en to madness!" His voice was hurried and incolierent, Lifting my eyes to his, I beheld them wild and bloodshot. Terrified at his look, and overcome by my emotions, my head sunk back on the marble. With increased violence, he exclaimed, "have I deceived myself here too? Therese, did you not prefer me? Did you not love me? -Speak now, I conjure you by your own happiness and mine. Do you reject me?" He clenched my hands in his with a force that made me tremble, and I hardly articulated, "I will be yours." At these words he hurried me down a dark vista, which led out of the gardens to the open country. A carriage stood at the gate. I fearfully asked what he intended "You have given yourself to me," cried he, "and by the great Lord of heaven, no power shall separate us until you are mine out of the reach of man!" Unnerved in body, and weak in mind, I yielded to his impetuosity; and, suffering him to lift me into the chariot was carried to the door of the nearest monastery, where, in a few minutes we were married.

"I am thus particular iù the relation of every incident, in the hope that you will, my dear son, see some excuse for my great imprudence in the circumstance of my youth, and the influence which a man who seemed all excellence, held over every thought of my heart. However, my fault was not long unpunished.

"The ceremony past, my husband conducted me in silence back to the carriage. My full besom discharged it. self in abundance of tears, whilst Sackville sat by me unmoved and mute. Two or three times I raised my eyes in hopes of seeing in his some consolation for my hasty acquiescence. But uo; his gaze, vacant and glaring, was fixed on the window; and his brow scowled, as if he had been forced into an alliance with one whom he hated, rather than had just made a voluntary engagement with the woman he loved. My heart sickened at this commence ment of a contract, which I had dared to make, unsanctioned by my father's consent. At length, my sighs seemed to startle my husband's ear; and turning suddenly round, "Therese," cried he, this marriage must not be told to the Count." "-" Why ?" murmured I, hardy able to speak: "Because I have been precipitate. It woul

ruin me with my own family. Wait for only one month; and then I will publickly acknowledge you." The agita tion of his features, the sternness of his voice, and the feverish burning of his hand, which held mine, alarmed me; and trembling from head to foot, I answered, "Sackville! I have already erred enough in consenting to this stolen union. I will not transgress further by concealing it. I will instantly thraw myself at my father's feet, and confess all." His countenance darkened. "Therese," said he, "I have not married you to be your slave. I am your husband. You have sworn to obey me, and I command your silence. Till I allow you, divulge this marriage at you peril." This last cruel sentence, and the more cruel look that accompanied it pierced me to the heart, and I fell senseless on the seat.

"When I recovered, I found myself at the foot of that statute, beneath which my unfortunate destiny had been fixed. My husband was leaning over me. He raised me with tenderness from the ground; and conjured me in the mildest accents to be comforted; to pardon the severity of those words which had arisen from fear, that by an imprudent avowal on my part, should risk both his happiness and my own. He informed me, that he was heir to one of the first fortunes in England, he pledged his honour with his father never to enter into any matrimonial engagement, without first acquainting him with the particulars of the lady and her family. Should he omit this duty, his father declared, that though she were a princess, he would disinherit him, and never again admit him to his presence.

"Consider this, my dear Therese," continued he, "could you endure to behold me a beggar, stigmatized with a parent's curse, when a little forbearance on your ride would make all right? I know I have been hasty in cting as I have done, but now I cannot remedy my er or. To-morrow I will write to my father, describe your ank and merits, and request his consent for our immedite marriage. The moment his permission arrives, I will east myself on the count's friendship and feelings, and reveal all that has passed." The tenderness of my hus and won my affection and reason to his side; and with

many tears, I sealed his forgiveness, and pledged my faith on his word.

"My dear deceived parent, little suspected the perfidy of his guest. He detained him as his visitor, and often rallied himself on the hold which his distinguished accomplishments had taken on his esteem. Sackville's manner to me in public was obliging and free; it was in private only, that I found the tender, the capricicus, the unfeeling husband. Night after night I have washed the memory of my want of duty to my father, with bitter tears. But my husband was dear to me, was more precious than my life. One kind look from him, one fond word, would solace every pain, and make me wait the arrival of his father's letter, with all the gay anticipations of youth and love.

