things of the heart, and illumine its midnight; and the prayer of faith is mighty. Hundreds of years ago, the Hebrew prophet bowed his face to the earth, and prayed. He looked seven times for the answer of his petition; and soon, the little cloud, at first no bigger than a man's hand, spreads over the whole canopy of heaven. The perplexed Hezekiah girded himself with sackcloth, and spread his case before the Lord Jehovah, without regarding the blasphemies of his enemies; and the angel of the Lord went out, and smote the Assyrian in his camp. The church prayed, and the prison doors flew open, and liberated the captive Apostle. If there is truth in revealed religion, there is efficacy in prayer.

"If I cannot resist the influence which is gathering over my soul-if my strength is indeed so small that I am unable to contend with the powers of the evil one, and must fall in the conflict; and he, who sees the end from the beginning, beholds me this night take the first fearful step which shall end in the darkness of unbeliefI choose death rather than life, and I call heaven and earth to witness that I would be willing rather to leave this world, even in this early youth, than surrender my faith, and die at last, an apostate."

Agnes was again composed, and wearied either with her long walk or with the excitement of the evening, she fell asleep.

CHAPTER VIII.

"Suspicions amongst thoughts are like bats among birds, they ever fly by twilight:"

"Suspicions that are artificially nourished, and put into men's heads by the tales and whisperings of others, have stings."

WE would that we might steal from the Hall to the parish church, where now, Mr. Smith, in his own earnest manner, is calling sinners to repentance and hope; or they are singing the benediction hymn, or kneeling to receive the parting blessing, in the promised "peace that passeth all understanding."

But our story, be it remembered, is about an Unbeliever; and although, we are loath on this blest holiday, and amid the repose of man and of nature, to advert to a subject, neither lovely, nor of good report, nor in anywise included among those things, whereon we are recommended in Scripture to think; we are assured that should we throw a vail over this part of our narrative, and turn away from the reflections suggested by it, as one would shrink from the touch of death and corruption, our story would only be half told.

Unbelief is not the mere dissent of the understanding to the truths proposed in divine revelation, but a principle, a principle of action; and as the spirit of a living faith sanctifies the heart and life unto God,-like the fabled properties of the philosopher's stone, turning every thing with which it is brought in contact into

gold, so, the spirit of unbelief poisons or draws up the very fountains of life and happiness, infects the whole heart, and embitters the whole character, and turns even the gifts and blessings of creation into a curse.

Let us learn, then, from the circumstances of the week upon which our friends have just entered, what a blind thing human nature is, although with all her boasted perfection; and refuse to follow her most beautiful instincts unless where Nature leads us, God moves before us, in the pillar of revealed truth; and let us remember that the warmest affection, without christian principle, though it may be secured to us by the strongest natural ties, cannot insure our happiness. The gourd springs up into growth,-its bright green leaves unfold themselves, and its flowers expand in the sunshine, but there is a worm at the root,-its shelter was only for a night, and while we are yet looking, it withers and droops.

We left Agnes asleep. Wallace and Mrs. Fleetwood are in the room below. The Unbeliever is standing by the window, and the moonlight, that falls so quietly upon the couch of the lady above them, lights up the stern contracted brow and bitter smile of the young barrister. The two are alone; and-hush!-they are talking secrets; for Wallace is leaning over his sister-in-law and entreating her to "be merciful and tell him all about it" while the little lady is absent; and she-sly, provoking creature-lays her finger upon her thin, delicately chiseled lips, and shakes her head. Hints, insinuations, and explanations follow. Mrs. Fleetwood has named Mon

tarre. She associates his name with Agnes; and the Unbeliever looks restless and disconcerted. He has heard of this Montarre before. Is he really the fascinating young foreigner that he has been represented? Is it true that he is in the neighbourhood of Clifton? How is it that he did not succeed with Agnes? Cruel sister Louisa! why does not she tell him all about it? He cross-questions and catechises her, as if professionally; and yet while she is still talking to him with that air of mystery, and before she has told him "half of what she knows," he starts up, and leaves the room, exclaiming with the most perfect nonchalance, "Oh, that's all, is it ?"

"Cursed be the tale bearer," says the wise man; but who are they that bring themselves under sentence of this anathema? Those who, at the risk of their own comfort or safety, refuse to consent to the sin of another by concealing it? Those-and here, we fear the fair sex are often at fault-who in the familiar intercourse of social life, through inadvertency, utter something which has been committed to them in the most sacred confidence of friendship? and this, because their minds are so childish, or ill-regulated, that they cannot keep from prating and babbling. Those who wilfully betray a trust reposed in them? We leave it for you to determine; but we ought, in justice to the lady, to explain that Mrs. Fleetwood properly belonged to none of these classes of persons. With regard to Agnes, she could not betray confidence, for she had never been trusted. Neither were her remarks the result of a gossiping in

discretion; for in truth, she was at liberty to say anything that she knew.

Mrs. Fleetwood was a true descendent of our inquisitive progenitress. She had watched Agnes and Montarre from the commencement of their acquaintance; and observed, that from the day of his introduction to her, the gay young foreigner had been particular and persevering in his attentions to Miss Fleetwood. Still, despite a thousand little womanly artifices to ascertain the real state of the case, she could never fully satisfy herself from her sister, whether he had formally avowed himself her lover; Agnes having been carefully advised by her father, to preserve the most delicate reserve, especially among her female friends, upon subjects which involve the feelings of another. Having, we are sorry to say, little to occupy her mind at present, and her innate curiosity wound up to the highest pitch by the re-appearance of Montarre in Clifton, so soon after her sister's marriage, Mrs. Fleetwood attempted to come to the truth by working upon the suspicious feelings of Arnold; and although without in a single instance uttering a direct falsehood, she effectually succeeded in exciting in the mind of the Unbeliever the most gloomy sentiments of distrust. This was not what she had intended; nay, it was a thing that she would have justly deprecated. She had been impelled in her mysterious insinuations by motives of sheer curiosity; and uncertain as yet whether her enquiries were successful, she was busying herself with concocting certain other artifices for the accomplishment of her design, when the Unbeliever abruptly