"WHITHER was I now to go in search of Rosalie? mistrusting as I did Alozzi, and doubting when he affected to be most busy in the pursuit, whether he had not himself concealed her. I determined, however, not to part with him—if his intentions were honest, he might assist me in my search; if not, I should at least have the chance of detecting him, by his endeavours to evade me, or by some of those oversights by which the most artful men often betray themselves.

     "I therefore accompanied Alozzi to Rome, where we made acquaintance with every Englishman, and endeavoured to discover from them the names of their countrymen who had within a few weeks left Rome for England, or any part of

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 Italy; and in short made such enquiries as might lead to the object of our painful research. We gained, however, no satisfaction till at the end of a fortnight, when Alozzi came to tell me, he had met a valet de place, who had been accustomed to live much with the English at Rome; Alozzi said, the man was remarkably intelligent; that he had entered into discourse with him, and found that about three weeks before he had served (though for a few days) an Englishman of the name of Walsingham, who came from Naples, attended by a young lady with whom this man believed he had eloped; for that his conduct while at Rome seemed calculated to baffle pursuit and enquiry, and that after a short time they departed very mysteriously, but he had good reasons to believe they went to Genoa, there to embark for England. Alozzi brought the man to me; I questioned him, and from his description I soon thought that Rosalie was the lady whom he had seen with Mr. Walsingham. I heard with anguish not

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 to be expressed that she was gay in spirits, and accompanied this Walsingham evidently by her own consent. She had no child with her; but if she had so far forgotten the father, as to follow another, she would have found no difficulty in abandoning her child.—The longer I talked with this man, the more clearly the fatal conviction flashed upon me.—The time answered exactly to that on which Rosalie had left the house where Alozzi had placed her: the character of Walsingham was that of a man of boundless expence, and unrestrained libertinism; all served to persuade my senses that he had stolen from me the person and the affections of Rosalie.—Indignation and rage now animated a pursuit which had before been prompted by tenderness and hope. With whatever resentment I thought of the infidelity of my wife, my heart turned with fondness towards my child, thus abandoned, as I imagined, to the mercy of strangers, yet I knew not where to seek him; and the desire of vengeance was even stronger

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 than parental affection. After some consultation with Alozzi, it was agreed that he should return to Naples, where, by offering rewards, he had no doubt but he should discover my son, of whom he protested he would take a father's care, and send him to me by some trusty person, whithersoever I should direct. Alozzi departed, and I made the best of my way to Genoa; thither I traced persons resembling those I pursued, and on searching the registers kept at the Dogana, of people departing from that port, I found that about a fortnight before my arrival, Mr. Walsingham, an Englishman, with his lady and two servants, had embarked for England.

     "I had now no doubt remaining—Rosalie passed for the wife of Walsingham, and as such was proceeding to her native country.

     "Stung even to temporary madness, I adopted the sudden resolution of writing to my mother, reproaching her with the misery she had been the cause of, by com-

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 pelling me to take measures which had torn me from the woman I adored, and with her all the happiness of my life; I told her that to make me any amends was impossible; that I should never see her more; but that if she were not totally lost to every feeling of humanity, I implored her to receive and protect my child, whom, by a letter written at the same time to Alozzi, I desired him to send to her. I hoped that even her bitter and inveterate prejudies might give way to pity and concern, when I could no long offend her, and when she saw in a lovely and innocent infant the representative of a son whom she had driven to despair.

     "Having done this, I gave myself up wholly to that thirst of vengeance which devoured me, and took my passage to England in the first ship I could meet with, but for which I had the mortification of waiting a considerable time.

     "Every perverse accident, to which a traveller by sea is subject, conspired to retard my passage. The ship was old, and

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 a bad sailer; the captain had not enough men to work it, and of the few he had, two were confined to their hammocks by an infectious fever. We were continually beaten back by contrary winds, and the mortality increased in our little crew so much, that when we came into the Strait, I insisted upon being put on shore at Gibraltar, where, having taken the fever, I became extremely ill, and, after a confinement of near a month, narrowly escaped with my life. This cruel delay over, I once more embarked in a sloop of war, and was at length landed at Plymouth. In London I could not fail to hear of Mr. Walsingham, for there a man of his fortune must be known. I obtained a direction to his house in Grosvenor Street, where I heard that he was just gone to Brighthelmstone. I could not longer entertain a single doubt of my being right as to the person, for on enquiry of his servants I heard, that he was, a few weeks since, returned from a tour to Italy.

