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a JFaiKUs iltUJßsajJcrmßcbotrir to ftUcvatuvr, tlic acts, Stfcntc, ‘Ssrlculturc, Jcc!iantcs, Education, jFocctan ana BonuatU SutelUacncr, Rumour, cc. VOLUME I. [p©[E¥KY a HOPE AND MEMORY. BV SAMUEL WOODWORTH. Oh, ccnso !msy Fancy to conjure up pleasures, That flit like bright phantoms o’er memory’s glass, And teach us to yearn for the forfeited treasures, Which rise but to mock us, so sweetly they pass, Which fade and dissolve into air, like a dream, Or bubbles that glitter and break on the stream. And yet it is sweet, in our moments of sadness, To gaze on the picture of former delights. ‘Till bounding again to the measure of gladness, The heart has forgotten the sorrow that blights, And revels a moment in joys that are past, But wakes to a bitterer pang than the last. Yet Hope shall illumine the gloom of our sorrow, The cherub whose smile is a life-giving ray ; Whose flattering promise of brightness to-morrow, With ruddiness tinges the clouds of to-day. Though Memory’s visions may heighten our pain, Yet Hope's sunny smile can assuage it again. Moß©[E[L[L^OT a From Graham’s Magazine. THE LADY AND THE PAGE. A STORY OF MOORISH SPAIN. ItY MARY S. PEASE. Many years ago there dwelt, not far from Seville, in a castle so old it was a wonder what kept it from tumbling down, a Spanish hidalgo, remarkable for but two things—a very beautiful daughter, and the very strict manner in which he secluded her from the world. In every other respect, this hidalgo was like other hidalgos, full of pride, sport ing a pair of Spanish mustachios, and wear ing a stiletto by his side. The wondeiful beauty of his daughter, the Dona Ysnbel, h id somehow, in spite of the seclusion in which she was kept, be come proverbial, and tlie fame thereof had spread from Gibraltar to the Pyrenees. Not a caballero of that chivalric country but would have given his best steed for one glance from the eyes of the hidalgo’s daugh ter eyes which shrouded under their long lashes, were like diamonds shining across the midnight. Her hair was silky and soft, darker and more glossy than the raven’s wing—and in such luxuriance did it grow that'she might almost have hid herself in it, as did “ the lady of the golden locks” in the fairy tale. Her face was fitful as an Apiil day. It was the clear and faithful mirror to the wannest, purest heart in all Spain. And never did a young heart beat within a light er and more graceful form than that of the Dona Ysabel. The castle where the hidalgo resided with his daughter was built on a rocky eminen.ee, in one oi the wildest parts of the count! y. Tradition said it had been erected by a pow erful and wealthy Moor, from whom it had been conquered by the strong arm of one of the present occupant’s ancestors. The fath er of Ysabel had resided there but rarely until the death of his wife ; but, after that event, he had retired almost broken-hearted to this wild retreat. Here, from early child hood, the Lady Ysabel had been brought tip. Wanting the care of a mother, she had always been left to have her own way, and a more self-willed, impetuous sylph never dashed the dew from the wild flowers that grew so luxuriantly around the Moorish castle. One day, when the Dona Ysabel had nearly attained her seventh year, the Count de Llenaro, her father, stood within the deep embrasure of the richly carved corri dor, absorbed in thought. His eyes were fixed on the shadows that played so fanciful ly on the rocks below. A light step was heard and a fairy form entered the apart- ment. “ Celia mi cara nina, I was thinking of thee, I would speak with thee.” And the gentle girl stood beside the proud lord. ‘ What wouldst thou my father V The mai den’s voice was low and silvery soft. Her dark eye looked up into the father’s with an expression soft and confiding as childhood. One little snow-white hand rested upon his shoulder, while the other nestled within his own. ‘ How old are you, \ sy V • I shall be seventeen come next Michael mas.’ ‘’Tis even as [ thought. Thou art get ting to be a great girl, Belle, I have some thing to say to thee ; wilt thou listen V 4 Dear papa, thy word is my law.’ * Is it so V and the father fixed his eyes upon the girl with a look so penetrating that her own eye fell, and the rich warm blood rushed from her young heart and burnt upon her brow. Llenaro seated himself upon a low turco, and drawing his child towards him, he fond ly kissed her glowing cheek. 