will have the goodness to permit his parents to think and act as they judge best."

"My dear," replied Mr. Rosebury, "if you will not be offended-"

"Offended!" said the lady, cutting him short, "it is quite unimportant to me-"

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Unimportant!" said Mr. Morley, taking her up as she had before done her husband, "quite unimportant to a wife what her husband thinks!-O tempora! O mores!"

"Will you give me leave to finish my speech ?" said the lady, angrily; "I was going to say, that it is quite unimportant to me what George may choose to say or to think, any further than that I do not like to see such arrogance in young people."

"But, my dear," said Mr. Rosebury, "I think that we ought at least to weigh what our son says. His letter is kind and respectful, and I am more than half convinced that he is right; I have of late felt some apprehension lest the manner of life we are leading is not exactly what it should be. Life is short at best, and its termination in a few years is certain; death produces an awful change-it introduces us to a new state of being: ought all our thoughts to be upon the things of time, and is eternity to occupy none of our cares? I feel myself already a different man in point of health and strength to what I was some months past; I am heartily tired of our mode of life-can we not be happy at home?-for instance, this evening, could you not contrive to stay within, and let us go early to rest? we might then talk over George's letter-read it again, and let him speak for himself."

"If you are unwell, that is another thing," said Mrs. Rosebury; "of course you ought not to go out, and the physician should be sent for; but as to our staying at home with you, I hope you will not require it-this is the night of Madame Orengo's concert; you know that Julia has been preparing for it with her masters for several days, and she is expected to take a very distinguished part. I appeal to my mother to confirm what I have said, and to assure you that it is quite impossible for me to stay at home to-night."

Mrs. Morley, her two daughters, and Julia, all at once chimed in to prove to poor Mr. Rosebury that this night, of all nights in the year, was precisely the night in

which they must all go out; and though not convinced, yet he was silenced, and accordingly, when the dessert was finished, he retired to his study and lounged away the rest of the evening in a manner of which I can give no account, retiring early to a bed in an alcove within his study, and not seeing his wife again till the noon of the next day, for the ladies were up nearly all night, and therefore did not meet in the usual sitting room at breakfast. But at dinner again, Mr. Rosebury still complaining of his health, ventured to say, "I wish, my dear, we had not these constant engagements; I should be very glad if you could be at home to-night."

"Well, then, you will have your wish, papa," remarked Julia, "we shall be at home this evening.' "Yes," said Mr. Morley, "Mrs. Rosebury is to be at home to-day."

"At home!" remarked Mr. Rosebury, "are you going to have a party?"

"Not above thirty persons, papa," returned Julia; "and you know that is a small party."

"Well," said Mr. Rosebury, "then you must excuse me, my dear."

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Impossible!" exclaimed all the ladies at once, and they gave so many reasons for the thing being quite impossible, and improper, and unheard of, and not to be done, &c. &c., that Mr. Rosebury gave way, staid at home, received his thirty friends, and went to bed at one o'clock with so severe a headache, that he came to the determination that he would henceforward withdraw himself, possible or impossible, from his wife's parties, that is, if he could not persuade her to lead a less idle and vain life, which he was resolved to try to do; and accordingly, for the third time, after dinner, he expressed his hope that they might for once enjoy a quiet evening.

It would fill a quire of paper if I were to write down all that was said by the ladies, when Mr. Rosebury, though in very gentle language, expressed his opinion that they had all followed the fashions and habits of the world too long, and that he began to feel that there was neither pleasure nor profit in such a life. The old lady, who was by this time nearly seventy, began upon him, and her three daughters and granddaughter followed her up, two or three speaking at a time, while the uncle laughed and added to the confusion, though he had the prudence, when he found his mother and sisters were

getting a little angry, to tell Victoria to go out of the room, and look after her wooden babies and toys, adding," that she was too young to understand such discussions." Mr. Morley would have been a little surprised, I doubt not, had any one told him what sort of babies and toys were possessed by Victoria, and in what manner she occupied herself with them; for the little lamb of alabaster was not the only carved image possessed by this child; Teresa had provided her with many others, some of them representing the Virgin and her Child, and others being even more shocking to persons who have any sense of holy things, and who know the commandment, viz. "Thou shalt not make to thyself any graven image.'

