It is Miss Bertha-Miss Warburton,' replied the other. 'Not the young lady that'Come in here,' said I, steadily. 'Tell me all you have to say, and do not alarm any one else in the house. Come in."

He entered, and I closed the door. What has happened to Mr. Latimer ?'

'Do not be too much-there may be hope the doctor says,' he began, with a clumsy effort at preparation.

Tell me in as few words as you can,' I said; and tell me the whole truth.'

'Mr. Latimer arrived by the coach at P last night late-or rather, early this morning. He seemed anxious to get on here at once, and would not be advised against taking horse, and going the remaining thirty miles. The roads, they told him, were in some parts dangerous from the heavy snows; but he said he knew them well, and thought nothing of the risk. About seven miles this side P- the road runs close beside an old stone quarry. You may know it, Miss ?'

'Go on-go on.'

The snow deceived him, we suppose, and he got out of the track. His horse fell with him. He was found there about two hours ago by some labourers. They took him into a little inn near. He was quite insensible; but the people knew who he was, and asked me

He was interrupted. The door opened, and there came in, with a buoyant step, a little figure, arrayed in rustling, glancing, dazzling white silk. The delicate lace veil fell cloudily over her head, shading the blushing cheeks-the laughing eyes. And Mary's blythe voice sounded clear and ringing

Enter the bride!'

I had felt calm, as I have said. Heaven knows what she read in my face which struck the smile from her mouth, and sent her flying to my bosom with a terrible cry. There she hung, vainly trying to give speech to the dread that overcame her; while Mrs. Lester, who had followed her into the room, stood transfixed, gazing first at me, and then at the strange messenger.

'For mercy's sake, tell me what

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has happened?' cried the mother. At length, hurrying to her childMary, my darling, look up-come

to me!'

But she kept clinging to me, till I unwound her fragile hold, and laid her-poor, pale child, in her shining bridal robes, on the sofa near.

I do not well know what followed. When at length Mary understood what had happened, her senses gave way, and she fell from one fit into another continuously. It was vain to hope she would recover sufficiently to go to her lover. Geoffrey would not have the blessedness of dying in her arms. But I knew how, if he ever regained consciousness, he would yearn to see her, and I waited long, in an eternity, as it seemed, of torture, in the hope of bearing her with me.

In vain. I set forth alone, leaving her with a tribe of weeping women around her. I sprang on my horse, and in a moment was on my way across the moor.

In the midst of the chaos of my mind, I yet clearly remembered the last time I rode there with Geoffrey a little while ago; but oh! what a chasm yawned between then and now! I remembered, too, how stormy the day was then, and how serene my own heart! Now the sunshine seemed to float like a visible joy through the transparent air, and the low murmur of the sea sounded in the distance like a hymn of peace. The birds in a little grove that the road skirted were singing loudlyshrilly.

Merciful heaven! how mockingly it all blended with the dead quick fall of my horse's hoofs, as I pressed him on towards Geoffrey and death!

I heard his voice before I entered the room where he lay. It sounded strange, yet fearfully familiar. His wild loud call was for Mary-always Mary! The doctor, who came gravely and sadly to meet me, asked with anxiety if I were she? And as I, not quite able to speak then, stood very quiet leaning against the wall, I heard the man who had returned with me answer in a low tone, Bless you, no, sir! That other poor young lady was struck like dead when she heard; this one was as calm the whole time as

could be. I don't think she is anything at all to him.'

I am his old friend,' said I, answering the questioning glance of the doctor, and the daughter of his host, Mr. Warburton. Let me see him.'

They did not hinder me, and I went in. **** He thought I was Mary. When I drew near to him, he fixed his wild eyes on me, with a terrible likeness of look in them to what I had so often watched when he gazed on her. He clasped my hands in his scorching fingers, and pressed them with a kind of fierce fondness to his lips.

Ah, my darling, my darling! I knew you would come,' he said, in a subdued tone, I have been waiting so long; but now I am happy!'

It seems to compose him, the sight of you,' observed the doctor, after a pause of comparative quietude in his patient. I suppose he mistakes you for some one else!'

Ah! God be merciful to our weak human nature, how bitter that thought was, even then!

I remained still, my hands pressed in his hot clasp, till he sank into an uneasy slumber. I could better bear to look at him then, when his eyes-the bright, frank eyes, now all glazed, and dry, and fiery-were closed. And I looked at him. From amid the wreck before me of tangled hair, and haggard cheeks, and lips parched and bloodstained, I gathered up and treasured in my soul the likeness of his olden self, that was ever to remain with me till I should see him restored to it again-in heaven.

**** By-and-bye the doctor came in; then after looking at him, turned to me with mouth close set. Would you wish other advice sent for?' he whispered.

