she would not now have laid her young head so unrepiningly on her prison pillow, nor have fallen asleep so peacefully, after having breathed a hopeful prayer to God for his merciful forgiveness in heaven, and for a speedy death on earth. Infinitely, oh! infinitely less bitter, less heart-breaking, were the night thoughts of Jessie in her prison, than those of Ellen in her father's house, and on her bed of down. She had prostrated her heart in deepest penitence before the throne of God, and had, in all sin gleness and sincerity of spirit, blessed the mercy which had sent her such chastisement for her faults in this world, as had taught her to bend in lowliness of heart and penitence of soul before the only tribunal that an immortal being has reasonable cause to fear. And yet she had at length become fully aware of the nature of the accusation recorded against her, and of the fearful penalty she must pay if she could not disprove it. She felt, too, with the most perfect and settled conviction, that such disproving was utterly and entirely out of her power. But, instead of adding to her sufferings, this unwavering conviction very greatly lessened them, for it spared her all the feverish throbbings of uncertainty, and that sickening vibration between hope and fear which is calculated to produce a species of suffering infinitely more hard to bear than the most violent crisis that ever tried the strength of human nerves. All such uncertainty was spared to Jessie. She had learned from the gaoler, with an emotion of positive joy, that her trial was to take place almost immediately, as the spring assizes for that year were particularly early, for she considered this portion of the punishment which her fault had entailed upon her as merely a necessary ceremony which must precede her death. Hope from it she had none, positively and literally, none; the very idea that any such chance could exist never entered her head for a moment.

Jessie Phillips had, in fact, very deliberately passed judgment against herself already; for by degrees she had learned clearly and distinctly to understand all that had been, and all that was to be alleged against her, as well as all the well-connected chain of circumstantial evidence which so strongly confirmed every part of the accusation. She had gone over every part of this chain carefully and calmly, and had become perfectly convinced that no honest jury could fail to deliver it as their opinion that her murdered child had received its death from her. When told by Mr. Green (for that excellent man had made her repeated visits) that the body of the strangled infant had been found outside the shed, and immediately under the shutter which opened just above the spot where she had herself been found, she manifested more agitation than she had betrayed for many days past, and the sorrowing clergyman was more than ever confirmed in his belief that she had indeed been herself the destroyer of her new-born babe. Gladly, very gladly would he have welcomed the belief, also, that this dreadful act had been perpetrated in a fit of unconsciousness or delirium; but, if it had been the object nearest poor Jessie's hear to

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convince him of the contrary, she could not have succeeded better, for every word and every movement tended to convince him that no such hallucination had fallen upon her. She had changed colour repeatedly, and shuddered perceptibly as she listened to his accurate description of the precise manner in which the body had been found, and more than once she uttered a stifled groan. At one time she covered her eyes with her hand, and seemed for several minutes to be plunged in very earnest thought. And then she removed her hand, and looking sadly but steadily in the face of her venerable companion, she said,

"If you please, sir, you must not ask me any more questions that may puzzle me, one way or another, about all this dreadful business, or any thing that has happened to me since I left the workhouse, or how any thing of it all came about; for all such questions only seem to set me upon hoping, and guessing, and trying to make out that every thing may have been quite different from what it really was. I do not feel any wish or desire to deceive you, sir, or any body else, about what is done and over. Not all the words in the world can alter it; no, nor could every drop of blood in my veins, if I could pour it out on the earth before you, wash out my sin. I have not always been able to recollect things so clear and plain as I seem to do now, and if I have said first one thing, and then another, this want of clearness was the cause of it. But now I have quite come to the truth about it in my own mind, and I will tell it to you all at once, if you wish to hear it; but afterwards, if you please, sir, I would rather not talk any more about it, for it will do nobody any good, nor me neither, but quite the contrary. The dreadful repeating of all the particulars cannot undo the deed I have done, nor can all the talk in the world do me the good that praying to God does. It won't be very long now, you know. sir, before it is all over and ended; and all the time left won't be too much to be spent in praying for God's mercy and forgiveness."

