ture were suspended, and the earth was making manifest the million-winged swiftness of her own revolution. At length the rapidity of the stars in their courses appeared to abate, the swift became slow-and motion subsided into rest. The escape was now comparatively safe; his presence of mind returned, and, before an hour had elapsed, he reached the shore in the disguise of a fisherman, and had sailed for the islands about ten miles distant from the strand, which are known by the name of the Saltees.

In the meantime the wife of the fugitive held in the nunnery her anxious watch. From the moment of his surprise, the centinel had neither attempted resistance, nor the recovery of his freedom, whether from some generous sympathy with the heroism and devotion of the insurgent's wife or from that strange, but universal awe which we feel when a creature which we considered weak assumes unwonted strength, and exercises a sudden and instantaneous act of power, and seems to have come, at a moment's warning, into a nature darker or brighter than its own. And now, when Adrian had been

absent so long that the time must have witnessed his capture or secured his flight,-she darted through the door of the prison chamber, and, turning the key on the wildered guard, flew to the entrance which had been chained and ironed, with every precaution of security. At a signal which was acknowledged by the outer guard, the gate was opened cautiously and slowly, and with a watchful look of recognition, the officer for the night conducted her from the prison, and she was again in the free, blessed air of heaven, and happier in the prospect opened to her at that divine starry hour, than she had ever been in any one hour of life that she could remember. Without interruption she was driven to her own desolate home.

By the time the centinel was relieved, and Mr. Harvey's escape discovered, his wife was on her way to rejoin him in the asylum which some of the misguided and unfortunate gentlemen engaged in the conspiracy had prepared for themselves in the bosom of the ocean. In her flight she had gathered some of the dark and fragrant roses which even now are indigenous to

the gardens of the Castle. One of the most beautiful popular legends of the country, a century ago, was blended with the tale of the Flowers of Barguy.

CHAPTER XIII.

How solemn and interesting it is to contemplate the changes which have taken place in our being during the years through which we have recently travelled-to see the autumnal tint on many of our hopes-to perceive the beam breaking from the cloud, to settle for the remainder of our days on many of our sorrows! It is a pleasing almost a holy employment of our thoughts to trace back the succession of our pleasures, and to observe how bountifully, when one source of happiness has been dried up within us, another has been opened; and to learn from the past supply of our mercies, and the past variety of our consolations, that there is yet hid treasure in the heart for the years that are to come. There may be times of mourning when our life appears to us but a barren and dry land, -there may be hours of disappointment when,

looking upon the happiness of others, we breathe our prayer unto heaven, "Hast thou not also a blessing for me, O my Father?" But how mercifully does that Eternal Father administer his instruction by the hand of time, when the watersprings flow again in the wilderness, and the infirm or dejected mind again blossoms like the rose.

Such was the reflection of Emily when restored to the happiness which had been so long interrupted. Her home was now a black cavern, round which the noise of the waves ceased not day nor night. She had come to seek a refuge with her companions in the secret chambers of the Atlantic; and the great deep broke hoarsely over the vaulted rocks beneath which she reposed in slumbers lulled by the tempest, and deep as the rest of the mariner. But she was safe, and he was safe whose life she had wound round her own; and as she wandered over the kelp-strewn beach, and he wove some sea-weed wreath for her hair, or strung the little shells into a necklace-oh, how more precious to her now than pearls and gems!-she would speak to him of distant climes and days so sweetly and tenderly, that the very scene she painted drew color from herself, and he