malice of the whole world to part them. Thus, in fluctuating hope and fear, the hapless girl passed away her melancholy hours, till the first dawn of the grey-eyed morn was announced by the shrill clarion of Chanticleer. Recollection flushed on her mind: she chided herself for giving way to such sorrowful retrospections; and fearful of being discovered by any of the family, not yet undressed, she hastily divested herself of her apparel, and retired to bed.—Worn out by the fatigue of the proceeding day and the sorrows of her heart, she soon fell into a heavy slumber. But sleep did not calm the passions of her mind; her dreams horrific; one while she was hurled from a precipice, then dashed into the foaming and tempestuous ocean, and sinking amidst the billows, calling in vain to Henry for aid. She awoke overwhelmed with terror. It was not yet time to rise—Again she slept: again the ocean presented itself to her view: a swift-sailing vessel appeared almost to fly before the wind: Henry was on the deck; his bosom streaming with gore, from a self-inflicted wound, as appeared by a poinard that he grasped in his right hand. Borne by an invisible guide, she flew towards him. A sudden storm arose; the ship was furiously combated by the elements. Henry gave a deep groan and expired in her arms. The vessel now appeared to sink rapidly, and the horrors of death were around her. Just at the moment of this painful visionary trouble, her sister Annette entered the