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     "I hastened, therefore, to Brighthelmstone, and to a house taken for the season by this Mr. Walsingham; I heard he was gone on a sailing party to Portsmouth and the Isle of Wight, but was expected back in a few days: his character answered to all I had heard of him abroad. Afraid of missing if I attempted to follow him, I resolved to await his return; but sleep forsook my pillow, and I wandered about from the dawn of the day, till the latest hour of night, without any other purpose than to wear away the tedious time that prevented my doing myself justice. It happened that I was sitting at a very early hour of the morning in one of the public libraries, where two of those bon vivans were also sitting, who regularly make tours during the summer months round the coast, to repair the excesses of their winter. I sat pensively silent, thinking on subjects, how different; when these two good cits began a discourse on the various advantages or disadvantages of different bathing places: one related to the other,

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 that he had lately left Eastbourne; where, said he, 'I got poultry pretty reasonable, and the wheat-ears were beginning to flock. There was not, indeed, much company; but then there were people that cared not what they gave for any thing; there was the famous Lady Llancarrick, and a Miss Something, one of your book-making ladies, with her. To be sure I thought it a little oddish to see her Ladyship quite hand and glove not only with that Miss What-d'y-call'um, but with another young creature, who goes, you must know, by the name of Sheffield, but as the people there say, is the mistress of one Mr. Walsingham, a man of great fortune, who brought her from abroad.—My son Jack, who came down to me from Friday to Tuesday, and is a mighty chap for a pretty face, fell downright in love with this fine madam—though, to do her justice, she looks very modest for one of that sort; and egad, Sir, it was as much as I could do to keep him from making up to her—Why,

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 Jack, (says I), don't you see she is countenanced by Lady Llancarrick. He laughed, and said, the lady herself was no better than she should be, and he'd make love to them all three.'

     "Imagine, Mr. Lessington, what I felt at hearing this conversation.—I knew not what I said to the man, but he told me, with many bows, and some gasping grimaces, all he knew; among other particulars, that the lady had a child with her; and then they both walked away, probably much amazed at my inquisitiveness and violence; while listening to nothing but my rage and indignation, I ordered a post-chaise, and taking a lawyer with me, and a person to attend on the child, I sat out for Eastbourne: as you have heard Rosalie's account, you know that I saw her but a for a moment: I could not indeed bear to look upon her—she was walking with the two women I had heard described:—I fled from her, and directing my son to be brought to me, I hastened back in a state of distraction, weeping

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 over the innocent unhappy boy, now accusing his mother of cruelty, and now protesting I would never think of her more.

     "I believe nothing saved me from attempting my own life, but my determined resolution to obtain satisfaction of Walsingham.—I waited a few days longer, and when he was returned, I sent to him a military friend, whom I met by accident, and who told me he was slightly acquainted with Walsingham. I stated my complaint, and this friend, Captain Wilmot, carried him a challenge from me, to meet at any hour he appointed the next day.

     "When Wilmot came back, he assured me, that Walsingham was extremely willing to meet me, if I insisted on it; but that he protested he knew not for what, having never seen Mrs. Montalbert in his life, and being totally unconscious of having ever done me the least injury. This falsehood only irritated my impatience—But Wilmot advised me to recollect whether there might not be some mistake in

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 all this? 'I do not,' said he, 'know much of Sommers Walsingham, but I am sure his courage is not to be doubted; and as to an affair of gallantry, he is much more likely to boast of, than to deny it. I am persuaded, that had he eloped with Mrs. Montalbert, he would very readily have given you the satisfaction you demand.'—More enraged than ever at what I could not but think a base and cowardly evasion, and almost ready to quarrel with Wilmot himself, I was determined to seek Walsingham instantly, and compel him to give an explanation—but Wilmot, who saw that some mischief must happen if I did, prevailed upon me to let him return once more to Walsingham.—He came back in about an hour, and declared to me that Walsingham had given him such a detail of the circumstances of his life for that last six months, that he was perfectly convinced he had never had the slightest acquaintance with Mrs. Montalbert.—'Good God!' exclaimed I; 'this is too much—did I not trace him from Rome to Genoa;

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 do I not know that the woman who accompanied him must have been my wife?'