"I fear, indeed, that you say truly, my poor girl," Mr. Green replied; "nor will I trouble you to repeat any of the unhappy circumstances a second time, but I should be glad to hear them from you once, and that now, as you ap pear to have recovered sufficient composure of spirits to tell me every thing distinctly.”

"Yes, sir," said the pale girl, with that rigid look of steadfast fortitude which, perhaps, nothing but despair can give; "yes, sir, I am now perfectly composed, and quite ready to tell you all I know, for your great kindness well deserves that I should do every thing you desire, let it be painful or not. And this, sir. is what I now feel sure must be the truth. It must have been I myself, and no other, that did whatever was done to my poor baby; and it must have been I that put it through the opening, which was exactly above the place where I lay, for who else could have done it? I remember well, perfectly well, seeing that large shutter, and the loose button that fastened it, just at the dreadful moment that I was laying myself down; I remember well, too, all the thoughts

that were working in my head at the time. They were all mixed up with the dreadful fear that 1 should be seen and known; and it was thought of this kind, be very sure of it, sir, which made me do the dreadful deed I have done. It seems very strange to myself, now, that I should ever have been able to do it; but isn't it stranger still that I should be able to talk of it all so quietly, sir? So it is not that, it is not the strangeness of it that ought to put any such sinful thoughts into my head as the denying it would be.'

"It would indeed," said Mr. Green, "be a very grievous crime were you to falsify facts stated at so solemn a moment as this; but neither would I wish you, Jessie, to steel yourself into a hardened state of indifference. You have much to answer for, and your repentance should be meek and full of sorrow."

"Oh! sir," replied the poor girl, while the but recently banished tears gushed anew from her eyes, it is not hardened indifference that supports my courage; but how can I think of all the goodness and mercy of God, as I read it told in this blessed book, and as I feel it in the dark night come in comfort to my heart how can I think and feel so, and not rejoice at the remembrance of what is coming upon me? Is it not a great comfort, sir, that I shall not mind death in any shape, or in any way; for what is that, with the hope of God's mercy joined to it, compared to living on, and having such things as I have done to think upon?"

"Then you have made up your mind to confess the crime and plead guilty?" said Mr. Green, with an involuntary feeling of regret, as the last gleam of hope for the unhappy girl seemed to vanish and die away.

"I hope, Sir, that nobody won't force me to say any more about it," replied Jessie, somewhat fretfully. "I don't know any more about it than they must all know themselves, for, of course, they will all have heard the same account of every thing that I have heard myself, and I do think it will be very like cruelty to torture a poor creature by forcing her to talk about her own madness."

"Then you still mean that I should understand that you were out of your senses when all this happened?" said Mr. Green, fixing his eyes upon her with a strong expression of suspicion.

Certainly I do, sir," replied Jessie, in a tone of quiet decisiveness, which produced the most unpleasant effect on the nerves of her auditor.

"I had better leave you, young woman," he said, rising from the chair he had occupied near her. "I neither desire to entrap you into making any confession beyond what you might wish to do for the relief of your own mind, nor yet to encourage you in the idle notion that your declaring yourself to have been insane, when no evidence whatever exists to confirm such a statement, will avail to avert the sentence of the law upon the act which you have committed; neither do I like to sit and listen to your declarations that you are looking forward with satisfaction to the execution of a sentence which, you are evidently hoping to avert by a state

ment which appears to me utterly false, notwithstanding my earnest wish to believe it true."

So saying, he left the room, and the poor prisoner watched him depart without reluctance, for she saw that he attributed to her motives of which she was perfectly innocent, and, moreover, that he did not consider temporary madness as any excuse, even in the eyes of God, for what had been done under its influence; which she could not but think was somewhat a harsh judgment in a clergyman, though it might, and doubtless must, be very legally right in a jury.

