“Well, in that case, perhaps I might; but, oh! Mr. D’Arcy, never, even then, nearly so much as I love my own dear mother. Ah! you do not know how I love her,” and the tears started to the dear child’s clear eyes; “but,” she hesitated, “I _do_ wish to say something to you—you must never, _never_ mention it, though. Perhaps it is foolish to tell you—but, I should so like my mother to marry.” It now was D’Arcy’s turn to feel his cheek all flame. “It is, doubtless,” he forced himself to reply, “by your mother’s own desire that she remains single.” “I do not know,” mused Ella—“she was very nearly married once; but _it_ (I mean the marriage) was postponed, in consequence of her not being willing to change her religion. I, however, know she loved the ——, but I will not name him.” D’Arcy was now pale as death. “Perhaps,” said he, “all may at present be at an end.” “Oh! no, indeed,” exclaimed Ella, eagerly; “they still correspond, I know—and he is _so_ handsome, _so_ good, _so_ fond of her—she would be very, _very_ happy—_do_, Mr. D’Arcy, persuade mama to become a Catholic!” He seemed lost in thought. “Sweet Elaine,” at length he said, “rest assured, that, to further your mother’s welfare and your own, I would gladly sacrifice my life. I will take an early occasion of conversing with her on this subject.” Meanwhile, my poor invalid lay turning and tossing on her fevered couch, and ever and forever would she thus make moan: “Philip, my own true mate—Philip, bridegroom of my soul—why so cruel?” Then, in her wild delirium, would she sing snatches of melody, and her voice was strong, clear, and of unearthly sweetness. Often would she repeat those exquisite lines of Shelly: “The nightingale’s complaint, it dies upon her heart, As I must on thine, beloved as thou art— A spirit hath led me to thee, love.” “Yes, Lilian—thy loved Lilian, hath given thee to Evelyn—Reginald, too, looks upon me with tender and forgiving eyes. See! they descend together to bless our union—they bear a wreath of orange blossoms and myrtle—they place it on my burning brow—it is cool—cool—delicious! Oh! what fragrance! It soothes my brain—it recalls my senses—the dews of Paradise fall like a shower of pearls over my tangled hair. Ah! see—they place a white moss rose on my bosom—it stills the throbbings of my heart—it deadens the pain! Thanks, blessed, loving angels! Pray for poor Evelyn. She is saved!”