"A fortnight passed away. A month, a long and lingering month. Another month, and a packet of letters was presented to Sackville. He was at breakfast with us, At the sight of the superscription, he coloured, tore open the paper, ran his eyes over a few lines, and then pale and trembling, rose from his seat, and left the room. My emotions were almost uncontrolable. I had already balf risen from my chair to follow him, when the Count exclaimed," what can be in that letter? he seems dreadfully shocked." And without observing me, or waiting for a reply, he hurried out after him. I stole to my chamber, where, throwing myself on my bed, I tried by all the delusions of hope, to obtain some respite from inquietude. "The dinner bell roused me from my fluctuating reverie. Dreading to excite suspicion, and anxious to read in the countenance of my husband the denunciation of our fate, I obeyed the summons, and descended to the dining-room. On entering it, my eyes irresistibly wandered round to fix themselves on Sackville. He was leaning against a pillar, his face pale as death. My father looked grave, but immediately took his seat, and tenderly placed his friend beside him. I sat down in silence. Little dinner was eaten, and few words spoken. As for myself, my agitation almost choked me." I felt that the first word I should attempt to pronounce, must give them utterance, and that their vehemence would betray me.

"When the servants withdrew, Sackville rose, and taking my father's hand, said in a faltering voice, "My lord, I must leave you."-" It is a wet evening;" replied. the Count,besides, you are disturbed by the shock you have received. To-morrow will do as well for your bu siness.""I thank your lordship," answered he, "but I must go to Florence to-night. You shall see me again before to-morrow afternoon: all will then, I hope, be settled to my wish."-Well, if you are resolved," said my father," God bless you! Remember we shall be anxious to see you again."-Sackville took his hat, Motionless, and incapable of speaking, I set fixed to my chair, in the direct way he must pass. His eye met mine. He stopped, and looking at me abruptly caught my hand; and as abruptly quitting it, darted out of the room. never saw him more.

"I had not the power to dissemble another moment. I fell back, weeping into the arms of my father. He did not, even by this impradence, read what I almost wished him to guess; but with all the indulgence of affection, lamented the distress of Sackville, and the sensibility of my nature, which sympathized so painfully with his friend. I durst not ask what was the distress of his friend: abashed at my duplicity to him, and overwhelmed with a thousand dreads, I obtained his permission to retire to my chamber.

"The next day I met him with a serene air: for I had schooled my heart to endure with greater composure the sufferings which it had deserved. The Count did not remark my recovered tranquility; neither did he appear to think any more of my tears; so entirely was he occupied in conjecturing what could be the cause of Sackville's grief, who had only complained of having received a great shock, without revealing the circumstance. This ignorance of my father surprised me; and to all his suppositions I said little. My soul was too deeply interested in the subject, to trust to the faithfulness of my lips.

"The morning crept slowly on, and the noon appeared to stand still. I anxiously watched the declining sun, as the signal for my husband's return. Two hours had elapsed since his promised time, and my father grew so

impatient, that he went out with the view to meet him. I eagerly hoped that they might miss each other. I should then see my Sackville a few minutes alone, and by one word be comforted or driven to despair.

"I was listening to every footstep that sounded under the colonade, when my servant brought me a letter, which had just been left by one of Mr. Sackville's grooms. "Ah!" thought I,." this will release or confirm my fears! Heaven grant that his father may have consented!" I tore open the seal and fell senseless on the floor, ere I had read half the killing contents-."

Thaddeus, with a burning cheek, and a heart all at once robbed of that elastic spring, which till now had ever made him feel the happiest of the happy, took up the letter of his father. The paper was worn, and blistered with his mother's tears. His head seemed to swim, as he contemplated the hand-writing and he said to himself, "Am I to respect or to abhor him ?" He proceeded in the perusal.

"To THERESE, COUNTESS SOBIESKI.

"How, Therese, am I to address you? But an attempt at palliating my conduct, will be of no use. It is impossible. You cannot conceive a viler opinion of me than I hold of myself. I know that I deserve to be called a villain; that I have sacrificed your tenderness to my distracted passions. But you shall no more be subject to the caprices of a man who cannot repay your love with his own. You have no guilt to torture you; and you possess virtues that will render you tranquil under every calamity. I leave you to your own innocence. Forget the ceremo"ny that has passed between us: my wretched heart disclaims it for ever. Your father is happily ignorant of it; .pray spare him the anguish of knowing that I was so completely unworthy of his kindness! I feel that I am more than ungrateful to you, and to him. Therese, your most inveterate hate cannot more strongly tell me, than I tell myself, that I have treated you like a scoundrel. But I cannot retract. I am going where all search will