only serve, to render us unhappy. Still, I think, no one who knew Grace, as we knew her, can ever recall her image without feeling himself drawn nearer to the dread being who created her, and who has called her to himself so early. We, alone, thoroughly understood the beloved creature! My dear, excellent father loved her as he loves me, but he could not, did not know all the rare virtues of her heart. These could be known only to those who knew her great secret, and, God be praised! even Rupert has little true knowledge of that."

66

'My father has spoken to me of Grace's wish, that he and I should accept some memorials of the affection she bore us. These were unnecessary, but are far too sacred to be declined. I sincerely wish that their value, in gold, had been less, for the hair I possess (some of which is reserved for you) is far more precious to me, than any diamonds, or stones, could possibly become. As, however, something must be purchased, or procured, I have to request that my memorial may be the pearls you gave Grace, on your return from the Pacific. Of course I do not mean the valuable necklace you have reserved for one who will one day be still dearer to you than any of us, but the dozen or two of pearls that you bestowed on your sister, in my presence, at Clawbonny. They are sufficiently valuable in themselves, to answer all the purposes of Grace's bequest, and I know they were very much prized by her, as your gift, dear Miles. I am certain you will not believe they will be the less valuable in my eyes, on that account. As I know where they are, I shall go to Clawbonny and take possession of them at once, so you need give yourself no further concern on account of the memorial that was to be presented to me. I acknowledge its reception, unless you object to my proposition."

I scarce knew what to think of this. I would gladly have bestowed on Lucy pearls of equal value to those I had given Grace, but she refused to receive them; and now she asked for these very pearls, which, intrinsically, were not half the value of the sum I had informed Mr. Hardinge Grace had requested me to expend in purchasing a memorial. This avidity to possess these pearls-for so it struck me-was difficult to account for, Grace having owned divers

other ornaments that were more costly, and which she had much oftener worn. I confess, I had thought of attempting to persuade Lucy to receive my own necklace as the memorial of Grace, but a little reflection satisfied me of the hope lessness of success, and nothing had been said on the subject. Of course I acquiesced in the wish of the dear girl to possess the pearls; but, at the same time, I determined to make an additional purchase, more thoroughly to carry out the wishes of my sister.

On the whole, the letter of Lucy gave me a great and soothing pleasure. I came to a resolution to answer it, and to send that answer back by the pilot. I had no owner to feel any solicitude in the movements of the ship; had no longer a sister to care for myself; and to whom else could my last words on quitting the land be so appropriately addressed, as to this constant and true-hearted friend? That much, at least, I could presume to call Lucy, and even to that I clung as the ship-wrecked mariner clings to the last plank that floats.

The fourth letter, to my astonishment, bore the signature of John Wallingford, and the date of Albany. He had got this far on his way home, and written me a line to let me know the fact. I copy his epistle in full, viz:

"DEAR MILES,

Here I am, and sorry am I to see, by the papers, there you are still. Recollect, my dear boy, that sugars will melt. It is time you were off: this is said for your own sake, and not for mine, as you well know I am amply secured. Still, the markets may fall, and he who is first in them can wait for a rise, while he who is last must take what offers."

"Above all, Miles, do not take it into your head to alter your will. Things are now arranged between us precisely as they should be, and I hate changes. I am your heir, and you are mine. Your counsel, Richard Harrison, Esquire, is a man of great respectability, and a perfectly safe repository of such a secret. I leave many of my papers in his hands, and he has now been my counse. ever since I had need of one; and treads so hard on Hamilton's heels,

that the last, sometimes feels his toes. however, and not as an advocate.

This is as counsel,

"Adieu, my dear boy: we are both Wallingfords, and the nearest of kin to each other, of the name. Clawbonny will be safe with either of us, and either of us will be safe with Clawbonny.

Your affectionate cousin,

I confess that all this anxiety about Clawbonny began to give me some uneasiness, and that I often wished, I had been less ambitious, or less hasty would be the better word, and had been content to go to sea again, in my simple character of ship-master, and ship-owner; leaving the merchant to those who better understood the vocation.