     'My dear friend,' said Wilmot, 'Walsingham acknowledges that he had a lady with him, but declares it was not Mrs. Montalbert.—He has told me who it was, and, if you insist upon it, the lady who is not far from hence will satisfy you as to her identity. Can you suppose, Montalbert (added Wilmot, very gravely), that I have so little regard for you, or hold your honour of so little moment, that I would trifle with, or deceive you? If you insist of fighting, I am ready to attend you.—But I repeat, that in the grounds of this quarrel I do believe you are wrong.'—I knew Wilmot to be a man of unblemished honour, and of undoubted courage; and though it yet seemed impossible that I could be deceived, I hesitated. At that moment Charles Vyvian came to me.

     'Not less rash, or less irritated than myself, for he had read Sommers Walsingham's letter, Wilmot (who was even more acquainted with him than with me),

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 had the greatest difficulty imaginable to persuade him to hear what he had to say. At length it was settled, that as he knew the person of my wife, he should go with Wilmot to the lady; and if he was convinced that she had accompanied Walsingham from Italy, which he thought he should easily discover, it was agreed that I could have no quarrel with him.—This lady was at a small town, about twenty miles from Brighthelmstone, on the London road; and thither my friends repaired, with the consent of Sommers Walsingham. Towards evening I expected their return; I went out alone upon the hills, where I was accosted by a gentleman, whom my servant had, at his own request, accompanied in search of me. He told me, with very little preface, that his name was Walsingham; that on hearing I was in search of him, and that some disagreeable circumstances were likely to happen by my having mistaken for him a relation of the same name, he had come from Eastbourne on purpose to give me the explanation I

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 demanded. I will not repeat to you the manner in which I treated Mr. Walsingham; my trembling servant, who dared not disobey me, brought the loaded pistols I sent him for; I absolutely refused to hear what Walsingham would have said.—The words, 'I came from Eastbourne;' and 'it WAS I—who accompanied Mrs. Montalbert from Italy,' were enough for me.—When he found me deaf to his intended vindication, he took a pistol, and bade me fire mine.—I did so—with too good an air! the ball lodged in his side; he did not however fall: but firing his pistol in the air, he beckoned to my servant, whom I had driven with menaces to some distance; the poor fellow ran to him, and Walsingham, who had thrown away his pistol, leaning against him, said, 'I am wounded—I believe mortally: lay me on the ground; go call some persons to be witness that your master has acted like a man of honour, and that I acquit him of my death.'—I had in the mean time approached him; and guilty as I still believed

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 him, I could not see the paleness of death on his face without anguish and remorse; he was lying on the ground, and seemed, amidst the pain which his countenance expressed, more solicitous for my safety than his own life.—Touched by his generosity, I bade my man fly for surgeons: and when he was gone, I knelt by the suffering Walsingham with sensations of mingled rage and regret, which cannot be described, while he thus spoke to me:

     'Mr. Montalbert, it is probable I have but a few hours to live:—hear me, I conjure you, when I declare upon the honour of a dying man, that your wife is as innocent as an angel; that I have ever treated her as a beloved sister; and that you will be guilty of the most cruel injustice in throwing her from you. I have not breath to tell you what strange circumstance it happened that I was the instrument to release her from the power of your mother, who had her confined at Formiscusa. I feel very faint.—They tell me you have taken her child from her, and that she

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 is reduced to the brink of the grave by sorrow.....Restore her child—restore to her you affections, and try to make her happy—she deserves all your tenderness; and—if it should happen, as I am persuaded it will, that you are convinced you have been too rash—let not any remorse for what has happened disturb your tranquility.—I am a being, who have long been weary of life—and for me Death has no horrors.—You may for many years constitute and share in the happiness of an amiable woman; and it is some satisfaction to me, to think you will one day know that I was incapable of injuring you.'

