"The young lady (Miss Craven I mean), rode, your ladyship, over a few days since, quite alone, to ask for the address of one of our children, that is to say, only the young gentleman that's ill was with her; oh, how ill he looks, poor young man! it was quite a wonder to see him without Father Jackomy, as they call the priest of Rome, who lives with him."

"Well, good afternoon, Mrs. Needham," repeated Lady Catherine, as the pony phaeton moved; "now to Woodfield," addressing her little postillion.

"How beautiful those woods look in the distance," remarked Mrs. Montagu; "I conclude they are the woods of Woodfield ?"

"Yes," returned her aunt; "I will pay my visit first there, as I might be detained longer than I could otherwise spare with poor Mrs. Robinson, and I make it a rule to give myself ample time, when visiting the poor. Nothing appears to me so unfeeling as to enter a cottage, where there is sickness, just to stand and ask a few questions, as if curiosity alone induced the visit, and then hurry away. Visiting the poor, viewed in a Christian light, is not only just to minister to the wants of the body, but the souls of our fellow-beings should occupy our first thoughts, and the spiritual state of an individual will never be ascertained by a few questions. We must show ourselves really interested in the soul's welfare, by a friendly interest in all that concerns them, encouraging them to make known to us their

difficulties, their feelings and drawbacks, and then point them to the Saviour, as the friend above all others."

"Yes, my dear, dear aunt, from you I learnt myself all this. Charles ever quotes you, as so beautifully combining exquisite sympathy for the sorrows of the suffering poor, with the necessary and most essential knowledge of, and acquaintance with, Him whom to know is life eternal. He never

enters any cottage without prayer, before he begins any subject of conversation, and never leaves them without reading some suitable portion of God's Holy Word."

"It is what should always be the case," rejoined her aunt. "Real charity, by many, is so differently understood. But here we are," and the little carriage at the same moment entered the Lodge gates.

They had not proceeded far through the pretty winding approach to the house before they perceived three figures issuing from one of the shrubberies. The two outside personages proved, on nearer view, to be no other than young Craven and his tutor, Father Giacomo. Lucy was in the middle; on perceiving lady Catherine, she advanced to speak to her; her brother and his companion slightly raised their hats.

"I hope Mr. Craven," said lady Catherine, addressing the young man, "that you are feeling better, this lovely weather?"

"Indeed, I cannot say much for myself; our

climate is not a very favourable one, and the mornings and evenings are especially trying. I shall not be better until I find myself in Italy, where my physician prescribes an immediate return, and a winter there my only chance." He raised his fine expressive eyes as he spoke, and glanced at Father Giacomo's countenance; the latter's eyes continued fixed on the ground. "You must allow me to introduce Father Giacomo to your ladyship," continued the young man.

The priest bowed very low, but did not look up.

"Shall I find your mother at home?" inquired lady Catherine, of his sister, as the pony-chaise slowly moved on, her young friend walking by the side of it.

"I cannot be sure that you will, dear lady Catherine, but I will inquire, if you will walk in. My mother has been very suffering the last few days. She is extremely anxious about my brother. Cecil's health makes us all unhappy, and this necessary and approaching separation is very trying to her."

"I must introduce you again my dear child to Mrs. Montagu, my niece," said lady Catherine, when they had reached the drawing-room through a pretty conservatory, by which Lucy led them; "you cannot remember her, but she remembers you as a little girl, before you went abroad.”

"Mrs. Montagu is very kind," modestly returned Lucy as she left the room, having seen her guests seated. She was not long before she returned, accompanied by Mrs. Craven, whose appearance

too fully justified her daughter's report of her. It required but little to see she was indeed suffering, but to Lady Catherine's eyes, it was very evident the sufferings of the mind preponderated in a far greater degree over bodily pain. Her countenance was drawn, and there was a singular expression of anxious inquiry in the eye, accompanied by a reserve of manner, which checked the very slightest approach to penetrate its depths. Her whole person was emaciated; and she looked far more like the miserable inmate of a convent than the mother of a family, and head of a household.

Lady Catherine Douglas was much shocked.

"And this, then, is what Rome does," she inwardly thought, "for its unhappy victims!-robs them of all peace, and imposes on them that which weak human nature is quite insufficient to perform."

She rose to meet Mrs. Craven, as she entered, and introduced Mrs. Montagu to her; at the same time adding,

"You remember my niece, I dare say, as Emily Douglas?"

66

I do, indeed, perfectly remember Miss Douglas, before we left Woodfield, now seven years since; it seems to me ten, Lady Catherine. But," continued Mrs. Craven, "I am much altered since then. I have suffered a good deal lately from anxiety, on my son's account; but pray sit down. It gives me much pleasure to see you, Mrs. Montagu. You,

Lady Catherine, were always a very kind neighbour."

"We had the pleasure of meeting your son, in the grounds, as we drove up," returned her ladyship, " and I really thought he was looking better."

“Was he alone,” anxiously inquired Mrs. Craven, or was Father Giacomo with him?" and she addressed the last part of her question to her daughter Lucy, who, seated by Mrs. Montagu, was conversing with her.

"Father Giacomo was with Cecil, mamma," replied her daughter.

A slight colour tinged Mrs. Craven's pallid cheek as Lucy uttered the priest's name; but it quickly subsided, leaving her, if possible, more blanched than before, as she continued,

"I am always nervous when my dear son is alone; his health has been so extremely delicate ever since our return from Italy. Our physicians consider it absolutely imperative he should winter in a warm climate; I cannot, therefore, hesitate in feeling it will be best for him; but it is a very great trial, parting with him. Indeed, I hardly know how I shall bear it." Here she became visibly affected with emotion, which was beyond her power to conceal, as she added, "Cecil's lungs are, beyond any doubt, affected. We may never meet again!"

"Let us hope, my dear friend," said Lady Catherine, with her usual tone of encouragement and sympathy, "let us hope that a southern sun, on the