talking and waking dream, and some painful thoughts had been spoken in it. It always occurred at the dusk of evening, and Adeline herself seemed unconscious of it when she woke up to reality. You may meet with such a case yourselves; when you do, suspect the patient's state of alarming bodily weakness. Adeline's former chamber had been changed for one with a southern aspect. The bed was in a recess, as is customary in the country, or rather in a smaller room, for there were windows and two doors in it. A large cheerful chamber, or sitting-room, the chief, the windows lofty, the fireplace handsome, the little Turkey-carpet mats, scattered on the polished floor, of bright colours. Adeline's sofa just now faced the windows; it was light, and could be turned easily any way on its firm castors; Madame de Castella leaned back in an easy-chair, nearly as pale and worn as Adeline; Mary Carr was working; Rose listlessly turned over the leaves of one of the pretty books lying on the large round table. "Draw aside the curtain, Rose," Adeline said. "The sun has passed." Rose drew it aside. An hour or so before, the weak, watery sun had come forth from behind the lowering grey clouds and sent his beams straight into Adeline's eyes, so they had shut him out. Diminished in force though the rays were, they were yet too bright for the invalid's sight. Surely, when you come to think of it, there was a singular affinity between the weather and Adeline's health and happiness. Cold, wet, boisterous, and gloomy had it been in the spring, during the time of her long illness, up to the period, within a few days, of her arrival at Beaufoy and commencing intimacy with Frederick St. John; warm, brilliant and beautiful it was all through the months of that intimacy; but with its abrupt termination, the very day subsequent to the miserable one of his departure and of Adeline's dangerous accident, it had abruptly changed, and become cold, wet, dreary again. Weeks, as you have heard, had elapsed since, and the weather still wore the same gloomy aspect, in which there seemed no prospect of amendment on this side winter. A feeling of awe, almost of superstition, would creep over Mary Carr, as she sat by Adeline's bedside in the dim evenings, listening to the moaning, sighing wind, as it swept round the unprotected château and shook off the leaves from the nearly bare trees on the western side. It sounded so like a dirge for the dying girl who was passing from them! The watchers would look up with a shiver, and say how dreary it was, this gloomy weather, and wish it would change, forgetting that the sweetest summer's day, the brightest skies, cannot bring joy to a house where joy exists not, or renew the peace of a heart from which hope has flown. Very fanciful all this, no doubt, you will say; what has the weather to do with events in this busy world of ours? Nothing, of course. Still, it had been a curious year; winter, summer, and now winter again; but neither