     "He spoke slowly and with difficulty—I was incapable of answering!—but again he earnestly urged me to save myself by flight.—I incoherently told him, I hoped his wound was not mortal.—'I hope not, (said he)—but if it should, I intreat you, for the sake of Mrs. Montalbert, to take care of yourself.'—By this time my servant was come up with a surgeon; before he could decide whether the wound was

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 likely to be fatal, or how he could attempt moving poor Walsingham, Sommers Walsingham, Wilmot, and Vyvian, arrived together with a chair, which they had the precaution to bring with them.

     "I cannot relate what now passed.—Before the wounded man would consent to being moved, he insisted that the persons present should listen to the solemn declaration he made, that I had used him honourably, and was in no way to blame. I own this magnanimity, from a man whom I have perhaps injured, has deeply affected me. He bade my friends insist on my leaving the place, and Vyvian, I hardly knew how, forced me into a post chaise as soon as he had seen Walsingham's wound probed; for, till he had brought me some intelligence of him, I would not stir.—The surgeon had not yet attempted to extract the ball; nor could they pronounce with any certainty, but they entertained great fears for his life. Sommers Walsingham went off to London express, to bring down some very eminent man of

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 the profession; and at the repeated intreaties of Walsingham I came hither, without, however, meaning to withdraw myself from any inquiry that may be made—if he dies! - - - - - -

     'You will, I fear, have too much reason to reproach yourself, (interrupted Lessington).——You never received then a letter, which, from her journal, I see our poor Rosalie sent to you from Marseilles, under cover to the English Ambassador at Naples?'

     'Never! (replied Montalbert).—But has my wife then kept a journal—and may I not see it?'

     'If you will be calm, (said Lessington), I will put it into your hands.'——Montalbert, subdued as he was, was beginning to be conscious of his own rashness, promised all that was asked of him; and in this perusal passed the rest of the night; Lessington continually going to the door of Rosalie's chamber, where he found her much more quiet than he had ventured to expect.

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     At a very early hour of the morning, two post chaises stopped near the house. From one of them came Vyvian, with the little Montalbert and his maid; from the other, the physician who had attended Rosalie......Poor Montalbert saw them enter without having the power to speak. He questioned by looks the countenance of Vyvian, but found nothing that encouraged him to ask after Walsingham.—Vyvian, however, understood him, and said, "Walsingham is alive, and his case not desperate, though certainly dangerous."

     "Thank God! (exclaimed Montalbert), I may yet then taste of satisfaction!"——"Be not too sanguine, (answered Vyvian); but I am all impatience to know the state of our poor Rosalie!"——Overcome by sensations so acute and various, Montalbert sat in breathless anxiety; his tears fell on the face of his child as he pressed him to his heart, and he cast an earnest look towards the door, as he heard the steps of the physician descending from Rosalie's room.

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     He gave, however, a better account of her than they had dared to promise themselves; and, as he had heard from Vyvian a sketch of her story in consequence of his attendance on Walsingham, he ventured to advise that Rosalie might, as soon as possible, have her child restored to her, and be told that her husband was returned.

     "Mrs. Montalbert's illness, (said he), is so evidently occasioned by uneasiness and fear, that my art can do nothing while those causes exist; remove them, and she will soon, I believe, be restored to health."

     Montalbert then ventured to say—"But, Sir, if this unfortunate Mr. Walsingham should die?"

     "I hope, though I cannot say he will not!" answered Dr. F——.

     "But at all events, (interrupted Ormsby, who having just heard what had passed, now joined them)—at all events let my daughter see her little boy; and you, Sir, (continued he, turning to Montalbert)—you, I hope, will now do her justice—you will."

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     "It is not yet time, dear Mr. Ormsby, (said Lessington), to discuss many points, which, I hope, we shall amicably talk over hereafter.....Mr. Montalbert allows that the conduct of my sister has been unexceptionable, and that of Mr. Walsingham most generous."

