merous prudential motives, in order to guard you against the temptations of life; but I entreat you, my beloved one, to seek that internal holiness which is the best, and in fact the only preservative from the snares of Satan. For they that wait on the Lord shall renew their strength they shall mount up with wings as eagles; they shall run, and not be weary; and they shall walk, and not faint." (Isaiah xl. 31.)

In this manner did Mrs. Fortescue frequently instruct her beloved Sophia; and from time to time, fearing that she might perhaps fatigue her pupil by dwelling too long on subjects of this kind, she committed her thoughts to writing, and laid the little manuscript aside, proposing to make it a dying gift to her beloved pupil. But while Mrs. Fortescue thus laboured rightly to inform the mind of her charge, in reference to things of the first importance, she by no means neglected her education in inferior matters. She was herself well acquainted with music, was an excellent needlewoman, and had a general and accurate knowledge of geography and history, &c. possessing, at the same time, an acquaintance with such parts of English and French literature as are usually requisite for females in polished society.

In the acquirement of useful knowledge of various kinds, in pleasant excursions in the beautiful environs of the Hall, and in frequent visits to the poor, had many years of Sophia Mortimer's life now been spent, since Mrs. Fortescue had undertaken the charge of her education. And, having now entered on her eighteenth year, she was in many respects such as her adopted parent could desire.

At this period, Mrs. Fortescue became sensible of such a change in the state of her own health, and was aware of so many alarming symptoms, that she could not but feel assured, that her cares for her beloved Sophia must soon terminate.

Such feelings as these in the breasts of persons who have an habitual confidence in God, partake more of the tender sentiment of sorrow than that of bitterness and dismay. "I know my Sophia will be taken care of when I am no more," she would often say to herself; "I shall leave her with entire confidence in Him in

whom the fatherless find mercy, and yet I know that I shall not part from her without some natural tears."

During this summer, however, the old lady had such an abiding impression that she must soon part from Sophia, that for many weeks she could hardly bear to have her out of her sight; and as Sophia's attachment was equal to her own, their enjoyment of each other's society became greater every day.

Many were the hours which they spent together this summer, in different parts of the park and garden, sometimes reading, and at other times conversing; and Mrs. Fortescue seldom failed to direct both their reading and conversation to the promotion, as far as she was able, of the spiritual benefit of her beloved child.

As the days shortened, Mrs. Fortescue began to complain of such a diminution of strength as entirely precluded her from taking exercise, and which soon after confined her to her bed, where, at the expiration of a few months, she closed her blessed earthly career.

Long as Mrs. Fortescue had been ill, her death came rather unexpectedly on the inexperienced Sophia, and was the more severely felt by her, as her time, during several weeks just passed, had been exclusively devoted to attendance upon this excellent lady, who had supplied to her the place of a mother.

Immediately on Mrs. Frotescue's death, Sophia wrote to her father, in consequence of which, she in a few days, received a formal letter of condolence from her step-mother, with an invitation from Mr. Mortimer and herself to come to them in town; adding, that it was their intention, in the ensuing autumn, to visit Yorkshire, where they might probably make a long stay at the family mansion.

Sophia, whose spirits were greatly dejected, shrunk from the very idea of a journey to London. She therefore wrote again to her parents, requesting permission to remain alone in Yorkshire till the time appointed for their visit should arrive. Her request was immediately granted; and Sophia enjoyed the comfort of looking forward to six quiet months, during which she hoped that, by the divine blessing, she might be enabled still to follow those plans of life prescribed by her revered monitress. For

this pious woman, though dead, yet spoke to her, not only through the medium of the manuscript already mentioned, which that excellent lady had, only a few hours before her death, put into the hands of her Sophia; but, also, by a thousand tender recollections and associations which occurred every moment to her mind.

Sophia, after Mrs. Fortescue's death, found a peculiar consolation in doing every thing precisely in such a way and in such order as she thought would please her were she still alive. She arose at the hour formerly prescribed to her, she had her simple meals brought to her with the same regularity, she pursued the same objects of study, walked out at the old hours, and returned again at the same; and, since her late beloved governess was no longer present to hear her read and play, she encouraged her old servant before mentioned to bring her work into the parlour and sit by her, while she varied her lectures in order to suit the simple but pious taste of this respectable person.

