asked she. "Did you know my father? Was my mother twice married? Had she, had she a son? I never knew a mother's tenderness. I never received a mother's blessing. Oh, speak to me of my mother! Bless me in her name!" "Your mother, was unworthy of you," groaned the invalid. "She forsook, she abandoned her only children.

Oh! she was a wretch, a wretch indeed! She deserved not the blessing of good and dutiful children. She was an outcast from society, an adultress!"

Constance rose from her knees. She paced the apartment with clasped hands, wildly exclaiming, "My mother! oh, my mother! it cannot be! Oh, my mother! My mother! did she, could she abandon her innocent children to disgrace and infamy! Oh, my mother, my mother!" And then, as if suddenly recollecting herself, she flew to the agitated sufferer, and wildly demanded if her mother yet lived.

Maningham took her hand. She looked in his face without speaking. "Constance, my dear Constance!" said he, " be calm!"

"Your Constance," repeated she, with a cold shiver, " your Constance! Once I thought so myself, but now you can give me no comfort. My mother, my unhappy mother, has sealed my destiny. But I will remember your kindness. I will tell it to Sir Charles, and he will not, cannot grudge you my gratitude. Did you not tell me to marry Sir Charles? I only ask you that?"

"Are you really married?" asked ham, with an expression of horror. too late? Are you already married?”

Maning

"Am I

Mrs. Wilson with difficulty preserved herself from fainting.

"You are my brother," said Constance, with encreasing wildness. "Do I not know that you are my brother? I thank God nothing can Sir Charles will be glad to see my brother. And I will tell him how good you are."

cancel the affinity.

"You have no brother," cried Mrs. Wilson, convulsively. "You never had one. That young man is the son of your wretched mother's first husband? Look up, Constance, and believe

me."

Constance groaned audibly. She fixed her eyes on the ground. She leaned her head on the back of the invalid's chair. "Of my mother, of my mother, you speak not. Oh, tell me, does she yet live, that I may fly to embrace her? Can a mother's heart be deaf to the affectionate solicitations of her child? Shall I not win her from the arms of vice? Shall I not speak peace to her perturbed conscience? Shall I not soothe her sorrows, and shelter her in my bosom, from the scorn of a pitiless world?"

Mrs. Wilson groaned convulsively. "Oh!" continued Constance, " if I have a mother, if she lives, if my mother lives, tell me of her! Can any offence live in the memory of a child? Can she forget the being who cherished her infancy? I ask but to know my mother, and you deny "Oh,

me."

The invalid sunk upon her knees. Mountstewart!" cried she, 66 you are now avenged. I have learned to blush before the

pure image of virtue, to tremble in the presence of my own child. Degraded and debased," continued she, uplifting her hands, and speaking in a mournful voice, "Oh, Constance! behold your mother! She humbles herself before you. She asks you not to pity. She hopes not for your forgiveness. For, has she not blighted the sweet blossoms of your infant years?"

Constance threw herself on her knees beside her mother. She folded her arms round her. She supported her head upon her shoulder: and, while she bedewed her pale face with tears, kissed off the drops of agony which rolled down her cheek.

Maningham, in the mean time, gazed on them with folded arms, and a countenance of the deepest despondency. Several times he essayed to address Constance, but in vain, and he was musing on the propriety of quitting the house, when the voice of Constance rouzed him.

"Fly, Maningham! for God's sake, fly!" cried she. "My mother is insensible! send

Martha to us!"

Maningham hurried from the apartment, and did as he was commanded. And then seizing his hat, he went in search of the family apothecary, whose residence he was well acquainted with: while Constance and the nurse exerted themselves to restore the unhappy insensible.

CHAP. XXIII.

"Or should the spark of vestal fire
In some unguarded hour expire,

Or should the nightly thief invade,
Hesperia's chaste and sacred shade,
Of all the blooming spoil possess'd
The dragon honour charm'd to rest;
Shall Virtue's flame no more return,

No more with virgin splendour burn,

No more the ravag'd garden blow,

With Spring's succeeding blossoms? No;

Pity may mourn, but not restore,

And woman falls to rise no more,"

Ir is now time to relate to my readers the history of the unfortunate and guilty Mrs. Mount

stewart.

In a remote but beautiful part of the county of Devon, lived Mr. Baskerville, who inherited from his ancestors a considerable fortune, and an ancient name. Early in youth, he had married, from motives of affection alone, the daughter of a farmer, who, far from rewarding, as she ought to have done, the generous tenderness which had raised her from obscurity, had, after the birth of her first child, eloped from his mansion, with an

officer quartered in that neighbourhood; and, embarking with him soon after for the West-Indies, died of a fever incidental to the climate.

The temper of Mr. Baskerville, which had always been impetuous and ardent, rendered this disappointment insufferably grievous. He re. nounced the world; secluded himself in his own mansion; shut up his infant daughter from all intercourse with society, determining himself to superintend her education. But the passion of revenge, still lurking in his heart, filled it with prejudice and inveteracy. He believed all women alike weak, vain, and capricious. And he vowed an irreconcileable hatred to all who wore the dress of an officer; determining himself to form an alliance for his daughter, when she attained a proper age, without suffering her to have a voice in that which was to decide the future happiness or misery of her life.

To educate a girl, without female assistance, was nearly impossible. Mr. Baskerville sought for a governess, properly qualified to undertake that office. The widow of a clergyman at length offered herself to his acceptance, and he closed with her for a liberal stipend, which was to be paid annually. She was bound to engage with him for the full period of his daughter's minority, and never to absent herself from his mansion, unless her health required it: and her attention was to be rewarded on the day of his daughter's marriage, if that marriage accorded with his wishes, with a farther remuneration, which would make her easy for life.