provide for both these young people; and you must determine their respective claims.” Poor Mary soon after exchanged her abode of peace, for _this_, and the event has confirmed my fears. The gentle and timid Mary neither gained spirits here, nor strove to amuse her aunt’s. She had but one path, it was to submit in silence to her aunt’s temper, and to anticipate her commands by her diligence. She soon perceived the fatal habit which Lucretia indulged; and this produced terror and disgust in her innocent mind, which, as you will believe, did not tend to conciliate her to her aunt’s hardships. I did all that I could do, to soften the one and encourage the other; but my interference was resented, and I was reproached, as being allied to her enemies, and blinded by Malcolm to favour the Heartleys. I was tempted, Lucy, to hazard some questions, with a direct reference to Sir Murdoch’s suspicion of having been poisoned; but a moment’s reflection checked my curiosity; and I diverted her attention from perceiving my embarrassment, by asking her, whether she knew what was become of the gentleman’s portrait, and the papers, which so obviously appeared to have belonged to Mr. Duncan’s story? She unaffectedly answered, that, “Sir Murdoch had, when in London to meet me, consigned them into the hands of the Spanish minister, then resident there; and in the interview,” added she, “he learned that this nobleman was not totally a stranger to the fate of Duncan’s parents; they were dead; and a distant branch of the family was in possession of the title and immense estate; but there was a sister of the Duke still living, who was abbess of a convent; and to her he engaged to deliver these melancholy memorials of her still adored brother. Can you wonder, Miss Cowley,” continued she with emotion, “that I wish for death! think of my meditations, when darkness and repose conceal me from all eyes but those of a merciful Being, who witnesses my agonies. Such has been the ruin effected by a wretch I dare not curse! He is the child of my parents; the ties of blood still flow around my heart; and I implore Heaven’s sparing mercy for him, whilst my soul sickens at the thought of the injuries his hands have wrought, and which no time nor repentance can remedy. Think of his dreadful account with outraged humanity, violated truth, and every law of justice! I endeavour to hope that Charles has found his peaceful grave. I dream of him; and this frame of mind lays me open to superstition: my imagination presents him, as exultingly hovering over me on angel’s wings, smiling with ineffable complacency, and beckoning me to follow him. I try to obey him, and awake trembling. Such are the visions of my sleeping hours! You need not be told the meditations of my waking ones. One single principle of action has counteracted the fatal effects of these perturbations. I love my husband, my dear Miss Cowley, with an affection exclusively his; and I