But the heart so lately quiet, soon began to beat violently; and her imagined indifference immediately vanished, when, raising herself up in her bed, she listened eagerly to hear the welcome sound again-"Mary! why, Mary! dear, dear Mary! for mercy's sake speak to me !"

It was the first moment of pleasure that Mary had known for many weeks; and telling him she would be down presently, she hastily dressed herself, and full of something like renewed hope, joined Llewellyn. But with his fears for Mary's health had subsided his inclination to exertion. She found him as she had left him the night be fore-stretched on his bed, the picture of woe, and again resolving to refuse all the nourishment which she offered him.

This was more than she could bear with patience. The cheek so lately flushed with hope became pale with disappointment; and sinking on the foot of the bed, she exclaimed: "It is over, and the struggle is past: why should I endeavour to keep alive in you, or in myself, an existence painful to us both? yet, I own it does grieve me, Llewellyn, to see you so very indifferent to me, so very unkind!"

Llewellyn, at these words, raised himself on his elbow, and looked at her with surprise and interest.

"Cruel, cruel Llewellyn!" she continued, rendered regardless of all restraint by despair," is it not enough, that from my earliest days I have loved, hopelessly loved you, and seen another obtain the love which would have died to gain? but must I see this happy though guilty rival triumph over me still even in her grave? Must I see you resolve to die with her, rather than live with me?"

Here Mary paused: but Llewellyn's heart being too full to allow him to answer her, she soon continued thus::

"Dear Mary!' said your parents to me, in their last moments, should our deluded son be still living and ever return to his native town, tell him-'

"Tell him what?" cried Llewellyn, seeing that Mary he

sitated.

"Tell him, it was our wish, that he should forget the worthless girl who has forsaken him (remember, Llewellyn, it was they who called her such names, and not I) and make you his wife.' It is not pretty to praise one's self, I know, Llewellyn," continued Mary blushing, "but I may repeat what they said surely."

"And what did they say?" asked Llewellyn."

"Why they said I was a very good girl; and they were sure I should make you happy!"

"Happy!-make me happy!" cried Llewellyn mournfully. "But you are a good girl-a very good girl, Mary!" he added, putting his arm round her waist, and pressing her to him as he spoke.

This circumstance, trivial as it was, invigorated the hopes of Mary, and gave her courage to proceed. "Now hear my resolution, Llewellyn :-From my childhood to the present hour, I have lived but for you and your dear unfortunate parents; to them and you-my health, my time, and my strength have been cheerfully devoted; but grief has now nearly exhausted me, and I feel that my power of exertion is nearly over; for 1 see, that-though I have loved you through all your sickness and your sorrow, and love you as fondly now as if you were still in the pride and bloom of health and youth-I see, wretch that I am! that it is with difficulty you speak kindly to me; and that I am so odious to you at times, that-"

"Odious!-you odious to me!" exclaimed Llewellyn, starting up with unusual animation; "you,-Mary! my friend! my nurse! my preserver! my all! now." Here he burst into a violent fit of tears, the first which he had shed since he had heard how Fanny died; and Mary, leaning her head on his shoulder, joined her tears to his. "You odious to me! you!" he continued, "whom I have loved from my childhood; you! who were all my poor parents' comfort; you! who performed towards them all the duties of a child; while I, wretch that I was! forsook them in their old age. Oh, Mary! whatever be my faults, accuse me not of the wickedness of hating you."

"Then promise me not to give way to this deadly sorrow, Llewellyn."

"I will promise you any thing," cried Llewellyn, tenderly.

"For, mark my words, Llewellyn-I will not live to witness your death-I am ill-I am very ill; and unless assured that you will consent to live, I will take no food, no remedies, but give myself up to the languor which is consuming me."

"Mary!-dearest Mary!" cried Llewellyn, catching her fondly to his bosom," you shall live for my sake, as I will for your's! we will either live or die together; and from this moment I will shake off this unworthy sorrow."

He said no more: for Mary, more unable to bear joy than sorrow, fainted in his arms, and for some time the terrified Llewellyn feared that she was gone for ever; but shę

revived at last, and in a few weeks, to the satisfaction of the whole town, to whom Mary was an object both of affection and respect, the lovers were united at the parish church. Not long after, a gentleman, to whom their story was known, put them in possession of a small but comfortable farm on his estate; and Mary shines as much, as a wife and mother, as she had before done as a relation and friend.

LOVE AND COURTSHIP.

LOVE is an affection of the mind, compounded of desire, esteem, and benevolence, which forms the bond of attachment and union between individuals of the different sexes; and makes them feel, in the society of each other, a species of happiness which they experience no where else.

