Some snowdrops lay scattered in her lap, on which her downcast eyes shed their beams; as though she moralized over the modest blossoms, which, in fate a delecacy, resembled herself. Changing her pensive attitude, she collected them into a bunch, and sighed, and waved her head as she gazed on them. The dew that trembled on their leaves seemed to have flowed from a richer source than the exhalation of the morning’s vapour--for the flowers are faded---but the drops that gem’d them are fresh. At that moment the possession of a little kingdom would have been less desirable to me, than the knowledge of that association of ideas and feelings which the contemplation of these honoured flowers awakened. At last, with a tender smile, she raised them to her lip and sighed, and placed them in her bosom; then softly drew aside my curtain. I feigned the stillness of death--yet the curtain remained unclosed--many minutes elapsed--I ventured to unseal my eyes, and met the soul dissolving glance of my sweet attendant spirit, who seemed to gaze intently on her charge. Emotion on my part the most delicious, on hers the most modestly confused, for a moment prevented all presence of mind; the beautiful arm still supported the curtain--my ardent gaze was still riveted on a face alternately suffused with the electric flashes of red and white. At last the curtain fell, the priest entered, and the vision, the sweetest, brightest vision of my life, dissolved! Glorvina sprung towards her tutor, and told him aloud, that the nurse had entreated her to take her place, while she descended to dinner. “And no place can become thee better, my child,” said the priest, “than that which fixes thee by the couch of suffering and sickness.” “However,” said Glorvina, smiling, “I will gratify you by resigning for the present in your favour,” and away she flew speaking in Irish to the nurse, who passed her at the door. The benevolent confessor then approached, and seated himself beside my bed, with that premeditated air of chit-chat sociality, that it went to my soul to disappoint him. But the thing was impossible, to have tamely conversed in mortal language on mortal subjects, after having held “high communion” with an etherial spirit; when a sigh, a tear, a glance, were the delicious vehicles of our souls’ secret intercourse--to stoop from this “colloquy sublime!” I could as soon have delivered a logical essay on identity and adversity, or any other subject equally interesting to the heart and imagination. I therefore closed my eyes, and breathed most sonorously: the good priest drew the curtain and retired on tip-toe, and the nurse once more took her distaff, and, for her sins, was silent. These good people must certainly think me a second Epimenides, for I have done nothing but sleep, or feign to sleep, since I have been thrown amongst them. LETTER VI. TO J. D. ESQ., M. P.