So Victoria being gone out, the argument became hotter, and at length the poor father being overpowered, and feeling himself in that state of health and spirits which renders a person unable to contend, even when duty requires that he should do so, he left the room, descended the stairs, and catching up his hat which lay in the hall, passed out into the garden with a view of taking a walk. It was four o'clock, and was precisely that season of the year in which, after an early dinner, there is time to walk before sunset, for it was the middle of January, the evening was pleasant, the air being soft and balmy, and Mr. Rosebury felt that a change of scene would relieve his wounded spirits. He looked back, however, as he passed out under the gateway of the garden, and saw Victoria sauntering, as if without an object, along an alley of orange-trees. He called to her, and at the call she came bounding towards him. "Put on your bonnet, my little girl," he said, " and come with me."

Her countenance lighted up on receiving this direction, and having disappeared for an instant, she appeared again wearing a hat in the fashion of the peasants of the country, lined and trimmed with rose-coloured silk, which, being thrown carelessly on her head, exhibited a set of features on which it might have delighted any parent to look. "Will you be my companion, Victoria ?" said Mr. Rosebury, in an accent which seemed to declare that he had no other; in return of which she took his extended hand, and with a motion which startled him as being unexpected, lifted it to her lips and kissed it respectfully. The tears started in the father's eyes,

and this was the question which suggested itself to his heart: "What have I found in the world which ever interested me like this child?"

Nevertheless, when alone with his daughter he did not feel at ease. He had allowed her to become too old before he made himself acquainted with her; he saw at once that she was not that sort of child which could be won and encouraged to prattle with confitures and bon-bons; she was a child who had a character and opinions of her own, and the father knew neither the one nor the other; he therefore felt at a loss what to say to her, and he was probably not the first father who has felt the same sort of embarrassment in the presence of a son or daughter.

As to Victoria, she was still too young to feel the awkwardness of silence in such a situation. Her father had happened to turn in the direction which had been the favourite walk of Teresa, viz. that walled path which leads to Mont Alban by the chapel, mentioned in the former part of our story-a path particularly connected with the earliest remembrance of Victoria, where she had often walked with Teresa, and where she had last walked with her on the very day before the letter had come from Rome.

It cannot therefore surprise us much if Victoria, when walking with her father up this path, which in many places is very steep, had quite forgotten that he was with her, and was thinking only of Teresa, her beloved Teresa, the only person, in fact, who had supplied the wants and relieved the pains of her infancy. She was therefore startled as if from a dream when, having arrived at a fine point of view on the hill, her father stopped short and spoke to her, pointing out the long range of the indented shores of the Mediterranean as far as Antibes, and at the same time saying, "You have never been on the sea, my dear; would you like to make a voyage? would it please you to see England ?"

"No, papa," replied Victoria, decidedly; "I never wish to see England, I love my own country."

"But England is my country," said Mr. Rosebury; "would you not like to see your father's country?" "No, no," replied Victoria; "no, I hope, papa, that you will never go there."

"Do you fear the cold, Victoria ?" asked Mr. Rose

bury, glad of any subject which might call out his daughter to speak.

"No, papa," she answered, still using the most determined manner.

“The sea, then, perhaps is your objection; do you fear to cross the sea ?" said Mr. Rosebury.

"No, papa," returned Victoria; " no.

"You would not then like to leave Nice ?" asked Mr. Rosebury.

"I should not mind it," she answered.

"Then why not like to go to England?" said her papa.

Victoria made no answer; and Mr. Rosebury proceeded to describe England in a way which he thought might make it seem inviting to his child; which having done, he added, "And now, Victoria, do you not think you should like to go to England?"

"No, papa, never," she replied; "I never wish to go to England."

The conversation then dropped, and they spoke no more till they arrived at that part of the height which we have mentioned before, and where Victoria remembered to have seen the old gentleman in black. Mr. Rosebury turned towards the chapel, and Victoria followed him slowly, and still silently. "What have we

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here ?" said he, looking at the fresco painting over the door; ah!" he added, affecting a cheerfulness he did not feel, "here we have St. James, and there are the poor souls in purgatory;" and he proceeded to remark on the absurdity of these popish fables.

Victoria made no answer; on which he turned to her, and observed that her colour was heightened, and that she looked displeased. Perhaps, thought he, these figures in the flames alarm her, and he added, "But, Victoria, you well know that these are all inventions made to frighten the poor ignorant people, and to get their money out of their pockets."

Victoria's lips moved, but she uttered no voice.

Mr. Rosebury was surprised by her manner, and stooping and looking in her face, he said, "Is any thing the matter, my love-are you tired?"

"No," said Victoria, "but I cannot-" and she burst into tears, and they were tears more of passion than grief.

"What cannot you?" asked the father, in alarm.