4 1 fear, Belle,’ said he, putting back the world of curls that had fallen over her brow, 1 thy will hath never yet been broken. Thou art but a wild one.’ Count Alcaros fell into a long fit of musing. The silver breathing tones of the Dona’s soft voice broke the stillness. 4 What wouldst thou with thy child, papal my birds, and young flowers, even now mourn my absence.’ 4 And canst thou not give an hour unto thy father, Ysy 1 What will thy birds and flowers do when I bring thee a right noble bird, an eagle among birds, for thine own 1 Wilt thou then give up all others and love but only that V 4 What does ray papa mean V trembling ly replied the maiden. ‘ I mean that thou art to be a child no longer.’ ‘ But, papa, all my pretty birds andj— -1 Thou shall, have a bird worth the whole, a right proud gallant bird. Ysy, dost thou remember the Marquis of Talavera V ‘ What of him, dearest papa V ‘ Dost thou remember him !’ * Yes, papa.’ ‘ This Marquis hath sought thee, Belle, in marriage, and I have said thou slialt be his bride.’ The girl started to the ground in unfeign ed surprise. ‘ Why, papa ! he is old enough to be my grandfather, and besides, he is ugly enough to’— * He is just the age of thy father, Ysabel. His years will serve thy wayward ones. He is all that is brave and noble, besides being orie of the richest, and most powerful lords iu Spain. You may know, Belle, how well I think of him—he is almost the only one of my many friends, that I admit into this our wild retreat.’ “ But, papa’— Nay, Belle, I will have no huts. It must he as I say.’ ‘ But, papa.’ The Count’s brow darken ed. * But, papa, Ido not love him.’ ‘ Love, pah !’ ‘ Papa, I cannot.]oxc him.’ ‘ Pali !’ ‘Papa, I will not love him !’ and the Dona’s eyes grew bright and large. ‘ Ysabel !’ ‘ Dear papa, I mean I cannot’— and the little lady burst into tears. * Ysabel, hear me ; I have said thou shalt become the bride of the Marquis of Talave ra. What I say I never unsay, that thou knowest. Two weeks from this. It must, it shall he so ! Wilt thou Jo thy father’s bid ding, Belle V The girl answered not a word but lier eye lit up and her little mouth was tightly compressed. Every line of her statue-like form expressed firmness arid resolution. ‘ Wilt thou do thy father’s bidding, Ysa bel ?’ again demanded the Count. ‘ Thou hast ever been an indulgent fath er to me, never hast thou crossed my slight est wish, and now, father, I must say firmly no! I never can become tlie bride of him thou namest.’ ‘Girl! thou shalt not even be consulted. Thou hast had thine own way seventeen years, now I will have mine. Thou shalt wed the Talavera if I have to drag thee to the altar. Nay, no fawning.’ The girl had twined her soft round arras about her fath er’s neck—her eyes looked beseechingly in to his. But he pu.sired hot from him, saying, ‘Goto thy room, Ysabel, and there remain until thy reason conies to thee. Dost thou hear me V The Spaniard strode from the room, and the weeping lady sought, with abeavy heart, her own turret. It was tlie first time her father had been unkind to her, and she threw herself down, on a low couch, in all thatutter hopelessness of grief youth alone can feel. It was her first sorrow. There came a soft rap at the door, but she heeded it not ; and not until a hand, soft as woman’s, held her down, and a voice, whose deep, low tones were breathing mu sic, whispered in her ear, did she know her father’s handsome page was kneeling by her. ‘ Weep not, mi caia Ysabel,’ soothingly said he, ‘or rather let me share thy grief. I know it all—thy father hath told me, and sent me here to bring thee to reason, as he sa id. Can I do it sweet lady 1’ and the handsome page smiled. It was wicked in him to smile when her heart was so full of grief, and so the lady thought. But she had learned to love, and when love is warm and new, all the loved one says or does is more than right. “ Love flings a halo round the dear one’s head, Faultless, immortal” The Dona Ysabel loved her father’s page, loved him as an ardent-souled daughter of sunny Spain knows how to love. The fath er ! he did not even dream of such wickedness. (If he had he could not have slept for at least six months) —the unpardon able wickedness of a daughter of his, his bright beautiful Ysabel, the high born lady of Llenaro, loving her father’s page, a nameless page ! and so he slept secure. The thought was too preposterous. And the Dona Ysabel loved. Love is all trustful ness, all watchfulness, all hopefulness. The page was handsome; the page was