more. When little Mary was able to talk to me, and understand what I said to her, I told her what a mother was, and who and what was her's. There was a feeling when I told the little daughter of her unknown mother's virtues that endeared her to me still more; and then, when she grew to love her, to ask of her,—and when tears fell from the child's round blue eyes, as her mother's name was mentioned,—my love for the little creature exceeded all belief. By such ties and by such feelings were my affections raised. Little Mary was my all-my treasure; she shared in all my feelings, and returned my excess of love. At last, death once more visited my house; it seized upon the child. I shall not soon forget that young thing's dying hour. I took the babe in my arms and kissed it; it smiled sweetly upon me. I knelt and prayed earnestly-earnestlythat God would spare me that dear treasure, that I loved so fondly! That was a deep-a heartfelt prayer, but it pleased Heaven to ordain otherwise; and, though I then thought not so, I have since lived to confess the justice of the decree. Little Mary told me she was dying, and asked me to kiss her. The kisses of a young father as I was, about to be bereft of all, were hot and frantic; I paced the room in despair, then paused, and gazed upon the dying girl; she stretched her arms, as if to embrace her whose name she whispered, and, with that name-her mother's name upon her lips, she died, and her soul flew to join my wife in heaven. Then followed frantic grief; my dearest child, she whom I had loved so madly, was no more. I buried her on the same sunny spot where her mother sleeps; even now the old man visits often the spot where the young man's love and hopes lie buried. It was long, very long, ere I had sufficiently recovered this shock to act in any way; then I forswore the world, became a priest, and what you see me. When I first saw thee, thou wert a blue-eyed child of my Mary's age; thou, too, hadst lost a mother. I took thee in my arms, and fancied Mary there; it caused new sorrow, but I loved thee dearly. I have watched thy growth, and thought each year-thus, had she lived, my Mary would have been; when thou wert praisedthus little Mary would have been. I see thee now as Mary would have been; therefore, above all else on earth, I love thee!"

Kate had been in tears while the old priest spoke; his earnest tone of sadness and his tale of sorrow had deeply moved her; now, as he ceased, she dried her eyes, and smiled cheerfully upon him as she took his hand.

Thy love, good father, is beyond all price; but, alas! in gain

ing it I must have cost thee bitter pain. Thou canst not sorrow more in losing me, than I in leaving thee, my kind and early friend; but it is well that we should part. Thou art in danger if thou affordest longer shelter,-I, if I escape not hence."

"Thine enemies, Kate," said Father Francis, mournfully, "have hunted thee down in every place of thy security. Poor girl! This is a hard lot for one like thee!"

“Nay, good father,” replied Kate Westrill, in a cheerful voice, "I am not yet cast down; the blackest clouds blot not the sun for ever! When the storm is past, and its golden beams again prevail, how doubly sweet is all that we behold!"

“True, my child," said the old priest, "but the raging storm may strike down many a bud that will no longer behold earthly sunshine; others it may injure, so that when the bright hours come they will blossom no longer to enjoy them. Let, therefore, the shelter we seek be safe as earth can offer; our duty then is done when we throw ourselves humbly on Divine protection."

"In my new asylum," replied Kate, " I shall be, at least, secure; for safety I confide in Heaven."

No more was said; Kate Westrill and the old man dined together, but they ate little. In the afternoon, each avoided the painful topic, and they spoke, as they sat by the crackling woodfire, of former times; when Heringford lived in the village, and shared with Kate his dreams of love and glory; when the two would visit at eventide the old priest's cottage, and sit with him to receive the instruction his benevolence prompted: they spoke of those times of old when Edward sat by Kate Westrill in the village church, and they knelt and prayed beside each other; of the visits Edward would make to old Westrill's cottage; of the village revels and the village happiness; the sports in which Heringford excelled, the wrestling, the leaping, the archery; of the last meeting, when Edward fully told his love, and all those dear remembrances of days now sadly changed.

Evening came, and they separated for the night. Kate took leave with more than usual feeling; she knew not for how long was the parting! In the day-time she dared not leave the village, for she feared observation; in the night, therefore, she quitted her protector's roof. With Willie Bats a kind message was left for the old priest, when, in the morning, he should find Kate fled; for she had not courage to endure the pain of a farewell. Thus do we find Kate Westrill, on a December night, with the faithful Cicely by

her side, treading the crisp snow with trembling foot, as she bends her steps towards a new asylum; her heart still light, cheered by immortal hope, and an implicit confidence in the word of One who hath promised to protect the fatherless and the orphan.

CHAPTER THE THIRTY-FIRST.

THE HISTORY HEREIN PROGRESSETH ONLY TO THE SATISFACTION OF WILLIE BATS, YET IS OTHERWISE NECESSARY THOUGH UNIMPORTANT.

