worse than useless; as we can never now, be anything, to each other.—Once more, adieu! 

 "Your once devoted, 

 "George Graham." 

 Beatrice's eyes were red with weeping when she returned from the village. She hesitated whether or not to show Ethelind the letters; but she well knew her disposition and that although she highly disapproved her conduct, still she would feel for her, and she needed consolation; accordingly, calling her into her bed room, she put both epistles into the hand of her friend, begging her to try and read them through before the carriage came that was to take her away. Ethelind was little less astonished than Beatrice had been, and truly did she feel for her mortification. Many and bitter were the tears she shed on reading Mr. Barclay's letter, for she well knew how strongly he must have felt. Most thankful, too, was she that, by striving to overcome her own attachment she had spared herself from having it even suspected. Without a remark she returned the letters to Beatrice, who could only beg to hear from her, and she promised to write, when the post chaise drove up, and after affectionately embracing Mrs. Fortescue and Ethelind, she was soon out of sight. 

 Mrs. Fortescue was, for some days, very poorly, and at length took to her bed. Mr. Barclay was daily in attendance, affording her all the religious consolation in his power, but he saw, although resigned, there was something on her mind; and was not mistaken. She felt her earthly race was well nigh run, and she was anxious as to Ethelind's future fate. She knew God had said, "leave thy fatherless children to me," and she felt she could do so, and she knew also, that it was written, "commit thy way unto the Lord, and he shall bring it to pass;" he had said, and would he not surely do it? She was one on whom sorrow had done a blessed work. 

 Mr. Barclay calling one morning, found Ethelind out. It was an opportunity he had long desired, and having read and prayed with Mrs. F., he told her he feared some anxiety was still pressing on her mind. 

 "Yes," said she, "though I feel it to be wrong, I cannot help wishing to be permitted to linger a little longer here, for Ethelind's sake, though I know that God is all sufficient, still it is the infirmity of human nature." 

 "Make your mind easy on that head, my dear Mrs. Fortescue, for if Ethelind will but trust her happiness with me, gladly will I become her protector." 

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