reason. To you, my Lord St. Aubyn, I ought to apologize for details which I see distress you, but I thought it was necessary to account for my pupil's strange deportment."

St. Aubyn bowed; but traces of vexation were legible in his expressive face. Mr. Mordaunt made some inquiries after the present state of Lord de Montfort, to which Mr. O'Brien replied he had left him in bed, and tolerably composed; that he had consented to breakfast with the family the next morning, when he hoped personally to apologize to the Countess for the alarm he had given her.

The ladles now retired, and each went to her respective apartment. Lady St. Aubyn passed through her own room into that where the infant lay: both the child and his nurse slept quietly. She knelt a moment by the bed-side, and offered a fervent prayer to heaven for the health and happiness of her infant, and for its father, who seemed menaced by some mysterious disturbance. The contrast presented by the soft sleep, the placid innocence of the baby's face, to the scene of anxiety and confusion she had left, deeply affected her. Tears stole down her cheeks, and wetted the little hands she held pressed to her lips. At length, rousing herself, she returned to her bed-chamber, where Jane waited to undress her: "Make haste, Jane," she said, "I am weary." Jane obeyed in silence; for her Lady's pensive looks had power to quiet even her loquacious propensities.

In a few minutes Ellen was laid on her pillow, and the tumultuous throbbing of her heart began to subside. In about half an hour she heard St. Aubyn go to the room he occupied at present, and fancied, after his valet left him, she could distinctly hear him pacing the apartment, and sighing heavily: but this perhaps was chiefly fancy; for the wind still howled and sobbed round the Castle, and through its large hall and long galleries. Sometimes it sounded like the low moans of one in grief or pain: then in shriller gusts it shook the lofty battlements, or swept over the tops of the high trees, which bent and rustled beneath its power.

Ellen, restless, uneasy, impressed with the melancholy countenance and strange conduct of their mysterious guest, vainly endeavoured to sleep, and turned from side to side, soothed only in the intervals of the storm by hearing the soft breathings of her infant, whose couch (the door being open between the rooms) was so near her, that she could accurately distinguish every breath he drew. Two or three times she was inclined to rise, and steal him from his nurse's side to partake her bed; for she felt how glad she should be in that unquiet hour to feel his little cheek pressing against hers, and hold him to her anxious heart; but fearing to disturb, or give him cold, she relinquished her purpose, and endeavoured to compose herself to rest.

At length, just after the Castle clock had struck two, she felt as if sleep were stealing over her fatigued senses; but starting from a momentary forgetfulness, she heard a light footstep, yet sounding as if the person walking wore no shoes, approaching her bed-room door. It was she knew unfastened; for lest the child should be ill, or want additional assistance, it was always left so. Starting, she listened: her breath grew short, and her heart beat audibly, as the steps approached nearer and nearer; yet not losing her presence of mind she drew aside her curtain, and fixing her eyes on the door, prepared to fly into the inner room, should, as she now began to expect, a midnight robber meet her view.

Slowly, slowly, opened the door, and a tall thin figure, wrapped in a loose night-gown, just appeared within it. "Sister! sister!" said a voice, low, tremulous, and impressive: "sister, are you awake? You bade me call you early."

The figure! the voice!—Oh, what became of Ellen, when in both she recognized the wild, the mysterious, De Montfort! In his pale hand he bore a lamp, the flashing light of which fell at intervals on his gloomy countenance: while his bright black eyes were indeed open, but, oh! "their sense was shut."

Again, as he advanced into the room, he repeated in the same low mournful tone, "Sister Rosolia! What, sleeping still? You said you would rise early, and walk with me." Then pausing, he seemed to stand as if listening for an answer; but suddenly, with a start of recollection and a heavy sigh, he exclaimed, "Oh yes, I remember! too well I remember! You cannot rise: you will never rise again!—You are dead! you are dead! you are dead!"

Again a solemn pause ensued, and sighs, which seemed to rend his bosom, alone broke the terrific silence of the moment.

Again he spoke with an energy of action, as if his sleeping agitations were breaking into frenzy, addressing himself as in answer to one who had spoken to him.

"But did he murder you? Was it St. Aubyn? Tell me, I conjure you, and answer truly. Condemn not your own soul, and O, Rosolia, involve not mine in condemnation by a lie!—A lie!—Can the dead lie?—And you are come to me here—aye, here, in this very chamber, where in our innocent school-days you used to sleep—to tell me the truth—the truth, Rosolia."

And now with quicker steps he paced the chamber, as if pursuing one who fled before him, yet, with that wonderful instinctive power which often attends the sleep-walker, avoiding every obstacle.

"Nay, fly me not!" he exclaimed: "deceive me not; for I have seen an angel in thy place to-night; and if thou art not a false and lying spirit, thou wilt not lead me to injure her." Then pausing again, as if listening to some one who spoke, he said, with quickness—

"I know it! I know it! That pistol—that ring! Yes, yes, yes, yes! Those indeed were direful evidences of his guilt!—Years, years, I have passed in thinking of them!—Yet he says, he swears, he is innocent—that it was De Sylva—that thou wert guilty! Oh, tell me, Rosolia, was it—was it so?—But I will pray for thy soul."

He knelt, and placing the lamp before him on the floor, its dismal light fell on his sad countenance, and shewed his eyes upturned, and his lips moving as in fervent prayer, while at intervals he crossed himself, and bowed his forehead to the earth. Then rising with a sudden start, he exclaimed—

"Hark, O'Brien calls! He will hear me—he shall not know my thoughts. It might not be St. Aubyn who shed thy blood: yet, oh, Rosolia—oh, my sister, it was thy blood I saw! And here is some of it on my hand."

He shook his hand violently, and appearing to look at it earnestly, he uttered a low, mournful, and distracted cry of terror, and rushed out of the room.

Alarm and horror had kept Ellen silent—she fainted not; yet scarcely could she be said to live. But as soon as his receding footsteps convinced her he was really gone, she hastily threw on some of her clothes, and flew, scarcely in her senses, to St. Aubyn's room. His door was fast, but with repeated knockings she aroused him, and great indeed was his consternation to see her so pale, so almost convulsed with fear and agitation.

"My dearest life!" he exclaimed: "what, for heaven's sake, is the matter with the child?"

"Oh! I have left him! I have forsaken him!" said she in terror, "all the doors open too, and that poor distracted youth may perhaps return, and who knows what injury he may do him! Oh! let us fly to the child," and she made some hasty steps towards the door.

"Recollect yourself, my Ellen," said the astonished St. Aubyn: "you are dreaming—sit down in this chair by the fire, and compose your spirits."

"Oh! no, it was no dream," said the shuddering Ellen, "I saw him as I see you now! he came to my room and said such dreadful things!"—

"Who came to your room?" exclaimed St. Aubyn: "who dared to intrude, to disturb and alarm you thus?"

"Oh! he was sleeping, I believe! but in his sleep—Oh heavens! he talked so dreadfully—of such horrid things—and called upon his sister in such tones! Oh! I never,