the quay are flickering, their reflection quivers on the enraged waters, while one after the other is extinguished by the storm. Poor, glimmering lamps, good night!

March 7th.

Brenner has set out on an expedition to several sea-port towns of Sweden on affairs of the fleet. He will stay away some weeks. That is good.

To-day it is cold-a clear sky and frosty air. The snow lies white and still on the ice of the "Knight's Bay," on the southern mountains-still and cold as indifference. Would that it lay thus upon my heart. But no! I would not desire it. He still is suffering.

I prided myself too much on my philosophy, on my strength and prudence, and am-punished for it. Burn, therefore, holy pain, purifying fire, burn to the very root of selfishness and vanity. Burn and consume!

In the Evening.

I shall overcome these sufferings that I can feel; I shall surmount them, for I have had a clear inward presentiment that he has forgiven me, that his feelings and sentiments towards me are merciful. And for the first time I feel the need of the compassion and sympathy of a fellow-creature. Such presentiments of the mental state of persons dear to me, I have frequently had, both of a favourable as well as inauspicious nature, and never yet have they deceived me.

The feeling which unites me and Brenner is really not of an ordinary kind, still less can it be annihilated

in a moment. It is deeply grounded in the nature of our being. And I feel persuaded in my own mind, William Brenner, that we shall once more meet and be united in heartfelt harmony, when once this scene of life is past; I feel conscious of it, and have never felt more fully persuaded of it than at this present time, in which, to all appearance, we are more separated than

ever.

I have written some words to Brenner similar to these. They will meet him on his return to Stockholm.

This evening the stars shine brightly; there being not a cloud in the firmament to obscure their lustre. Good night, William! To-night thou wilt sleep; tonight I shall repose too; and to-morrow I shall again wholly devote myself to the interests of those around me. Thou hast given me an example of activity which I mean to follow.

March 10th.

And the drama which is now being performed in my vicinity, actually demands all my attention. In vain do I still seek for the thread that may lead me out of the labyrinth and set the captives free; that St. Orme is the Minotaur, I clearly perceive; and it looks as if Flora's prediction respecting herself-that she should take upon her his evil nature-would really receive its fulfiment. But why should Selma be her victim? Why should the Sylphide be bereft of her wings in this contest? Selma has for some time past been a true martyr to Flora's ever-increasing unhappy temper, who seems to take a sort of delight in tormenting her by capricious humours, harsh language,

and absurd suspicion. Selma bears all this with unexampled gentleness, but her cheerful voice is heard no more, and her light floating gait grows more and more sedate.

Yesterday I poured out before her the cup of my indignation against Flora.

"Forgive her!" entreated Selma, with her charming eyes full of tears: "she herself indeed is so little happy!"

And that is true enough. My stepmother, who does not understand Flora's real condition, but likes to see every one about her gay and happy, tries to cheer her spirits by all sorts of dissipations and pleasures; but these seem to have lost all influence over her at present, while her evil demon continues to gain deeper hold on her life.

The evening before last, after some visitors had withdrawn, and we, the ladies of the family, were left alone with St. Orme, Flora stood a long time absorbed in the contemplation of the portrait of Beatrice Cenci.

"Do you intend copying that lady that you contemplate her so minutely?" asked St. Orme, in his unpleasant, scornful tone.

66

Perhaps!" replied Flora, in a voice which sounded almost unearthly. She then continued in an altered

tone:

"I only endeavoured to realise to myself what must have been her state of mind."

"Prior or subsequent to the murder of her father?" asked St. Orme, as before.

"Subsequently," answered Flora. -that I understand, that I know."

"Her prior state

"Dear me, my sweet Flora," said my stepmother, "how can you dive into such horrible thoughts?"

"Yes, I can and do," replied Flora. "She had tried every thing, every thing, St. Orme, to burst asunder the fetter of her unhappy situation: her tormentor would not set her free; she was driven to the extreme of exasperation, to despair . . . . in short, I comprehend the feeling which prompted her deed. But after it, after . . ."

"Well," interrupted St. Orme," after its perpetration she could think about preparing for death, the scaffold, and the executioner."

66

It is related of her," continued Flora, "that at the moment she was going to her death, at the moment she was to ascend the scaffold, her lips poured forth a stream of joyful thanksgiving, so full of what is most exalted and noble in the human breast, that those who should have administered consolation to her were struck mute, and their compassion was changed into admiration. It is said that her beauty never was more touching, or the glance of her eye more radiant, than in the hour in which she-a contrite but redeemed sinner -went to meet her death, free and triumphant. This does not by any means surprise me. But I should like to know what the feeling is-ah, I should like to know what it is to be free-free and happy! I should like to know what the feeling, I should like to know what the sensation is, I should like to know how

Flora loudly repeated these words several times, as if in a state of phrensy, and then suddenly fell to the ground in a swoon.

Our consternation was great. Flora was borne into

Selma's room, where our care and attention soon restored her to life, but only to see her lapse into an hysterical state, from which she did not recover until several hours after, when she sunk into a quiet slumber. On her waking again, it was night. She lay still, her eyes fixed on the picture of Virginia, which hung at the foot of Selma's bed, (on which Flora lay,) and said half-aloud to herself:

"She, too, was a beautiful and unhappy creature ; she, too, died in the bloom of her youth, brokenhearted. But she, like many a woman, died crushed

by inward sorrow, died without glory, without revenge.

Beatrice was the happiest of the two."

"That is known alone to the Eternal Judge," said I, with a gentle voice.

66 Yes, what do we know?" continued Flora. "I know nothing but that I am more unhappy than both of them. It is strange, but for some time past the thought of a sanguinary deed-a murder, for instance -has had something refreshing in it. There must be a great change in the mind of one who is brought to commit any horrible deed--a something that bars the way of retreat against him, that admits of no uncertainty, precludes all fear, shuts out all hope. Then, indeed, the juggling spirit may depart, and man come to the full consciousness of himself. The heart, indeed, may grow calm and cool when the hour of death draws nigh, and all upon earth is past; then feelings may arise-feelings of resignation, of contrition, and then an angel from heaven may even come and kindle a light in the benighted soul ere it leaves the dying body. But then comes death 1-to die, to be laid in the cold, black earth, to moulder, to turn to dust, to be trodden upon by the feet of men . . . . hoo! No, noi