There is a certain kind of grave and intelligent modesty, perfectly free from asperity or affectation, sometimes seen in young people, which, when it is natural, and the effect of a sober, thoughtful, and well-regulated mind, is extremely delightful, adding strikingly to beauty where beauty exists, and giving comeliness in cases where beauty is not found. This gravity naturally belonged to Sophia, and appeared to become her in no ordinary degree; and her smiles, when she did smile, were the more captivating, because they were not at hand on every light and foolish occasion, nor ready to offer themselves even without any occasion at all.

The remains of Mrs. Fortescue had now been laid in the grave nearly three months, and the grief of Sophia had acquired that soft character which time only can give to sorrow, when the eventful occurrences took place which I am now about to relate.

It was about the latter end of April, on one of those days in which nature seems to put forth the charms with which poets have decked their Arcadio, when a poor old woman, from an adjoining parish, came to say, that a widow, who had lately come to lodge in a cottage be

yond the furthest boundary of the park, was dying, and desired particularly to see Miss Mortimer.

When Sophia had seen the woman, and endeavoured to ascertain the exact situation of the cottage, she summoned Mrs. Cicely, who, since the death of Mrs. Fortescue, had been the constant companion of her walks, and hastened to obey the summons of the dying person. As they walked, Sophia asked her companion many questions relative to this widow. These cottages, however, were not in the same parish with the Hall, but at a considerable distance, having the whole extent of the park, which was very large, between them. Mrs. Cicely, therefore, could give her no satisfactory information.

When Sophia and her attendant had reached the further end of the park, they entered into the turnpikeroad by a flight of wooden steps, which were carried over the park-paling; and being got out into the road, they saw the cottages before them. Sophia requested her companion to go up to the first of them, and make inquiry for the dying person, while she herself would stand waiting at the garden-gate.

While Mrs. Cicely was gone into the cottage, a young gentleman in a clerical habit approached in a direction opposite to that which Sophia had come, and drew near the young lady just as Mrs. Cicely came out of the cottage complaining that she could learn nothing there, for there were only children to be seen.

The gentleman then spoke, and, bowing politely, said, "I presume I am now addressing Miss Mortimer?" adding, "If you will permit me, Madam, I will conduct you to the person you wish to see."

Sophia now looked up, and for the first time saw the gentleman, whose near approach she had not before observed. She saw, also, that he was young, was a clergyman, and had a remarkably pleasing countenance, added to a fine person and genteel air. The surprise rather heightened her colour; and as this gentleman was altogether unknown to her, she could not at once resolve what answer to make to this proposal.

The gentleman saw her embarrassment, and probably imagining its cause, he said, "My name is Edward

Sackville, Madam; I am rector of this parish of Fairfield and though I have never before had the honour of speaking to Miss Mortimer, yet perhaps my name, at least, may be known to her."

Sophia knew the name, and had always heard its owner spoken of in the highest terms by those who well understood the nature of true piety. Recovering herself, therefore, from her embarrassment, she thanked Mr. Sackville for his obliging offer; and, repeating to him the message she had received in the morning, asked him if he knew the poor widow.

He replied, that he knew her history well, and that she was an object well deserving the liveliest commiseration, and had once known better days, but had been reduced to the utmost need by inevitable misfortunes; to which he further added, that there would probably be a speedy end put to all her sufferings, as she could not live many days. He trusted that she possessed that firm confidence in her Saviour which was a sure promise that death would prove to her the beginning of everlasting joy.

Sophia then asked Mr. Sackville if he supposed the dying widow to be in want of pecuniary assistance.

To this he replied, that she perhaps might, indeed, have some wants of that kind, but that he felt assured there was some other motive for her requesting to see Miss Mortimer. He then told Sophia that this poor woman had one little girl whom she had hitherto educated with great tenderness, and that she thought it possible that it was in order to interest her in the behalf of this child, that she had expressed so strong a desire to see her.

The tears started into Sophia's eyes when she heard this conjecture; but she had no time to reply, for the party having been seen from the upper windows of the cottage, were now accosted by a decent elderly woman who was employed in nursing the dying person, and were led by her through the small kitchen into an inner chamber, where the invalid was stretched on a little couch. The poor woman exhibited all those evidences of approaching dissolution well understood by Sophia from her acquaintance with the similar scene which she had so lately witnessed.