I now went to the boat, and to the ship. Marble was all ready for me, and in ten minutes the anchor was clear of the bottom; in ten more, it was catted and fished, and the Dawn was beating down the bay, on a young flood, with a light breeze, at south-west. The pilot being in charge, I had nothing to do but go below, and write my letters. I answered everybody, even to the Secretary of State, who, at that time, was no less a man than James Madison. Το him, however, I had nothing to say, but to acknowledge the receipt of the dispatches, and to promise to deliver them. My letter to Mr. Hardinge, was, I hope, such as a son might have written to a revered parent. In it, I begged he would allow me to add to his library, by a purchase of theological works of value, and which, in that day, could only be procured in Europe. This was to be his memorial of my sis ter. I also begged of his friendship an occasional look at Clawbonny, though I did not venture to speak of the mortgage, of which I now felt a sort of conviction he would not approve.

The letter to John Wallingford, was as pithy as his own to me. I told him my will was made, on a conviction of its perfect propriety, and assured him it would not be altered in a hurry; I told him the sugars were safe, and let him understand that they were already on their way to Hamburg, whence I hoped, ere long, to send him a good account of their sale.

To Lucy, I was by no means so laconic. On the subject of the pearls of Grace, I begged her to do just as she pleased; adding a request, however, that she would se lect such others of my sister's ornaments, as might be most agreeable to herself. On this point I was a little earnest, since the pearls were not worth the sum Grace had mentioned to me; and I felt persuaded Lucy would not wish me to remain her debtor. There was a pair of bracelets, in particular, that Grace had highly prized, and which were very pretty in themselves. My father had purchased the stones-rubies of some beauty-in one of his voyages, for my mother, who had fancied them too showy for her to wear. I had caused them to be set for Grace, and they would make a very suitable ornament for Lucy; and were to be so much the more prized, from the circumstance, that Grace had once worn them. It is true, they contained a little, though very little of my hair; for on this Grace had insisted; but this hair was rather a blemish, and might easily be removed. I said as much in my letter.

On the subject of my sister's death, I found it impossible to write much. The little I did say, however, was in full accordance with her own feelings, I felt persuaded, and I had no difficulty in believing she would sympathize in all I did express, and in much that I had not words to express.

On the subject of the necklace, I did find language to communicate a little, though it was done in the part of the letter where a woman is said to give her real thoughts,— the postscript. In answer to what Lucy had said on the subject of my own necklace, I wrote as follows, viz :-"You speak of my reserving the more valuable pearls for one, who, at some future day, may become my wife. I confess this was my own intention, originally; and very pleasant was it to me to fancy that one so dear would wear pearls that had been brought up out of the sea by my own hands. But, dearest Lucy, all these agreeable and delusive anticipations have vanished. Depend on it, I shall never marry. I know that declarations of this sort, in young men of three and twenty, like those of maidens of nineteen, excite a smile oftener than they produce belief; but I do not say this with. out reflection, and, I may add, without feeling. She whom I once did hope to persuade to marry me, although much

my friend, is not accustomed to view me with the eyes that lead to love. We were brought together under circumstances that have probably induced her to regard me inore as a brother than as a suitor, and while the golden moments have passed away, her affections have become the property of another. I resemble, in this particular at least, our regret, ted Grace, and am not likely to change. My nature may be sterner, and my constitution stronger, than those of my poor sister proved to be, but I feel I cannot love twice; not as I have, and still do love, most certainly. Why should I trouble you with all this, however? I know you. will not accept of the necklace-though so ready to give me your own last piece of gold, when I went to sea, you have ever been so fastidious as to refuse every thing from us that had the least appearance of a pecuniary obligation-and it is useless to say more about it. I have no right to trouble you with my griefs, especially at a moment when I know your affectionate heart is suffering so deeply from our recent, loss."

I will confess that, while writing this, I fancied I was making a sort of half-declaration to Lucy; one that might, at least, give her some faint insight into the real state of my heart; and I had a melancholy satisfaction in thinking that the dear girl might, by these means, learn how much I had prized and still did prize her. It was only a week later, while pondering over what I had written, the idea occurred to me that every syllable I had said would apply just as well to Emily Merton as to Lucy Hardinge. Peculiar circumstances had made me intimately acquainted with our young English friend, and these circumstances might well have produced the very results I had mentioned. We all believed Emily's affections to be engaged to Rupert, who must have succeeded during my absence at sea. A modest and selfdistrusting nature, like that of Lucy's, would be very apt to turn to any other than herself in quest of the original of my picture.

These letters occupied me for hours. That to Lucy, in particular, was very long, and it was not written wholly without care. When all were done, and sealed, and enveloped to the address of the post-master, I went on deck. The pilot and Marble had not been idle while I had been