     "It is I only, (said Montalbert, in a mournful and somewhat stern voice)—it is I alone who have been to blame."

     Lessington, fearful of what might follow, cried hastily—"We can none of us think that.—Alas! which of us, situated as you were, might not have acted as you did!"

     Dr. F—— now departed, promising to send a messenger from Brighthelmstone, with the opinion of the surgeons, as soon as the gentleman (Sommers Walsingham) expected was arrived; and Lessington went up to prepare Rosalie for the sight of her child.

     She had no sooner in her arms this darling of affection, than she seemed to have obtained a new existence. Lessing-

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 ton thought he might then venture to tell her, at least part, of what had passed, concealing, however, the sad effects of Montalbert's passionate suspicions.

     When he told her, her husband was in the house, she declared herself able to see him—for the slight view she had of him before seemed like a dream. She no sooner beheld him, than she attempted but vainly, to speak, while he, far from yielding to those transports of joy which he would have felt had not Walsingham been in danger, was wretched, though apparently restored to the bosom of happiness; and shuddered, as he thought, that Rosalie was perhaps embracing the murderer of her generous preserver, and one who might soon be an exile from her and from his country!

     This painful suspence continued some days, for the situation of Walsingham was long doubtful after the arrival of his surgeon from London. Rosalie, though she did not yet leave her room, for she continued extremely weak, could not fail to

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 remark the gloom that hung over her friends, and particularly Montalbert, who often fell into deep and melancholy reveries; then, suddenly starting, listened to any noise in the house, watched every one entering at the door, and seemed frequently so uneasy, that Rosalie, however, willing to impute his inquietude to the situation he was in with regard to his mother, which he had told her of, could not but discover that something of more immediate import pressed on his mind; she had never ventured since their reconciliation to name Walsingham.—Too well aware from the slight and half-stifled narrative she had received from her brother and her father, that Montalbert's jealousy had been the cause of the step he had taken as to her child, she feared to awaken it anew by naming him, while Montalbert, observing her caution, felt hurt that she did not speak to him openly and candidly—and these concealed sensations on both sides occasioned a sort of restraint that rendered them far from happy.

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     As Rosalie every day became better, and thought herself well enough to leave a place which reminded her of many days of suspence and uneasiness, she felt some surprise that neither her father nor Montalbert proposed her removal, for they had concealed from her their debates on this subject, which had not passed without some asperity on Montalbert's part. Conscious of high birth, and of his right to an ample property, he did not reflect, without bitterness of heart, on his reserve of fortune.—Instead of raising his wife to high affluence, he found himself and his son now almost entirely dependent on Mr. Ormsby, who, though related to him by blood, the notions he had acquired among foreign nobility taught him to consider as a merchant and an adventurer for gain. Ormsby, on the other hand, had been so long used to the most perfect obedience to his will from every body about him, that he was hurt at the little submission which Montalbert showed to his wishes, when he expressed an intention of making a consi-

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 derable purchase, and placing Rosalie as mistress of his house and fortune. Montalbert fancied that Ormsby would not be sorry if the fatal termination of Walsingham's accident compelled him to go abroad; but secretly determined, if it did, that no considerations of interest should induce him to leave his wife and child in England.—Ormsby was not only conscious that he should have been happier to have found his daughter single, but fancied the sentiment justified by the pride and violence which he thought natural to Montalbert's character.

     These heart-burnings between two persons, on whom the happiness of Rosalie so entirely depended, gave extreme concern to Lessington, and kept him from returning home, notwithstanding the repeated letters he received from his wife. Vyvian saw with equal concern that there was no cordiality between them; but the situation of Walsingham, whom he had twice visited, and whose character had im-

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 pressed him with the highest esteem, was a source of still deeper regret.

     How strange is the disposition of human events! Rosalie, who but a very few days back suffered every possible calamity, now saw her husband returned, her child restored, her father in safety, and master of an ample fortune (circumstances which even in her most sanguine moments she never ventured to flatter herself with); yet, with all these blessings united, Rosalie was not happy; and had she known the situation of Walsingham, would have been extremely miserable.