Yet, in truth, Jessie at this time cared wonderfully little what any one thought about her. She clung with a sort of passionate hope to the idea of speedy death as the only possible relief left for her misery, and the mercy of God was now the only mercy that she seemed capable of valuing. Her melancholy composure, which was, perhaps, not altogether unlike the steadiness of a wreck, when settling in the troubled sea previous to sinking, was more shaken by the next visitor, whose humanity induced him to pass through the gloomy gates of a prison to visit her, than it had been by any thing which had occurred since she had made up her mind to receive the sentence of death as the "end-all" of her frightful sufferings. For this visitor was Mr. Rimmington, the honoured pastor, whose image was connected and bound up with all the happiest recollections of her life. Her first sensations at beholding him, poor soul! were those of joy, positive joy, and gladness; and when he appeared at the door she made a hasty step towards him, as if she thought he were come with power to redeem her from the abyss of misery in which she was plunged, and to lead her back to the dear innocent happiness of former days. But, ere she reached him, the heightened colour had already faded from her cheek; the eager eye, which had been raised to meet his, sunk to the ground; and, had she not taken hold of a chair to support her, she would probably have fallen at his feet.

Mr. Rimmington had decided upon making this painful visit from feeling that one who had from birth been his parishioner, and who, till her terrible falling away, had created sentiments of respect, affection, and esteem, in all who knew her, had still some claim upon him, which it would be a dereliction of his sacred duty to neglect, even in the degraded state to which her conduct had reduced her. Perhaps, too, his recent conversation with Miss Maxwell might have left some little feeling of restlessness upon his mind; not, indeed, as to the propriety of the advice he had given her, but as to the feeling of severity with which he was conscious he had spoken of the unhappy creature who was, in all human probability, about to atone with her young life for all the evil she had done. He wondered not at the state of trembling weakness which seized upon the miserable culprit upon seeing one whom she had been wont to meet under such sadly different circumstances; and while his own kind heart ached for the sufferings he witnessed, though believing

them so thoroughly deserved, he silently motioned her to sit down, in order that she might recover strength and composure to listen to him, before he attempted to speak to her. A very few moments sufficed for this, for Jessie had lost all the hopes and all the fears which could render the presence of any human being sufficiently important to agitate her long.

"It is not necessary that I should tell you, Jessie Phillips," said he, as soon as he perceived that she was in a condition to understand what he wished to say to her "it cannot be necessary that I should tell you that I am most deeply grieved to see you here, for you must know it well without my saying it. But I have thought it my duty to visit you, in case there were any thing you might wish to say to one whom you must remember as a friend as long as you can remember any thing. And I would wish, also, if you can tell me that your mind is in a proper state for it, that we should pray together."

Not all poor Jessie's stoicism of despair could prevent tears from filling her eyes, and soon trickling down her cheeks, also, at this address, but

"She wiped them soon,"

and gently, but earnestly, thanked him for his kindness in coming to her.

"Indeed, my poor girl," he replied, "I mean it kindly, though I well know that this meeting must be very painful to both of us. And do not fancy, Jessie, that I am come here to entrap you with questions," added the good man, while his mild eye rested with scrutinising earnestness on a countenance which, much to his surprise, appeared to him, notwithstanding the striking and most melancholy change which had passed over it, to wear the same expression of guileless truth that it had always done. "But, though to entrap you, or to say or do any thing that a friendly and pitying heart would shrink from, be equally out of my intention and my power, I should wish to ask you one or to two questions.

"And 1, sir," replied Jessie, mournfully, "am ready to answer them, let them be what they may; for I must be still deeper sunk in sin and shame than I am before I can forget all your goodness, all your long kindness to my poor mother, all your condescending notice to my unworthy self. I will answer any thing that you will please to ask, though I know that it is not within the reach either of my words, or even yours, sir, to change the very least thing of all that has been and all that is."

