fear any permanent injury to Margaret's health from her presence during these sad fits of poor Arundel's-though he admits that they are very painful for any friend of the patient to witness. He explained to me that Arundel does not recognise Margaret any more than any other person, but that as soon as he sees her his fury ceases, and he becomes tractable. Her voice, both in speaking and singing, has a powerful effect in his depressed and melancholy moods, and he shows the greatest reluctance to let her leave the room. Dr. Wynn does not think that any other person would be likely to affect his patient so favourably as your sister. It is just one of those strange fancies of insanity which should not be thwarted, and which may be made use of to work a cure. He intimated, also, that Margaret's previous experience in such things, her knowledge and love of the patient-her firmness, gentleness, and remarkable quickness in sympathising with his half-formed wishes, made her daily (or rather nightly) presence absolutely essential to his recovery. He even went so far as to tell me, that if Margaret were to fall ill, so as to be unable to continue her help in this case, or if her friends were to interfere to take her away just now, he should be very apprehensive that the present crisis would end in permanent alienation of reason.

"Arundel has had a very long sleep to-day, I hear, and is better this evening. I think I told you he sleeps during the day, and is awake all night. He is very much delighted with the new conservatory. It is lighted up at night for him. Dr. Wynn says he walks up and down it for hours together, talking to himself. He seems gay and happy when Margaret is there with him. I often hear the sound of the new organ in the oak parlour in the middle of the night. It has a solemn, supernatural sound, as it comes sweeping through these long galleries. And Margaret's singing, though it is too far off for me to hear it distinctly, affects me to tears. I think of those two young people when they were happy infants in their mothers' arms. And then I grow wicked enough to mourn over their lives, and think what I, in my short-sighted wis

dom, would have ordained for each, instead of this terrible affliction. Margaret herself is animated by a far better feeling. She is a noble, unselfish, pious creature. Every one loves her here. If it were not for her, I do not believe we should be able to keep any of the younger servants. The attractions of 'a nobleman's family' are not quite strong enough to overcome the terrors of insanity. Her example, however, and her kind consideration of their ignorant fears, retains the strongestminded among the women, and the very high wages we are compelled to give, makes the men willing to pocket their natural dread of a lunatic. They cannot believe that he is harmless.

"On looking over what I have written, I see that you will have a right to interfere on Margaret's behalf. I myself am a trouble instead of a help to her. Indeed, no one here is of use to her, and she is indispensable to us all. I would ask you not to urge any change upon her until Frank and his wife return to England. We have not dared to spoil their honeymoon by telling them the whole truth. I cannot expect to remain in this world much longer, and I would fain see all my children before I die. You must come back soon, and bring William Grey with you, to bid a last farewell to your “Affectionate friend, "MARY PRICE."

The good old lady's foreboding proved true. She died within six weeks of the date of this letter.

Miss Price died in Margaret's arms. The young earl and his countess, Lady Geraldine and Mr. William Grey, were also present. Hers was a placid death; and her memory was cherished for years by them all. She was buried in Carleton church, near the monument erected to her favourite pupil, Caroline, Countess of Carleton; beneath which a marble slab bore these words: "Sacred to the Memory of Mary Price. A true-hearted woman. The beloved friend of the above-mentioned Caroline Ruby."

The death of Miss Price was a serious misfortune to Margaret Hastings. Her life henceforth was unsheltered by the countenance and approval of a person of her own sex and condition. While the old lady lived, she furnished Margaret with an unanswerable excuse for remaining at Carleton. Even her sister Sophia and her brother Henry acknowledged that Margaret could not leave old Miss Price to the care of servants." After her death, however, they began to persecute their sister about her "absurd determination to put herself out of the pale of genteel society, by taking the situation of housekeeper; in a house, too, where she had been an honoured guest."