     Convinced, however, that something very serious occasioned the restlessness and anxiety which seemed to increase on every face that approached her, from some unguarded expressions, as well as from the extreme solicitude with which they had been explained away, Rosalie caught some vague suspicions of the truth, she contrived to question Claudine so narrowly, that the poor girl, who had long been

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 sadly overweighed with secret, burst into tears, and disclosed all she knew.

     Disqualified as Rosalie was to bear such a shock, the necessity of supporting it with calmness immediately occurred to her. Claudine, already terrified at what she had done, besought her to say nothing to Mr. Ormsby, whom she heard upon the stairs—but her countenance betrayed her too evidently what had passed: hardly, however, had she time to attempt evading her father's questions, when Montalbert appeared, and the necessity of her artificial tranquility became more pressing. Vyvian and Lessington were walking; something like conversation was attempted between Ormsby and Montalbert, but it would have flagged, if Claudine, who dreaded their observations, had not opportunely brought the child, in whom the all took an equal interest. A packet, however, was brought into the room by the mistake of the servant, on which Montalbert had no sooner cast his eyes, then he changed countenance, and betrayed such violent emotion, that

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 Rosalie, concluding Walsingham was dead, had only resolution enough left to avoid betraying, otherwise than by her features, the extreme pain this idea gave her. Montalbert, trembling with impatient dread, tore the letter half open: then recollecting himself, hastened out of the room, and Ormsby, who guessed that it brought some fatal intelligence, followed him.

     The letter, however, instead of bringing to Montalbert the cruel intelligence he expected, was to this effect:

     "I have insisted on being allowed to write this letter, to satisfy those fears which the people about me have, I know, given you. My friend Bernard permits me to tell you myself, that he believe I shall in a few days be well enough to remove by slow journies to London, whither his business calls him so pressingly, that he can no longer attend me here; and as we have been friends from our childhood, I find myself so much happier in his than in other

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 hands, whatever may be their skill, that I am resolved to accompany him. You will conclude from this, that all the dangerous symptoms which have hung about me are removed; and I trust that the pain this affair has given you will no longer interrupt your present happiness.—For you must be happy, Montalbert, with so amiable a woman!

     "As soon as I am quite well I shall return to the Continent.—Consider whether I can do you any service with Signora Belcastro. It is not possible, that, from misrepresentations, her general prejudice may have been raised into particular dislike?—I own to you, that from Mrs. Montalbert's account, as well as from other circumstances, I fear Alozzi has been less sincerely your friend than you have believed. Perhaps I may be the fortunate means of undeceiving your mother; and you will really oblige me, by giving me an opportunity of being useful to you, either in this or in any other way.

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     "If Vyvian would come over to see me, before I go, it would give me pleasure.—I hope our friendship, however unpleasantly begun, will be permanent.—Permit me to offer to Mrs. Montalbert my most respectful good wishes; my dear little ward and fellow traveller, is not old enough to remember me, but I shall always recollect him with pleasure. Adieu, dear Sir, I have exceeded Bernard's permission, and must hastily assure you, that I am your most faithful servant,

"F. WALSINGHAM."

     This letter, though evidently written in pain and languor, took from the heart of Montalbert such a weight, that he seemed suddenly restored to happiness and reason. He determined to go over himself with Vyvian to visit this generous man, who had suffered so much for his inestimable services, and unparalleled goodness, and, forgetting all his former precautions, he was hastening to show the letter to Rosalie, as soon as her father had read it,

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 when the entrance of Lessington and Vyvian prevented him.

     Montalbert and Vyvian agreed to set out immediately, and Lessington undertook to relate to Rosalie the truths which had been so long concealed from her.—He found her already informed of all but the late relief from their apprehensions. She could not hear of the sufferings of her benefactor, and of his unexampled generosity, without great emotion: Lessington bade her indulge it, but still fearing lest Montalbert should again feel suspicious, which had already cost him so much, she tried to check her tears when Montalbert appeared—but it was impossible. And he, by a thousand tender apologies, intreated her to forgive his rashness and injustice, and encouraged her to indulge those tears, which a little relieved her oppressed heart.

