CHAPTER XVI.

ooh there is never sorrow of heart That shall lack timely end, If but to God we turn, and ask

 Of him to be our friend!"
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A'''N' | loved with all-engrosing tenderness, was dead in her early youth. had no kindred to care for me like the Indian chief, Logan, 1 could say there runs not drop of my blood in the veIns of living creature; and l had unin- tentionally killed my friend. When looked back to boyhood, it seemed a kind of eter- nity, and yet l was but twenty-five!

 Suspicion as to my being accessory to the death of Curtis might, 0s might not float on the breath of fame. No one, so far as had heard insinuated, imputed it either directly or indirectly to me, but how. often is the voice of malice heard by all save it's victiml It mattered not; l suffered sufficiently with out that; l had ceased F'to justify my deeds unto myself," and was a conscience-stricken wretch. My buoyaht hopes were quenched; and. instead of looking forward. through bright sunshine of futurty, must hang over my prospects. saw nothing in life to covet; nothing to aspire to and nought that could eiiace from my memory the defling stains of the past. had bought experience early, at dear price. had suddenly be- come an altered man, and Ca sadder one.n

 What boots 1t to relate my wanderings ]? it IS only the history of my mind tmt I mean to record. After sojourning for four wears on the continent, during which time l visited France, Germany, and sltaly, in the hopes that change of scene and place would dissi- pate my ills began to feel that tme. the grand physician of human miseres, had anointed my heart with balsam that, if it did not heal thoroughly, was at least powerful to salve and soohe still hdeSu lateri hthaHs arundo; still did the arrow rankle but it's presence was more endurable, and a con sciousness that my guilt had been at least equalled by my imprudence in concealing it, rested on my mind, with beealming and pleasant influence.

 From the occurrfnce of the fatal deed until this time, l have borne in silence; my guilt and my grief have found no tongue.- But, alas the world is changed altogethr since that period. l am now a soiourner in part of the country far from the scenes of my patemal inheritance; unknown to those who knew me in youth, and living under a changed name. The metamorphosing hand of time hath changed black hairs to the gray; and the buried body of Curtis is long since dust. He is almost plotted from the memory of the living, and his story, even in the vi cnity of the place where it occurred, is re- membered only as a dream of yore. If the world has beenungrateful' towards him, re- gardlng his alleged end, it is now far beyond the time for my attempting to do justice to it, by revealing the real facts of the case.

 l have suffered mucli-perhaps, to say more than enough would be impiety At all events, trust, the demands of moral justice are satisfied 1 have read of a man, who was tried and condemned for the murder of his own daughter who, it was afterwards discovered, had destroyed herself; and his body ordered to be hung by the sea-shore In chains, as carrion to the wild fowl. Three years elapsed before the handwriting devel- oplng the truth, was found, and empty, fan ciiully empty, was that show of justice, which endeavored to obiterate the ignominv of such fate, by commanding the rustling skeleton to be taken down for decent inter- ment, and a stand of white colors 10 be waved over insensate tuH, as symbolical of the innocence of the dust that mouldered beneath.

 Next to the death of Curtis, the circum- stance which for a long time pressed and preyed most deeply on my regret, was the never having had the lortitude, the justice to reveal the whole facts of the case, at least to Anne Austen. How such knowledge would have lightened her melancholy-yet I had the heart to withhold it. How such a dis covery would have sweetened the bitterness of her cup-yet left her to drain it to the dregs. Often and often did mediate this act of justice; but my soul revolted from the task. knew myself fallen being, but l could not abide the idea that others should think me so far less that she, the kindest. gentlest, most ailectionate of human crea- lures, should execrate me.

 For a number of years lived in solitude

 in beautiful cottage on the Lake of Geheva, not far from the scenes hallowed in romance by the loves of St. PreuX and Julie. Yet there, even there, in that elysium of .iature, was not happy. Melancholy remembran- ces broke in upon the tranquil entertainment of the most delightful landscapes and far remote from the faces and friendships which had enlvened and delighted the morning of

 life. felt the gloom of soitude'even in the brightest sunshine; and enui in all my efforts to be amused If the heart of man was ever formed by nature for solitude, had here an opportunity of putting that doctrine abun- dantly to the test did so and experien- ced the futility of such an hypothesis. Son some fond breast the parting soul relies;" or else it is wretched. .'What is the world," says Goldsmith, s.if it affords but solitude n' Pleasure uncommuncated and unshared, is only sort of pain. The master of one of the most beautiful villas in the world, sur rouaded by all that the heart can desire of the soft and the sublime in scenery, without an officious glance to scrutnize the privacy of my life, yet was unblest. felt that something was a-waniing. My books some times failed to amuse. became tired of my boat. l had seen Geneva, Vevai. and Chiffon castle too often; and pined for an interchange of friendly thought-for reci- procity and a communication of feelings. Often, seated on the high green banks, on the border of the Leman, with magnificent pine-forests around me, and tranqullllzed with the view of the wide, smooth exPanse of waters, with the wooded islets, and gliding sails-of romantic white-walled towns and sublime picturesque mountains, have cast

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