I shook my head, saying, what I then first remembered, that my father and Doctor Ledby were to have followed me.

Nothing more can be done, I apprehend,' he muttered again. He was a man eminent in the district, and having, indeed, a fearful experience of similar cases among the miners and stonecutters.

sional remarks which I but imperfectly comprehended; 'about-perhaps towards night.'

He paused considerately, imagining perhaps, that there might be some feeling hidden underneath the blank calm he doubtless thought so strange. Then he silently took his leave.

I remained alone with Geoffrey. Occasionally the woman of the house came in with offers of service, but she never stayed long, and her intrusions grew less frequent as the day advanced. My father and Dr. Ledby did not appear. I do not know why-I never knew.

I did not think of their absence. My whole world of thought, of feeling, was bounded by the rude walls of that little room. There I sat and watched his fitful sleep, or listened to the terrible ravings of his troubled waking. He would slumber for a few minutes, and then awake, each time to a new form of delirium. Sometimes he pushed me from him, shrieking out that the sight of me was a torture to him, and bidding me leave him-leave him! Again he fancied I was Mary, and spoke tenderly, in low murmurs, telling how dear I was, how fondly he loved me, clasping my hands, and looking up into my eyes, till I too had well nigh shrieked out in my agony and despair.

And so passed the day.

The day!-his last of earth-my last of him! And the noon sun faded quietly away, the red sunset glowed into the little room, and the dull twilight came on.

He had fallen into a sleep-deeper and more protracted than any former one-leaning his head upon my arm as I crouched down at his bedside. And while he slept the twilight deepened into night, and through an opening in the window curtain, I could see stars shining.

on the

The firelight flickered wall, and played upon my face, as I could feel. And when I turned my eyes from the stars, by the coal-flame I saw that Geoffrey was awake, and looking on me with a changed look --with his own look. And he uttered my name in a low faint voice, trying the while to lift his head.

I raised it silently, and we looked at one another. The doctor had

Mary-where is Mary?' he asked, uneasily. Why is she not here ?'

I told him. A look of intense anguish came over his features, and then again they took an expression of ineffable tenderness, while he murmured, as to himself

6

Poor child! poor innocent darling! God comfort her!'

He closed his eyes, and said no more. I watched him and was silent-my tears all spent. Presently he turned towards me, and with a gesture caused me to kneel down close beside him, so that I could hear his faintest utterance. 'It is hard,' he faltered, 'not to see her once more. But you, dear Bertha, my true sister! you will stay with me to the end?

not fear?'

You do

No-ah no! Yet,-O Geoffrey, Geoffrey !'

The strong agony-the wild love -would not be repressed. It all burst forth in that long wailing cry, which he heard, but did not understand. O woful, woful love, that must be thrust back, trampled down, hidden out of sight, even in such an hour as this!

Kind Bertha ! dear loving friend!' he kept saying, feebly stroking my head as it lay crushed down between my hands. Then there was a silence, till again he spoke.

Bertha! you will take care of Mary? You will never forsake the child! Look up, and promise me.'

I tried to speak. But my strength failed me when I met his eyes, and again the cry escaped my lips :

Oh Geoffrey!- My Geoffrey! Let me die!'

He scarce heeded; only looking steadfastly at me he repeated, in a troubled tone, Promise me!'

I lifted my eyes once more to his face, where the indescribable change

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was growing fast-fast. And the sight froze me into quietness again.

I promised, and the anxious look faded away into a beautiful calm.

You will love her. You will watch over her happiness. You will never leave her, Bertha ?'

Never-till I die!'

'Good, dear sister!' he murmured. Tell her, tell her,' he went on, his voice gradually weakening, tell her I bless her; tell her

He moved restlessly on his pillow. I gently raised his head and rested it on my shoulder. He lay there quite content, and once again smiled up in my face, pressing my hand, which he still held. Then his lips moved in prayer. I could distinguish my own name and hers repeated many times, while the brightness of that last smile yet lingered on his face.

Then his hold of my hand was loosened, and the lips stirred no longer. I knew that my arms held only Geoffrey's corse.

And he knew then I loved him!

A long time has passed since that night.

I have kept my promise. Mary and I have never been long separated. I was with her through all the time of deep, desperate woe that followed upon Geoffrey's death. I was her nurse, her helper, her comforter-even I! I prayed with her, and for her, as I had learned to pray only since I had seen him die. And from that time until now I have been her constant friend, her tender watchful sister-as he would have wished. And as I felt myself gradually drawing nearer to the rest I so long prayed for, my only care was the thought of leaving her before my work was done and I no longer needed.