"True, Jessie," he replied, again looking earnestly in her face, for there was something in her tone that he did not well understand. It could not fairly be called reckless, but there was something of resolute firmness, if not of hard indifference, in her manner, which puzzled him. But his eye did not assist his ear with any power to comprehend what was the real state of the young creature before him. Nor did this shew any want of acuteness on his part. The moral condition of Jessie was no common one. Guilty she was, and she knew it, and felt it well. Had the accusations brought against

her been such only as she deserved, Mr. Rimmington would have had no difficulty in reading upon her countenance what was passing in her heart; but though herself listening to the accusation of having murdered her child, as to a fact respecting which the evidence was too strong to be doubted, there was no answering throb of remorse within. Misery, lamentation, and woe, followed the horrible conviction that this dismal deed was her own; but remorse cannot be engendered in the mind by the same process; and as Jessie had neither the wish nor the power to simulate what she did not feel, that line of deepest suffering which indicates remorse was wanting, amidst the multitude of sorrows that the strangely altered young features shewed so plainly. And this it was which puzzled him;¦ for it was beyond his power to discover in | what consisted the sort of incongruity of which he was conscious.

After having thus vainly examined her countenance for a moment, he said, "Of course, Jessie, as you will naturally suppose, I have i heard many strange and terrible histories about you, for such, as you cannot doubt, are now on the lips of all men. The most important of these, such, I mean, as concern the fate of your infant, are confirmed by too strong a body of evidence to leave any possibility of doubt on the minds of any who have listened to it. Concerning this part of the unhappy business I mean not to question you, for no benefit of any kind could possibly arise from it. But there are other statements which have reached me, of the correctness of which I feel less certain. Not, indeed, that there is any thing left in doubt that can be considered of much importance, yet, nevertheless, I should like to know whether the cir cumstances stated are true or false. For instance, Jessie, I wish you to tell me plainly, and without reserve of any kind, whether it be true that you went to the manor-house, a few hours only before your child was born, for the purpose of obtaining money from Mr. Frederic Dalton?"

Jessie changed colour violently, first becom ing suddenly red, and in the next moment fright. fully pale.

"If the answering this question be painful to you, Jessie, do not reply at all," said Mr. Rimmington; "for as I have already told you, it is not one of any real importance, or capable of affecting your situation in any way. And, believe me, I should be very unwilling to give you unnecessary pain.'

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"Yes, it is painful both to hear it and to answer it," replied the miserable girl, while her working features testified the truth of what she said; but this is no reason why I should decline to answer it. One pang, more or less. matters but little. And indeed the pang would be worse still, did I refuse to answer. Yes, sir, I did go to the manor-house, not very long. I believe, before my child was born. . . . . Yet, no, sir, no, it was not to the manor-house-1 went to watch for Frederic Dalton outside the gates of the stable-yard,—I did watch for him, -I did see him,—and I did ask him for money,"

There was a sort of dogged resoluteness in the manner in which she pronounced these words

1

1

sufficed in that hour of agony to prevent her executing the project she had formed. She had not, indeed, lost her reason, but rather seemed to possess more power than usual of bringing before her mind at one view all the circumstances of her own condition, and their bearing and effect upon those most dear to her. There was no confusion of intellect; all was terriby distinct and clear in the frightful picture thus spread before her, but every feature in it was gigantic, and every feeling, every faculty, seemed stretched and distended into supernatural strength and power, that she might gaze upon, and understand it all. When addressed, she turned to the speaker, and, after the interval of a moment, replied composedly, but as briefly as possible; and having finished dressing, in which Henrietta and Caroline assisted her, she spoke to them for the first time of her own accord, saying, in her usual tone of gentle affection,

"My dear girls, I am going to write to Pemberton, so you must let me be alone, dear loves, for I have a good deal to say to him." "You shall not be interrupted, dearest Ellen," replied Henrietta, soothingly; "but you will take some breakfast, dear, before you begin? You will not refuse this, I hope, for it is long since you have taken any thing; and, though you have slept so late, you look sadly pale and exhausted.