THUS stood affairs at Ellerton when Heringford, as soon as possible after the death of Esther, hastened to the village. Kate had been gone some days; none knew the place of her concealment. There was one clue alone ;-Cicely had promised to her swain, that if he executed vengeance upon Spenton, she would reveal, in strictest secrecy, where she was to be found, that reconciliation might on the instant be effected. Visions of victory and glory were in the head of Willie Bats; already had imagination circled with bays his narrow brow, and placed his thin grey locks in competition with the fiercest; already did his soul look forward to the immortal glory which after-ages would lavish on the name of Bats-Bats the Avenger, Willie the Scourge of Vice, Willie Bats the hero, at whose name the Spentons of every succeeding generation should tremble and turn pale! Woe, woe, a thousand times woe to the unhappy wight against whom was directed the raging fire of Willie's indignation! Woe to him whose punishment was a task assigned to the consenting lover! Woe, woe to Spenton! Illstarred wretch! Unlucky for him the hour when Willie Bats was born unlucky the years that nurtured and strengthened the destined avenger! unlucky for him that future moment when the consummation of vengeance should take place! Oh, at this instant, doth not Spenton tremble? If it be true that men are darkened by the shadows of approaching fate; if it be true that a presentiment of ill can warn the victim of suffering to come; doth not the devoted head of Spenton shake like the slender-stalked leaf of the aspen? do not his devoted limbs shiver and quake as the shadow passeth upon them? If they do not,-if Spenton be unmoved, unconscious, then is the doctrine of presentiment most false, most erroneous, most unjustifiable; for Spenton ought to tremble.

Sir Edward Heringford, having learned from Willie Bats the extent of his misfortune, crossed the village green and entered the wood. Vexed at his new disappointment, anxious for Kate's welfare, and irresolute as to what steps he should take to ensure or promote it, he cared not whither he wandered. Yet, insensibly, he struck into the same paths that, of old, he and Kate had loved to tread; no birds sang now, no wild fruits ripened, no green leaves decked the trees. The walks were yet the same; the whole was not so much changed but that old associations could be traced.. There was the spreading tree under which they had loved to sit,— the bank, still green, on which they had told their love,-last summer. How changed was all since then! It was winter now; and the brightness of the summer flowers, whose bloom the lovers cherished, fled not sooner before the season of destruction, than the happiness of that fond pair before the chill breath of persecution. For his own danger Edward would have cared but little, had not Kate Westrill shared it; against him alone the plots would have been directed, had not Spenton arisen, and, by bestowing upon her his vile love, made sorrow her lot also. Thus as he thought, his indignation was yet more violently excited against the wretch, whom, on raising his eyes, he beheld standing in his path.

Heringford's sword was speedily unsheathed when he saw the villain near, but the weapon was as speedily returned, on a second glance at his antagonist. Spenton's appearance, pitiful as it was, has already been described; his thin weazen face and pinched up nose were now rendered by the cold yet sharper; his teeth chattered; and his meagre body was doubled up, as much by fright as frost. His small grey eyes were bent anxiously upon Edward to watch his offensive motions, as a spell-bound animal might watch the snake preparing to devour it. His whole appearance was so mean and contemptible, that Heringford felt it would be only disgrace to himself were he to acknowledge such a man as this to be worthy his resentment.

With cringing gesture Spenton was preparing to proceed, when, through the leafless bushes from an adjoining path, rushed Willie Bats. Eager as a bloodhound for his prey, on came the avenger; with his full weight he threw himself upon the enemy and bore the little body of Spenton to the ground, where, himself falling upon it, the astonished victim gasped for that needful breath squeezed from him by the superimposed weight of his corpulent and solid antagonist.

It is said by philosophers that the lighter will always rise above that which is heavier; Spenton discovered, to his cost, that this theory is open to exceptions, for he, far lighter than Willie Bats, in vain endeavoured to be uppermost.

The immortal Willie, flushed by the buoyancy of his spirits, and the very severe exercise of manual dexterity and strength in thumping his enemy, panted for breath. Heroic being! Obedient lover! Mean is the honour our recital can afford to one whose acts were so daring and so brave. No; his life is for the poet to celebrate; his deeds are worthy of the epic page. The poet alone can, in the hearer's mind, lend force to the hard blows that passed; alone a poet can describe how the undermost gasped for breath knocked out of him,-how the uppermost panted for breath expended in the work. Willie rested, as a giant, from his labours, but would not leave his prey: remaining upon him, and spreading each arm and leg upon the earth for support, he rested. Alas, that even the most ardent sometimes feel fatigue! for the exertions of Spenton were now successful, and he succeeded in rolling over his antagonist.

Spenton, now uppermost, meditated a more tragical termination to the contest than hitherto had seemed likely to ensue. He drew from his belt a long dagger; it gleamed an instant in the air, and would have ended the career of the valiant Willie, had not another hand, till then neutral, intervened. Edward Heringford had enjoyed the contest, so long as fists and fleshly weapons only were employed, but naked steel was far more serious; grasping, therefore, the upraised hand, he wrenched the dagger from its grasp and flung it into the brushwood. Spenton was thus thrown once more upon his own natural resources. The weight of his foeman, however, was too trifling to cause Willie Bats much inconvenience, whilst that courageous lover, having recovered his strength, mauled his adversary more severely than before. One alternative remained; and Spenton, no longer chained to the ground, sprang to his feet, and fled with all speed through the forest. Here he triumphed. The rotund Willie was never celebrated for fleetness of foot, and, before he could raise himself from his extended posture, the foe was out of sight.

"Let him go," said Willie, hot and breathless, "let him go; I have done my duty by him; my character is redeemed; the charming Cicely is appeased; and I am satisfied."

"He will never forgive thee this disgrace," said Edward.