brother had a good share of common sense, but I begin to doubt this. Can he really be such a fool as to believe that sagacious, reflecting Scotchmen will be duped by him and his parson, into the notion that canting speeches are as much worth having as good cheer; or that the sanctimonious looks of a young landlord promise as well for their future interests, as if he showed himself the open-hearted, open-handed gentleman?

GER. I hope, Sir, that the people will love my brother such as he is. Will you pardon me for saying, Sir, that you yourself did not seem displeased with him last night, when he assembled his servants, and read and prayed with them. You did not, indeed, remain with us, but afterwards you treated Edward so kindly, and took leave of him for the night so like a father, that he was quite moved.

(Mr. Lornton makes no answer, but turning his face away, again paces about the room for a time, then stops and fixes his eyes earnestly on a portrait which hangs at one end of the apartment-again walks a few steps, then stops, and looks mildly at Gertrude.)

Mr. LORN. You know that picture, Gertrude? GER. Yes; it is my father's. I have spent much of this morning in contemplating it. I

think I never saw a more noble or engaging countenance than it represents.

Mr. LORN. There never was a more noble or more engaging human being, than he was, of whom that picture is a most perfect resemblance.

GER. Edward tells me that the people here have the most enthusiastic love for his memory.

Mr. LORN. All who had an opportunity of really knowing him, loved him with a kind of love, which I at least have never met with any other who could inspire.

(Turns away, and again paces the room; Gertrude rising, and putting her arm within Mr. Lornton's, walks with him.)

Mr. LORN. Have you any recollection of your father, my dear?

GER. I have a very strong recollection of him. I, at this moment, have him before me, as I saw him on the morning he, for the last time, left home to join the army. I recollect being waked, and seeing Papa looking earnestly and mournfully at me, as he bent over my little crib. I sprung up to clasp my arms round his neck, and he held me for a time pressed to his bosom -he then put me a little from him-looked at me-clasped me again to his breast, and kissed me many, many times, then laid me gently down,

and, raising his eyes to heaven, and clasping his hands together, said, "God protect my children." Mr. LORN. (sighing deeply.) Poor Aberley! GER. God, my dear Sir, has heard his prayer. First he has given us a kind and careful earthly guardian, and now I trust he is leading us all to himself, our heavenly Father.

Mr. LORN. I could have felt for you all as my own children, had your brother and sister regarded me at all as a parent. I do not, however, blame them. I know that circumstances have rendered my temper very unsuitable to those who are full of youth and hope. For you, my dear, I do feel as a father.

GER. I feel certain, my dear Mr. Lornton, that Edward and Anna will please you more in future than they have hitherto done.

Mr. LORN. Your brother resembles his father strikingly in person and features, but his impetuous, ungovernable temper is the opposite of what his father's was; and there is so much of it in the expressions of his countenance, that, till last night, he has seldom recalled my friend to my memory. Last night, when he declared his intention of serving God in his family whoever might be in his house, your father was before me. The firm, manly, ingenuous, yet embarrassed expression of his countenance, was exactly his father's, as I had often seen him, when his pure and correct feelings would not suffer him to

join in some parts of the conduct of his friends; and when he, while hating to differ from them, yet in his own noble manner gave his reasons, and either dissuaded his friends from their intentions, or left them.

GER. (laying her hand on Mr. Lornton's arm, and looking earnestly at him.) And can you, Sir, think those principles cant and folly, which lead Edward thus to resemble my father? Must there not have been the same elevation and integrity of mind to produce the same expression of countenance?

Mr. LORN. Perhaps, my dear, but proceeding from very different sources.

GER. Every good and perfect gift comes from God, the only source of good. I hope my dear father (hesitates and stops.)

Mr. LORN. Your father's conduct, when I knew him, proceeded from no other source than his own excellent and upright nature. Yet, Gertrude, I understand your hesitation, and that mournful expression of your countenance; and perhaps may be able to relieve you from your fears that your father's religious sentiments were no better than your guardian's. I find, on again reading over some of his last letters to me, expressions which may perhaps lead you to hope that his opinions resembled your own. When I myself first read these expressions, they only confirmed to me the mournful truth, that the

weakness of body which precedes death may affect and overpower the greatest minds; but I confess, Gertrude, the strange religious mania which has seized you, and with which you have infected all your family, has given a new character to these expressions. Before I left London to be present here to-day, as I considered it my duty to be, I looked over all your father's letters to me. In many of them he had mentioned to me his wishes respecting his children, and also respecting the management of his estates and tenantry; and I was determined that nothing in my power should be left undone to fulfil those wishes. I have several of his last letters with me. Here are two, out of which I shall read some passages. You know your father fell in Egypt. The first of these letters was written the day after he received the wound which proved fatal. He says, "I find that my wound might not be considered dangerous in a colder climate, but here my recovery is very uncertain. I have told you my wishes respecting Anna and my children; and now, Lornton, perhaps we shall never again meet in this world, and what, my friend, do we know of another? I, who find myself on the verge of it, feel a new, and, I confess to you, an appalling anxiety on this point. My dearest friend, do not leave this momentous affair to be learned at your last hours. There is enough besides to think too deeply of then. I