"No," replied Ellen, "I will not refuse some tea; but you must let me have it here, and then I shall not lose time; and you must bring it yourself, Henrietta, for I know you will be kind enough not to hinder me by staying to talk, after you have set it down.'

Henrietta promised to comply and then both sisters, having impressed a loving kiss upon her forehead, left her in the solitude for which she was again intensely longing. The having decided upon writing to Lord Pemberton was a relief to her; it soothed her with the belief that she was about to perform an act of daty; and she eagerly opened her desk, drew forth her paper, and prepared herself for the task. But she laid down her pen the moment she had taken it up, murmuring to herself, as she did so, "No, no. They must not come in, poor children, and find me at it! I may not always be quite as much composed as I am now. "And then with steadfast resolution, which wanted nothing but the reality of what it feigned to be in truth a mastery over anguish and despair, she settled her features into a sort of rigid tranquillity, and awaited Henrietta's return. The interval was not long, but it sufficed to bring back with renewed penitence the remembrance of the terrible moment when she had opened her eyes and seen the friendly Martha beside her! Again she recalled all the circumstances of this truly kind visit, and perfectly well remembered, not only the almost repulsive manner in which she had received her, but also the shrinking feeling of repugnance to all discussion which it had caused. "That was not right-that was not righteous," thought poor Ellen, with a pang of self-reproach. "Ought I to shun, and hate to look upon her, excellent as she is, because I suspect that she sees all with the same horrible

clearness that I do? It was cowardly-it was ungrateful! and oh, how vain!" To feel persuaded that she had been wrong was quite sufficient to make her decide upon offering instant atonement; and, when Henrietta brought in the little tray she had prepared, Ellen said. with more of her usual manner than she had yet spoken,

"I should very much like to see Martha Maxwell again, after I have written my letter. It was very kind of her to visit me as she did last night, but I felt ill, and did not receive her as I ought to have done. Will you send to her, Henrietta, and ask her to come to me?"

"Yes, Ellen," replied her delighted attendant, now fully convinced that the fears which had been excited by the fainting-fit of her darling sister were altogether unfounded. "If you will eat a good breakfast, and not make your head ache by writing too long a letter to his lordship, I will bring Martha to you, as soon as the said letter shall have been despatched."

This was answered by a smile, but truly “in such a sort" that it expressed more woe than any weeping could have done. But the gay and well-contented Henrietta marked it not, and left the heart-broken Ellen to the happiness of inditing an epistle to the beloved of her heart-to her noble, affianced husband!

Ellen watched the door as it closed behind her sister, and then, with desperate courage, addressed herself to her terrible task. For one moment ere her pen touched the paper, she doubted her power to perform the stern duty she had imposed upon herself. A rush of tender, gentle recollections came upon her mind, that for a little while deluged her cheeks with tears, and rendered her quite incapable of writing. Poor Ellen! her past sufferings and her past happiness were both equally against her. The first, by their lengthened pressure on her nerves, had weakened and almost subdued her spirits: while the last, by the fulness of its innocent and holy joy, had soothed them again into a state of such exquisite felicity as made her present misery fall upon her with overpowering weight. But all that was left of unblighted energy within her seemed to rally round her heart as she remembered the high and unblemished honour of the man she loved. His steadfast attachment to her had clouded his early happiness, but it had brought no touch of disgrace; for his proud mother and still prouder father had declared that his conduct throughout the whole period, even while marked by unyielding fidelity to her, had been equally characterised by unvarying truth to them; and should she now suffer the shame, the infamy, the horror that was about to tall on herself and her devoted family, to reach to him? She reasoned the point no farther; she passed over her own agony, and even his, under eternal separation, as something not suffi ciently important to create a doubt as to what it might be best to do; and once more, seizing her pen, she rapidly wrote the following note:

"It is with pain, certainly with great pain, Lord Pemberton, that I set about performing a task which is, however, too important to be