Augustus is in heaven."

Lady Astell fell into the arms that her former lover had, with a fearful presentiment, held out to receive her. She had happily fainted.

Scenes like these are best hurried over. Let my gentle readers of the tender sex imagine, if they will, the agonizing recoveries to recollection, and the fearful relapses of the bereaved mother-the more violent, yet infinitely less painful, hysterics of Miss Matilda-and the wild, and almost savage grief of Rebecca, who, as yet, had never fainted. Let us now suppose that it is nearly midnight; and that the afflicted party, each fearful of the effect of solitude upon the other, dread to separate.

At length, the bereaved mother lifted up her voice, and spoke:

"The Lord hath given, and the Lord hath taken away: blessed be the name of the Lord!" "Amen!" responded Mr. Underdown, solemnly.

"But it is thou, oh, my brother! who hast

done this-this over-cruel thing. Who now shall fill up the void in the chivalry of the country? The noble of the land may now call in vain for the representative of the noblest of the races among them. He is dead! My Augustus! my son! my brave and my gentle one! Brother, thy face I never can again look upon; we must be strangers to each other. Your heart was stone when you plucked my solace, my support, my glory from me. You cannot give me my son again. I forgive you I hope I do forgive you, but let me never see you

more."

"Agnes! Lady Astell!" said the agitated Underdown, "this is unchristian!"

"It ain't," roared out the spoiled child; "it ain't, sir. Let father show his face, if he O Augustus! my

dares let him, I say. dares-let

friend, my dear gentle friend, my playfellow. I'll care for nothing now. I'll learn no more lessons, read no more books; no, I'll never go to church again-never-Augustus, we shall

never more sit in that pew together. I'll tear my clothes, I'll break all my playthings-I will. I'll do all, all I can to spite and to vex my father;—yes, I will, I will;" and she stamped on the floor in wild, and impotent, and most unbecoming passion.

"Go to bed, Miss Bacuissart, directly!" said Mr. Underdown, quite angrily.

"I won't. How dare you to tell me to go to bed in my own house? I don't love you any longer, nor I won't let you love me. I'll sit up crying all night. Go to bed, indeed! Aunt Agnes won't tell me to go to bed. Dear, good aunt Agnes, if you say to me, go, I will go;" and she came and kneeled at her feet, and buried her tear-scorched and inflamed countenance in her lap. "You will not scold me; no, you loved me for poor Gusty's sake."

"Loved you-oh, yes! now and for ever, my dear, dear child !”

"I will go to bed, aunt, if you wish it."
"No, dear; you had a noble space in the

heart of my son; you shall share in our grief. Now, Mr. Underdown, I know that my task in this world is done; I must prepare myself to die. A few more scenes like this would kill me. To-morrow I will depart for my own desolate home, and make myself ready to render up my soul to its Creator. I cannot stay longer in the house of this murde-this cruel brother: here the air seems to suffocate me. See everything ready for my departure to-morrow, immediately after breakfast-breakfast!-shall I ever eat again? But, before I seek my solitude, let me know all-the manner of it; I am too much stunned to feel a second blow. My approved, my constant friend, read the letter."

Without hesitation or remark, Mr. Underdown read as follows:

"H. M. S. Terrific, Spithead,

April 3, 17

"MY DEAR SISTER,

"I wish that I had Underdown near me.

I'm never lucky when he's not within hail. Couldn't tell you the news by word of mouth. Sha'n't come home till much of the gale has blown itself out. Singular thing this, as I hear that he had come to the title. No luck, as I said, when Underdown is away; pray send him here as soon as may be. This is very bad news, indeed, sister; but we are all God's creatures, and in his hands. I am a good deal broken down myself; refitting the squadron, as you know; but it does not much lessen my grief, and this unfortunate news-but I've forgot that I've not yet told you. It is, perhaps, best that I should make an extract from the ship's log. There can be no lie, there, you know, sister. March 31st. 5 P.M. Strong breezes and cloudy. Wind north and by west a quarter west. Cape La Hogue west, a quarter south, fifteen miles. Saw the French squadron, six sail of the line and two frigates, with twenty prizes, close in-shore on the larboard-tack, going free. At 6° 30', French squadron, round