As custom has forbid you that unlimited range in your choice which the men enjoy, so nature has benevolently assigned to you a greater flexibility of taste on this subject. Some agreeable qualities recommend a young man to your common good liking and friendship. In the course of his acquaintance, he contracts an attachment to you. When you perceive it, it excites your gratitude, this gratitude rises into a preference, and this preference perhaps at last advances to some degree of attachment, especially if it meets with crosses and difficulties; for these, and a state of suspense, are very great incitements to attachment, and are the food of love in both sexes.

The effects of love among men are diversified by their different tempers. An artful man may counterfeit every one of them, so as easily to impose on an open, generous, and feeling heart, if it be not well guarded, and even these virtuous dispositions may be the cause of its danger. The dark and crooked paths of cunning are unsearchable and inconceivable to an honourable and elevated mind.

The following are the most genuine effects of an honourable passion among men, and the most difficult to counterfeit. A young man of delicacy often betrays his passion by bis too great anxiety to conceal it, especially if he have little hopes of success. True love renders a man not only respectful but timid, in his behaviour to the woman he loves. To conceal the awe which he feels, he may sometimes affect pleasantry, but it sits awkwardly on him, and he quickly re

lapses into seriousness. He magnifies all her real perfections in his imagination, and is either blind to her failings, or converts them into beauties.

His heart and his character will be improved in every respect by his attachment. His manners will become more gentle, and his conversation more agreeable; but diffidence and embarrassment will always make him appear to disadvantage in the company of the object of his affections.

When you observe these marks in a young man's behaviour, you must reflect seriously what you are to do. If his attachment be agreeable to you, if you feel a partiality for him, you would do well not to discover to him, at first, the full extent of your love. Your receiving his addresses shews your preference, which is all at that time he is entitled to know. If he have delicacy, he will ask for no stronger proof of your affection, for your sake; if he have sense, he will not ask it, for his own.

If you see evident proofs of a young man's attachment, and are determined to shut your heart against him; as you ever hope to be used with generosity by the person who shall engage your heart, treat him honourably and humanely. Do not suffer him, to linger in a state of miserable suspense, but be anxious to let him know your sentiments concerning him.

Beware of acting the part of a coquette. There is one case perhaps, and but one, where a young woman may do it justifiably, to the utmost verge which her conscience will allow. It is where a young man purposely declines to pay his addresses till he thinks himself perfectly sure of her consent. This is intended to force a woman to give up the undoubted privilege of her sex, the privilege of refusing it is intended to force her to explain herself, in effect, before he himself designs to do it, and by this means to oblige her to violate the modesty and delicacy of her sex, and to invert the clearest order of nature.

It is of great importance to distinguish whether a young man, who has the appearance of being your lover, delays to speak explicitly, from the motive above-mentioned, or from a diffidence inseparable from true attachment. In the one case you can hardly use him too ill, in the other you ought to treat him with great kindness: and the greatest kindness you can shew him, if you are determined not to listen to his addresses, is to let him know it as soon as possible.

It appears necessary to be more particular on this subject,

because such instructions are generally needed at an early period of life, when young women have but little experience or knowledge of the world; when their passions are warm, and their judgment not arrived at such full maturity as to be able to correct them. It is very desirable that every female should possess such principles of honour and generosity as will render her incapable of deceiving, and at the same time to possess that acute discernment which may secure her against being deceived.

But there is yet one danger peculiar to your sex, which it requires, in some circumstances, no ordinary resolution to avoid, that is, lest you should at any time inconsiderately yield your affections to a man who perhaps may be scarcely known to you, or who may be placed by circumstances out of your reach.

In the following most affecting narrative may be seen the fatal consequences of indulging a hopeless passion; in the character of Jane Vernon, which is drawn from the life, you behold every thing that is amiable; but her attachment to Douglas, however well founded as to the character of its object, proved fatal to her.

Arm your hearts therefore against so hopeless an attachment, for if it be not subdued in its commencement, there will be little hope of conquering it when it has engaged your whole soul.

It is a generally received opinion, founded in fact, that females may attain a superior degree of happiness in a married state to what they can possibly find in the other. What a forlorn and unprotected situation is that of an old maid! What chagrin and peevishness are apt to infect their tempers; and how great is the difficulty of making a transition, with dignity and cheerfulness, from the period of youth and beauty, admiration and respect, into the calm, silent, unnoticed retreat of declining years!

A married state, if entered into from proper motives of esteem and affection, is certainly the happiest; it will make you most respectable in the world, and the most useful members of society.

THE ORPHAN;

A TALE.

JANE was the only daughter of Mr. and Mrs. Vernon who both died when she was about fifteen years of age,