     Montalbert, Lessington, and Vyvian, now set out on their visit, the two latter took leave of Rosalie: Lessington returning

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 into Oxfordshire, and Vyvian having determined to accompany Walsingham to London.

     During the short absence of her husband, Ormsby talked over with his daughter their future plans of life. It was probable that Montalbert, however his pride might be hurt, would not now oppose the wishes of Ormsby, who seemed to place all his satisfaction in bestowing on his daughter a degree of affluence, which should set her even above the daughters of Vyvian, who had despised and contemned her: but Rosalie represented to her father, that, beyond a certain point, fortune contributed nothing to real happiness; that whatever attracted towards her the eyes of the world, would quicken the envy and malignity with which her story would be related, and could not fail to reflect on the beloved memory of her mother. To this argument Ormsby was compelled to yield, and he found himself under the necessity, however painful, of continuing to conceal from the world the relationship in which

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 he stood to Rosalie, wishing it to remain as much as secret as a circumstance could do already known to so many persons, and which, during Rosalie's illness, no pains had been taken to conceal.

     Montalbert returned more deeply impressed than ever with the generosity of Walsingham. He had, however, paid all the pecuniary obligations Rosalie owed him, and they parted with mutual professions of friendship.

     In a few days afterwards Mr. and Mrs. Montalbert, and their little boy, went round the coast into Kent, and took a house near Margate for the rest of the summer, while Ormsby made a tour through the western countries in search of a purchase for his daughter, where, at a small distance, he might find a residence for himself.

     Montalbert, whose natural infirmities of temper had been chastised and corrected by the events which had so nearly deprived him of the felicity he enjoyed, seemed now to think that he could never make sufficient

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 amends to his charming wife for the injury he had done her, by giving way to suspicions she so little deserved. About three months after his removal to London, Walsingham went to Italy, where, by means of some Italian friends of high rank, he procured an introduction to Signora Belcastro, and gradually contrived to inform her of the share he had had in delivering her daughter-in-law from her usurped power, while he undeceived her in regard to many representations made by Alozzi, who, finding himself baffled in designs, which the absence and probable death of Montalbert had occasioned him to form, had really been, in his turn, the dupe of Signora Belcastro, and had followed the scent she had artfully given, that Rosalie had eloped with an Englishman.——Walsingham acquired so much influence over the mind of this strange woman, that though he could not prevail upon her to forgive her son for having married as he did, she at length relented in favour of his children, and

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 settled upon them what she had intended for their father, to whom, however, her pride and Walsingham's persuasions prevailed upon her to allow a handsome annual income.

     Montalbert enjoyed, at a small but beautiful place on the coast of Dorsetshire, with which Ormsby had presented his wife, more happiness than usually falls to the lot of humanity. Rosalie passed her life in studying how to contribute to his felicity, and that of her father, and, by her sweetness and attention, she won them both from those little asperities and difference of temper which had once threatened to destroy their domestic comfort.

     But notwithstanding the cheerful and even gay letters which Walsingham wrote to his friends, letters which greatly contributed to the happiness of Rosalie, who retained for him the most grateful regard, he was still an unhappy wanderer; and when he had done all he could to restore Montalbert to his mother's favour, and

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 was no longer animated by the hope of serving Rosalie, he sunk again into that cold despondence, which a sensible heart feels when the world around is as a desart. The agonies with which he had wept over the grave of his Leonora had been suspended by the almost imperceptible attachment which had crept into his bosom for Rosalie, and which he had indulged but too much, after there appeared some probability that Montalbert was no more.

     The last letters he wrote to England informed his friends that he was setting out on a tour through Spain and Portugal; and that finding himself more than ever disposed to wander, he thought it not improbable but that he might go from thence to the Cape, and so to the East Indies.——In the pursuit of science and knowledge he found consolation, when no benevolent action offered itself to satisfy his philanthropy; but so generally is misery diffused, that there were few places which did not offer objects for this indulgence—though none could interest him

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 like the amiable Being whom he had released from the dreary confinement of Formiscusa, and restored to the possession of the happiness she now enjoyed—a happiness which alone could soften the sadness of his own destiny!!!

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