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Margaret bore their disapproval, and listened to their objections, with the respect which she thought they deserved,for were they not anxious for her welfare in this matter? But she persisted in her determination. Her want of proper self-respect and regard for her family was so much deplored and resented by them, and by their younger brother and sister, Tom and Clara (now first entering into society), that Margaret was quietly dropped by them all; and henceforth she was visited by none of her family but my father. He never saw her at Carleton Castle again for many years, but he used to meet her in London, at the house of their old acquaintances, the Greys of Langford Grange-and sometimes at the old Rectory in the village of Carleton-and once or twice they met at an inn in the town of P-. After my father's marriage, on the occasion of my own christening, my aunt paid him a visit in our house at North Ashurst. My mother was displeased by the extraordinary respect and affection he exhibited for this maiden sister of his "who was only a housekeeper in a nobleman's family," and yet "had the ease and assurance of a duchess," as my mother thought.

She was so much occupied by events of far higher importance during the year succeeding Miss Price's death, that my aunt had little time to grieve over this family antagonism. The young earl with his bride had established themselves for the autumn at Carleton as soon as they knew Dr. Wynn's

opinion that Lady Geraldine had better remain where she was. Mr. Arundel Raby's painful disorder had passed the crisis, but he was still unable to leave his own apartments. The earl's attentive care of his brother was remarked with great admiration by every one. "Such an affectionate brother was

rarely seen.'

16

“He even deprived himself of the company of his beautiful wife (when they had not been married four months, too!) to pass whole days and nights with his afflicted brother!"- "Oh! there are few such brothers as the young Earl of Carleton."

And the countess had her trouble also-her only sister was dying of consumption. Ah! it is no wonder that beautiful young couple look very sad and solemn when they appear before the whole village at Carleton church on Sundays. Deary, deary me!" groaned the old women. "They are

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not a bit happier than the rest of the world, if we are to judge from their looks."

CHAPTER VII.

RECOVERY, AND A FINAL CURE.

"Such punishments I said were due
To natures deepliest stained with sin,
But wherefore, wherefore fall on me ?—
To be beloved is all I need,

And whom I love, I love indeed."

COLERIDGE.

THE day had been, as October days in England often are, among the finest of the year,-bright, clear, and still, with a delicious warmth in the air, and not breeze enough to shake to the ground the red and yellow leaves which had already begun to show themselves along the dark outline of the woods in Carleton Park. The sunset was gorgeous; and the young countess stood with Margaret Hastings on the terrace outside the window of the oak parlour to watch the changing tints of the sky, and their effect on the landscape. Lady Geraldine lay in the window-seat propped up by cushions, and covered with shawls. She was not looking at the sky, but was read

ing intently. It was difficult to recognise in the pale, thin, hollow-cheeked woman, the lovely, energetic girl of three years ago. "Decay's effacing fingers" had wrought this change, a change that unfortunately need not be particularised in this country, where we are but too familiar with it. As she read on, eagerly devouring the type with her large, bright eyes, an observer would have known that what she read had more than ordinary interest for her. It was a volume of poetry lately published. Its author had not very long before been snatched from the world, which had always been at enmity with him, and which had not yet learnt to give him honour due.

"Beautiful, glorious Shelley!" thought Lady Geraldine, as she dropped the book in her lap. "If I had but known you! But I shall know you ere long," she added, smiling to herself. “And this other! young Adonais! We shall have the same spiritual home hereafter, as we have had the same fate here. Poetry, consumption, and early death. It is not sad for us, only for those we leave behind. Brothers! gladly shall I join you before the last sere leaf is swept from that tree."

A bright smile lingered about her mouth as she lifted her eyes from the book, and fixed them on an oak-tree called the Giant of Carleton, which stood a quarter of a mile off in the park. Margaret and Alice now approached her. "See!" she said—and her voice was not weak even at this late stage of the disease" the old giant looks as if King Midas had touched him, and he were turned into burnished gold." "It is King Phoebus who has done it," said Margaret. "At least, degenerate moderns would say so. I believe in the early gods though, and I think your friend Hyperion must have been restored to his kingdom to-day. I never saw such a magnificent sunset.”

"Ge

"The air is getting rather cool," said the countess. raldine, you must not have the window open any longer." They entered the room, and Margaret shut the window. "Don't disturb me yet," said Lady Geraldine; happy and comfortable here. It is a lovely evening.”

I am so