“Weep not, dear Walter,” she said falteringly; “but, oh! when I am gone, be kind to my dear children. And should you—” she added, but her voice failed, and tears mingled with the cold dews of death upon her cheeks. But in a few moments she again added—“Walter, should you marry another, for my sake see that she be as a mother to our children.” “O Hannah!” he sobbed. Her words entered his agonized bosom like a barbed instrument, adding sorrow to sorrow, and pain to pain. He thought of her and of her only, and from the idea of another his soul revolted. She called her children to her bedside, and she endeavoured to raise herself upon her elbow. She kissed them—she called them by their names—her last tears fell upon their cheeks and blended with theirs, and she bestowed upon them a dying mother’s blessing. She took their little hands, and placing them in her husband’s, gazed tenderly and imploringly on his face, and sinking back upon her pillow, with a deep sigh, her gentle spirit sought the world which is beyond death. It was a melancholy sight to behold Walter Kerr with his young son and almost infant daughter in his hands, standing weeping over their mother’s grave, while the awful, the mortal words, “ashes to ashes, dust to dust,” were pronounced, and the sound of the cold red earth falling on the coffin rang rudely on his ears. For many months there walked not on the earth a more sorrowful widower. His heart, his hopes, his joys, seemed buried in the grave of her who had been his wife. His sole consolation was in his children, and he doted over them with more than a father’s fondness. But he was still a young man, he was yet a prosperous one, and he had obtained the reputation of being wealthy. His wife had been dead somewhat more than four years, when there came to reside in H—— a fair and fashionable maiden, whose name was Harriet Scott. She soon obtained the reputation of being the greatest beauty in the town, and was the favourite toast of every bachelor; amongst whom, if she did not conquer many hearts, she conquered many eyes; and if she had not lovers, she had manifold admirers. She was the daughter of an old military man, a major, belonging to some royal veteran battalion. Beautiful she certainly was; but she was vain as beautiful; and her father’s pay was all that stood between her and poverty. There are but few men, and especially mercantile men, who are used to calculate and consider consequences, that are found guilty of the folly of offering their hand to a poor and fashionable woman. What fascination the gay and beautiful Miss Scott threw over our young and rich widower— “What dreams, what charms, What conjurations, or what mighty magic”—