With this resolution fixed in her mind, one dark and dreary night, when the winds whistled and the tempest roared, she received intelligence that Elfonzo was then waiting, and every preparation was then ready, at the residence of Dr. Tully, and for her to make a quick escape while the family were reposing. Accordingly she gathered her books, went to the wardrobe supplied with a variety of ornamental dressing, and ventured alone in the streets to make her way to Elfonzo, who was near at hand, impatiently looking and watching her arrival. ‘What forms,’ said she, ‘are those rising before me? What is that dark spot on the clouds? I do wonder what frightful ghost that is, gleaming on the red tempest? Oh, be merciful and tell me what region you are from. Oh tell me, ye strong spirits, or ye dark and fleeting clouds, that I yet have a friend.’ ‘A friend,’ said a low, whispering voice. ‘I am thy unchanging, thy aged, and thy disappointed mother. Oh, Ambulinia, why hast thou deceived me? Why brandish in that hand of thine a javelin of pointed steel? Why suffer that lip I have kissed a thousand times, to equivocate? My daughter, let these tears sink deep into thy soul, and no longer persist in that which may be your destruction and ruin. Come, my dear child, retrace your steps, and bear me company to your welcome home.’ Without one retorting word, or frown from her brow, she yielded to the entreaties of her mother, and with all the mildness of her former character she went along with the silver lamp of age, to the home of candour and benevolence. Her father received her with cold and formal politeness—‘Where has Ambulinia been, this blustering evening, Mrs. Valeer?’ inquired he. ‘Oh, she and I have been taking a solitary walk,’ said the mother; ‘all things, I presume, are now working for the best.’ Elfonzo heard this news shortly after it happened. ‘What,’ said he, ‘has heaven and earth turned against me? I have been disappointed times without number. Shall I despair? Must I give it over? Heaven’s decrees will not fade; I will write again—I will try again; and if it traverses a gory field, I pray forgiveness at the altar of justice.’ ‘Desolate Hill, Cumming, Geo., 1844. ‘UNCONQUERED AND BELOVED AMBULINIA,—