was the mourning of nature and of man for vegetable and for human life. No color was left--that black, that white, thus united, struck the soul with awe. "What a sad omen!" sighed Lady Nevil.--"Lucy," interrupted Oswald, "trust me, it is not for you."--"Alas!" he thought, "it was not beneath such auspices I travelled with Corinne. Where is she now? may not these gloomy objects be but warnings of what I am to suffer?" Lucy's nerves were shaken by the terrors of her journey. This kind of fear is almost unknown to an intrepid man; and she mistook for carelessness of her, Oswald's ignorance of such alarm's possible existence. The common people, who have no better exercise for fancy, love to exaggerate all hazards, and delight in the effect they thus produce on their superiors. The inn-keepers, every winter, tell their guests wild tales of "_le Mont_," as if it were an immovable monster, guarding the vales that lead to the land of promise. They watch the weather for formidable symptoms, and beg all foreigners to avoid crossing Mont Cenis during _la tourmente_. This is a wind announced by a white cloud, spread like a sheet in the air, and by degrees covering the whole horizon. Lucy had gained all possible information, unknown to Nevil, who was too much occupied by the sensation of re-entering Italy to think on these reports. The possible end and aim of his pilgrimage agitated his wife still more than did the journey itself, and she judged everything unfavorably. In the morning of their ascent, several peasants beset her with forebodings; those hired to carry her up the mountain, however, assured her that there was nothing to apprehend: she looked at Nevil, and saw that he laughed at these predictions; therefore, piqued by his security, she professed herself ready to depart. He knew not how much this resolution cost her, but mounted a horse and followed the litter which bore his wife and child. The way was easy, till they were about the centre of the flat which precedes the descent, when a violent hurricane arose. Drifts of snow blinded Lucy's bearers, and often hid Oswald from her view. The religious men who devote their lives to succor travellers on the Alps began to ring their alarm-bell; yet, though this sound proclaimed the neighborhood of benevolent pity, its rapid and heavy repetition seemed more expressive of dismay than assistance. Lucy hoped that Oswald would propose passing the night at this monastery; but, as she said nothing, he thought it best to hasten on, while daylight lasted. Lucy's bearers inquired, with some uneasiness, if she wished them to descend. "Yes," she said, "since my Lord does not oppose it." She erred in thus suppressing her feelings: the presence of her child would have excused them; but, while we love one by whom we cannot deem ourselves beloved, each instant brings its own sense of humiliation. Oswald remained on horseback, though that was the least safe method of descent, but he believed