MAIDEN WIFE: ON, THE HEIRESS OF DE COURCEY. A MOST INTERESTING TALE. IN FOUR VOLUMES. BY MISS M. HAMILTON, AUTHORESS OF THE FOREST or St. BarnaRDO, nd art thou then his dear remains ; Alive his every look----his every feature THOMPSON'S SEASONS. BIBL VOL. I. LONDON: PUBLISHED BY SHERWOOD NEELY & JONES PATERNOSTER ROW, AND TAYLOR AND CO. And sold by all booksellers. 249. S. 254 the bay of Chebucto, boldly stretched its broad surface within the shore; in an angular direction she beheld the bay, extending itself towards Halifax; romantic islands scattered on its bosom, which with the rising tide and shadowy sun, over which the dark clouds were passing, appeared to float there, whilst on the opposite coast she beheld trees of every description, whose immense size appeared to stamp them almost coeval with time, and whose many coloured tints, dyed by the beauties of autumn, were finely contrasted by the deep unchanging green of the stately firs rising on all sides in abundance, whilst a grandeur and beauty, surpassing description, even by the pencil of a Claude Lorrain, was diffused over the whole, by the occasional rich glow of the western sky now fading into a faint light, now changed into a deep and solemn gloom. Heiress OF DE COURCY, &c. &c. CHAPTER I. Hark the winds how they whistle, and the rain beats, oh, how the weather shrinks me. OTWAY. IS then the recollection all that remains to me of lost happiness, sighed Clara, as she walked slowly to a favorite spot, often visited when a stranger to sorrow, she knew it but by name, to which a thousand endearing circumstances had attached her. VOL. I. Yes it is but too certain that all, all is fled, and heavy was the sigh that arose in confirmation of this sad truth. To me there remains no trace but like that of a gay dream, which, vanishing, leaves the mourner more sensibly awake to real sorrow. But let me not despair-though that departing sun has for the last time risen and set on my felicity here. "There is another and a better world," where I hope to be reunited to all I loved on earth. Yesmy father, dear Montague, there 1 trust we shall meet again. This melancholy reverie was interrupted by a rustling amongst the underwood, at some distance. She stopped and listened to discover from whence the sound proceeded, and walking lightly to the place, saw there, just awaking, a beautiful girl, apparently about ten years of age. The child was rising from the bed of leaves which had been her couch; her pillow the soft moss that covered in profusion the fantastic root of an old oak, knots of wild flowers, (which grow in abundance in America of surprising elegance and beauty) were scattered around her, a small basket from which some were falling, lay by her side, and a little straw bonnet, tied with a green ribbon, hung on her arm. That rich colour which adorns the cheeks of youthful beauty, after sleep, painted hers with its own natural roses, and that lustre which gives so much grace and softness to the eye, gave hers a superior interest. Clara for a moment, in contemplating this lovely girl, forgot her own sorrows. She almost fancied herself on enchanted ground, and this little being, what imagination feigns of wood nymphs or dryads of the sylvan circle. It was in truth a striking scene. On one side an arm of the sea, from |