly.

At the close of Mrs. Westbury's letter, was a postscript in the handwriting of Mr. Leslie :

"Do you ask for consolation, do you ask for comfort? Is it indeed as you write, I have no one near me to whom I can look for happiness?' Your despondence at once surprised and alarmed me. No friend to sympathize with, and console you! Who was it that' gave himself a ransom' for you, and died that you might live? Who was it that plucked you as a brand from the burning,' and when you were living in sin, an alien from God, a child of wrath, a lover of this present evil world,' enlightened your mind, changed your heart, and led you into the way of peace? Have you wandered from that way, and is it therefore that. you need consolation? Alas! if so, there are none who can comfort, though many can pity, you! But surely you cannot have forgotten that Friend, whose love never fails;' no, I will hope that you wrote under a temporary depression of spirit, and that your language is only the feeling of the moment, and not your abiding experience. If this be indeed the case, though a heavy loss awaits you in