That trouble is removed. Mary's grief, so terrible at first, so wild and so despairing, has yielded to the influence of changed scene and lapse of time. Renewed health brought fresh feelings-new hopes. She was so young-life was as yet almost an unread page to her. Gradually, the one sad memory assumed a new shape in her mind, till at last it became as it will be, I believe, ever more, a kind of sacred, solemn presence, too sacred and too solemn to

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ore her time. An old woman, "ovdeľ perhaps, or aunt, sat by her, Ta presats per with all manner of Le kiemons-caressing and con5062 2—all sue pettishly rejected Truly permitted. Every

*** and then I could see a tear er iars-rried eye and er worn heek. I had

10 20670 Quess her story though it ave done so, because it * The alla coce by my next cur, a oqueious Bolognese. dence been prima he heatre of Bologna, tonescu, sumired, and applaudedlad ved is uterine usually do; Pud now, 'having survived her beauty liu her reputacen - a plaything broken and lung away- was returning to her native cbscurity at Massa Lemarin, to pass her remaining days in taas meritorious virtue which arises from the absence of temptation, and that unfeigned repentance wi.ca deepens with each successive wrasie.

So we feited on, over a road deep in dust, bordered with orchards and maize fields. Every three miles, or thereabouts, we came upon a picket of Austrian soldiers or Italian cara

1853.]

binieri, whose duty was to clear the road of the brigands. The exploits of these gentry had formed the staple of conversation all the way from Bologna. At a point in the road which enjoyed the worst repute we saw five or six fellows in heterogeneous clothing, and armed with long guns, come running across a field toward us. The women, whose nerves were shaken by the tales of blood they had been hearing and telling, at once made up their minds that these were brigands; they clasped their hands, shrieked, and invoked the Madonna, and refused to be re-assured at any price. I myself confess to an uncomfortable sensation about the left side, where my gold doppie were stored in a secret pocket. However, the supposed brigands proved to be only a patrol of carabinieri. The mistake was excusable; for the appearance of these true men' quite corresponded with my ideal of a thief.

At Massa Lombarda and Lugoboth dull and dismal little towns, which not even the sunshine could furbish up into the semblance of cheerfulness-most of our companions descended; and, as we approached Ravenna, the loquacious Bolognese and I were left alone. He was indefatigable in pointing out all the objects of interest on the road; and few were the places which he had not a story to fit. About three miles from Ravenna he asked

me

Do you see that cottage, almost hidden in the tall reeds by the river side, and that boat stranded in the mud? Well, that's the house and that's the boat of Il Passatore.'

This was a famous brigand-the Dick Turpin of Romagna-whose fame had reached us even in England, and who was the hero of many of the exploits which had been related to me that day. As his name imports, he was originally a ferryman; but forsaking the river for the road, became by his address and courage the terror of a whole province. The contadini, however, and the lower orders generally, had a certain liking for him, inasmuch as though unscrupulous in getting, yet in bestowing riches he was most princely.' Perhaps if the same could be said of the cardinals of the

187

present time, they would be popular

too.

To this popularity he owed his long impunity: the wily rustics always helped to baffle the search of the soldiers; and the latter were nothing loath to be spared a deathstruggle with Il Passatore. He used, by way of bravado, even to show himself publicly in towns and

churches, and no man dared or cared to stop his way. A man in humble life whom I afterwards met, told me, that being once at Faenza at a great fair, he and some others were joined at a public house by a short, thickset, good-humoured looking stranger, who insisted upon treating the whole party to wine, and did so right royally. When he rose to go, they begged to know to whom they were indebted for the feast. 'Signori,' said the stranger, with a courteous bow, 'I am Il Passatore, at your service.'

Some two years ago this man was betrayed by a treacherous publican, and killed after a desperate and bloody strife. His body was exposed for two days in the marketplace of Bologna, to assure the citizens that their bug-bear was dead at last. If it was also meant to terrify the other bandits, it failed; for they soon found new leaders, and recommenced their depredations. I was told that a priest at Castel San Pietro, Don Gaetano by name, actually harboured a band in his house-a safe earth,' where no one would think of looking for them

and received his share of the spoil. At last, suspecting that his complicity was getting wind, he went to the Commandant at Bologna, offering, if a carta di sicurezza were given to himself, to denounce the band. His terms were accepted; he introduced the soldiers by a back door, and they pounced upon the unsuspecting robbers while at supper, and took or killed them all! And what was done to the priest? Oh, he got his carta di sicurezza, and says mass as usual.

Let this suffice for a sample of a thousand similar stories, which I heard in Romagna, generally from people of character and cultivation. Many of them were doubtless exaggerated in detail, some apocryphal altogether; but I doubt not that, if we could evaporate all the fiction,