Mrs. ABER. Perhaps so, Gertrude; but your warmth certainly proves you to be an enthusiast. But here comes Anna.

Enter ANNA.

GER. (Retaining her mother's hand and smiling.) Is warmth then enthusiasm, Mamma?

Mrs. ABER. (withdrawing her hand with displeasure.) Schooling me again, Gertrude! (turns from her.)

GER. Mamma, do not leave me in displeasure. Mrs. ABER. Well, Anna, (looking at her) extremely prettily dressed indeed!

ANNA. Look, Gertrude, how pretty and graceful the trimming is now.

GER. Very pretty, (looks all over Anna's dress, and then sighs.)

ANNA. Now, dear Gertrude, why that sigh? Why should you force yourself to give up what you sigh after, and what surely must be innocent?

GER. You mistake the cause of my sighing, Anna. But, good night; you see Mamma is impatient to be gone.

Mrs. ABER. And pray, Gertrude, what was the cause of that deep and heavy sigh with which you finished the inspection of poor Anna's dress? GER. I was not conscious of sighing, Mamma, I did so involuntarily.

Mrs. ABER. But you now seem conscious of the cause, so pray let us have it.

GER. Mamma, I only displease you. Pray do not ask me.

Mrs. ABER. Now, child, don't be mysterious and important about nothing.

GER. Well, Mamma, since you insist upon it, the truth is, that when I looked at Anna, so gaily dressed out, and then at her animated happy countenance, and those white roses in her hair, the thought," Poor lamb, decked out for a sacrifice," came so strongly into my mind, it forced that heavy sigh.

Mrs. ABER. Strange gloomy girl! You turn every thing to sadness. Come, Anna, it cheers me to look at you.

GER. Good night, dear Mamma, (offers to take her hand, which Mrs. Aberley draws back, and passing her, leaves the room with Anna, and closes the door.)

Gertrude, seating herself at the table, leans her face on her hands, and bursts into tears. The door again gently opens, and Mrs. Aberley looks anxiously at Gertrude, then enters.

Mrs. ABER. Gertrude, my love, good night. (Bends over and kisses her cheek.)

GER. My dearest Mamma! (clasps her arms round her mother.) Oh, Mamma, if I could only make you feel what suffering it is to me to give you pain.

Mrs. ABER. I do not know how it is, Gertrude, but there is something strangely over

powering in your enthusiasm. You will infect But good night, my love. Do not sit up late. God bless you. (Embraces her, and exit.)

me.

GERTRUDE alone.

GER. Oh, my own dear mother. I trust you will indeed be infected. (Covers her face with her hands, and prays. After a short time some one enters the room softly, she starts and turns round.)

Enter EDWARD.

GER. Edward! What is the matter? To what wonderful event am I indebted for a visit from you at this hour?

EDW. You speak gaily, Gertrude, but you have been in tears. What has vexed you? GER. Oh, nothing of any consequence. EDW. Is it really so, now, Gertrude?

GER. Really. Upon my word. I would rather that what has happened to make me shed tears had happened than not. Now, answer my question, What has brought you here? I think you seem unusually grave.

EDW. I want to have a conversation with you, Gertrude, and have been watching till my mother and Anna should depart to their midnight revels. Now, just guess where I have been this evening?

GER. I guess! Impossible, but I shall try.

You have been losing money at play, and are now in low spirits.

EDW. No, Gertrude, you are quite wrong.

GER. You look so grave and quiet, that perhaps you have been at your guardian's receiving a lecture.

EDW. I have been receiving a lecture, but not from my guardian.

GER. And from whom else did you condescend to listen to a lecture?

EDW. From Mr. Percy, your beloved Rev. Mr. Percy, who has lectured me till I am convinced I am the greatest fool on earth.

GER. Mr. Percy! What do you mean, my dearest Edward? Has Mr. Percy really had the goodness to; but it is impossible. You never could meet- Do, dear Edward, tell

EDW. Well, then, let us draw near the fire, for I have much to say to you, Gertrude.

GER. Begin, dear Edward.

EDW. Well, then, Gertrude, however careless and foolish, or worse, you may have thought me, I have not been insensible to the change that has taken place in you during the last year. You know how Ashton annoyed me last winter, by constantly attempting to draw me into religious conversation. You will recollect, that, though his arguments had no effect upon me, I could not answer them. The truth was, my own con

science told me that what he said was true; but I knew that his conduct had been more criminal than mine had ever been, and I thought it natural enough that he should feel uneasy, and wish to reform; but I confess I despised him for being driven, as I thought, by fear, to make himself ridiculous. When you, Gertrude, began to agree with him, and to join in what he said respecting the natural alienation of the heart from God and true religion, I for a time could scarcely believe you sincere. Your life appeared to me perfectly innocent; and I thought, had mine been as much so, I should have felt nothing but peace. At that time I carefully avoided Ashton; but, though you perhaps did not perceive it, I listened with much interest while you argued with my mother about your new opinions, and often was very much surprised with what you said respecting sin and conscience. I well knew the meaning of what you said, but I wondered what you could have done, that led you to speak so truly and feelingly of the dreadful gloom of a guilty conscience. I had often experienced that dread of God, which you described as that which makes a sinner feel his need of a mediator between him and that awful Being, the very thought of whom, when we are conscious of having disobeyed Him, can so appal us. In listening to you, however, Gertrude, I soon perceived that it was indistinct ideas of right and wrong which had led me to