tionably have become a Protestant. You have a poet who says something like this,—
"a frame decayed,
Lets in new lights thro' chinks that time has made."
It is thus with me. I go to corruption, but the soul becomes more acute to discern, more wise to distinguish, as she approaches her immortal source."
"I know very little," said Isabella, tremblingly alive to the awful situation of the interesting being before her, whom she already loved; "but I remember the Bible says this, 'corruptible shall put on incorruption, this mortal shall put on immortality;' which is a great, great comfort. In a few weeks, I may myself be nearer death than you are, dear cousin."
"Cousin! cousin!—say that again, it is almost sister. I have never known the blessing of such sweet relationship."
"Then let me call you sister, dear Margarita, my elder sister; honoured as well as dear, and very dear, as such, will you become to me. I am used to sister-love, and it has always been very sweet to me."
"Poor child! have you not also found husband-love sweet? Perhaps not, it will be better in days to come."
Isabella could have dilated on her husband's love and her own happiness in it, but a delicate perception of Margarita's situation kept her silent. "Perhaps," she said, "the poor sufferer would rather it were so—rather that all the love of Glentworth belonged to her-
