looked up with a mournful, affectionate smile,

and left the room.

"You have been told the truth, hy sweet friend," said she. "You and I are hastening together, I hope to a better world. It is proper

that we should know our situation: let us strive to fit each other for a happier state, by making the most of the time which is left to us. I could not speak to another young woman, as I do to you but I think I know you, my love: another might find no consolation in the advice of an old woman, who is tottering to the grave. I think you are prepared for death; and I think the certainty of that, which may be as near others as it is at present near you, only they are unconscious of it, will not fill you with foolish alarms. Your heavenly Father is treating you as a child of his love, in giving you a trial, such as I never met with in my long life-this parting here, for ever, with those you love best on earth: he is treating you as a child of his love also, in taking you to himself, while you are as yet comparatively undefiled by the world. "It was thus, from motives of pure mercy, that he has removed so many others like yourself; that he has transplanted the flower bursting from the bud to blossom in a more genial soil." While Lady Falkland was

speaking, Rosine's countenance had brightened with a delight she had never before experienced; her silence was more eloquent than words, when her friends had finished speaking; for some time after, at night, or whenever she awoke from her broken slumbers, the recollection that she was dying, made Rosine melancholy; but as the novelty of this very mournful feeling wore away, she became perfectly resigned and cheerful. Every attention, that her situation could require, was devoted to the dying girl; but on none did she set such a value, as on those hours passed daily with Lady Falkland. Miranda, too, whenever she was permitted, would visit the chamber of her beloved instructress; and be perfectly satisfied if she might sit near her, and look at her. The character of this child seemed to have entirely changed: she was meek and tractable; the wild exuberant gaiety, which had distinguished her equally with the violence of her temper, when Rosine was well, had now, upon the sudden decline of her health, subsided: she was never animated with joy, but when declaring her conviction that Rosine would not die," because she appeared too healthy to die." The child, however, became at last alarmed; for she remarked that Rosine was at times agitated so violently,

that her whole frame seemed shaken; while the death-like paleness of her countenance was flushed with deep and burning blushes: from the mere exertion of crossing the room, she would often faint away; and her fits would last so long, that it often seemed as if she would never recover from them. Rosine had intreated, at the commencement of her illness, that no one would write to her family; she knew that none of them could well visit her; it was impossible for her to go to them. "Let me, then," said she, "write to them myself; it is a poor satisfaction, but it is the last I can have I wish to tell them, in my own way, that I am dying." Her wishes were at first opposed, but she repeated them so earnestly, and her reasons seemed so irresistible, that she was allowed to act as she chose on the subject. Her mind was too confused and depressed at first, to enable her to write as she determined; she waited therefore a short time; but she could not quite (in her own opinion) prepare herself for the task when she endeavoured to resume it. "I must

delay no longer," she said to herself one morning, or I may never send these letters."

she wrote thus to her father:

At length

"When first I thought of writing this letter to you, my very dear father, I knew not how I could

set about it, I was so uneasy at the idea; but I have requested that I may write to you myself, and I am now quite calm and cheerful; more so than I have ever been; though it is a very different calmness and cheerfulness, from what I have ever experienced before; you must often have witnessed it, my dear father, among those, whose death-beds you have attended.—I am very ill, that is, I am very weak and languid, though I feel hardly any pain, yet I feel that I am dying!and before you receive this letter, I shall probably be freed from this infirm body. Need I say to one, who can seek and find a very present help in time of trouble,' that, I am assured, you will all bear this affliction, as you have ever borne the trials of the Almighty? I am not sorry for myself; but for those dear friends who will lament me. Do not let any one, my dear father, give way to excessive grief; bid them, at least, to check their sorrow, by telling them that it was my last request. I am so resigned to death that I would not wish to live now; my soul seems already to have begun its last journey; all the pain of leaving this world is over; it would not return again, without regret; for (I speak as a humble sinner) it seems already exalted and purified every one is so kind to me here; I al

most feel as if you were all with me. Lady Falkland has, in a manner, supplied the place of my dear father; she joins with me daily in prayer and thanksgiving. I have often spoken to you about her: she calls herself my fellow traveller in this last journey. My dear, dear father, let me conjure you, not to come to England; I shall be miserable if you do. Pray stay and comfort my mother and Sophie, and all my dear brothers and sisters. Without you, what would they all do? what would all the village do without you? besides, who is there that would, who is there that could, do your duty in your absence? If you will grant your Rosine's last request, and make her quite, yes, quite happy, you will stay, and pray for me at your own church. M. du Mercie will remit you ten guineas, to be given among the poor villagers; you are the best judge, dear father, of the worthiest objects; but pray remember my poor old widow. I am sorry that I cannot send any money, as I meant to send it; but I am afraid my illness and my funeral will consume the little I have left; it was proper to say this; it appears a little dismal: but all that concerns the body in death, seems mournful; all that concerns the soul, seems to me, very joyful.-Tell dear Sophie, if she wishes to know my favorite spot, it is that