graceful, witty, accomplished. He was indeed an uucommon page ; and so thought Dona’s father, and so thought her father’s daughter. He could sing to the music of Ysabel’s gui tar, most divinely ; he could dance, fence, was perfectly skilled in all horsemanship, moreover ho was acquainted with all the then lore of bright Spain. He wrote poe try too ; and sang the words of his own composing. In sooth he was a most mar vellous page—a perfect paragan of a page; and then his eye, why it was wilder than lightning shot from a midnight sky. The servants all feared and hated him. To Ysa bel alone was he all that was gentle, and to her father, for her sake. He was her teach er. They drank together at the pure well of learning, a well too often untasted in those days of fair-Spain. ‘ Weep not, sweetest; thy noble father would see thee wed with the Marquis of Talavera, and thou canst not love him. And it is for that thou weepest. Is it not so sweet lady V ‘I was happy,’ said the sorrowing girl. 4 1 did not dream of love, or that I had a heart. I only felt that I was happy. And now’— PUBLISHED WEEKLY, BY C. R. IIANLEITER, AT TWO DOLLARS AND FIFTY CENTS PER ANNUM, IN ADVANCE. MADISON, GEORGIA, TUESDAY, APRIL 19, 1842. ‘ And now, my gentle Ysabel V ‘And now,’ said the Senorita, deeply blushing, ‘now 1 feel 1 have no heart to give.’ ‘ Bless thee, dearest, for those words. Ysabel, hear me, for L must speak. I love thee Ysabel—l am other than I seem. lam no hireling—l am the heir of a noble house. One year having heard so much of thy won drous beauty, and full of curiosity and dar ing, I contrived to get admitted into this cas tle as thy father’s page. To see, is to love thee, but to be near thee day after day, to read thy gentle thoughts—to gaze in thy liquid, truthful, soul-beaming eyes —to fed thy soft hand within my own. Ysabel, a being cut from granite to see thee thus could not help loving thee. I love a soul —a soul thou hast, sweet Ysabel, a reflecting, gentle, trustful, ardent, heart-ful soul. Ysabel I love thee, wilt thou love me V ‘ Jose, I will, I-do love thee,’ and the girl’s eyes were soft as she rested them in his. • He took her hand, her little, warm, white baud, and covered it with kisses. Then drawing her gently towards him, lie clasped her silently to his heart. She nestled like a bird in his bosom, and rested her head there. At. intervals a low sob swelled her little heart, like that of a wearied infant, worn out with much crying. At length her sighs came less and less frequent;. and when the page bent over to gaze upon her face, she had sunk into a calm, gentle sleep. A bright tear still glistened on her silky lash —that long black fringe that reposed so quietly on her pale, fair cheek. There is something inexpressively touch ing in the quiet and calm repose of a beau tiful girl. And when we feel that that youth and beauty is all we love on earth, that it is near us, nestling in sweet trust within our arms, our all, our own, life of our life, heart of our heart, soul of our soul, what other happiness can earth give more pure, more holy, more unalloyed 1 The page Jose almost wished the Dona might never awake, but she did awake. And when she did, she looked up into his eyes and smiled. There was every thing in that smile, love, hope, faith, gentleness, truth, trust, joy. It was a droll smile too ; there was archness in it; Jose never forgot that smile ! Strange, that an outward sym bol of the inner world can express so much. The page attempted to kiss the bright smile into his own heart, but the lady’s mood had changed. Half ashamed, half in sport, she broke from liim with a laugh, her own peculiar laugh, bird-like in its silvery clearness ; and like a bird, as wild, and sweet. * Sit down, dear Ysabel; I would talk ! with thee calmly, wilt thou be mine 1 Ysa-! bel I love thee. Oh ! how I love thee. Naught on earth is half so dear as thou— life—ten thousand lives, were they mine, would 1 give for thy love. Wilt thou he mine, my own V The girl put both her little hands in his, that was her only answer. And then the page drew her again to his heart and kissed her brow and lips. And then, and then, and then, why then, and there, right up be fore them, with curled lip and cloudy brow, stood the castle’s lord ! the proud hidalgo ! the Count Alcaros de Llenam! the Dona Ysahel’s father! the handsome page’s mas ter ! ‘Ha !’ exclaimed he, ‘is this the way ye . obey my commands 1 Ah, I see ! Thou’rt doing my bidding, sir page. Hast thou won the self-willed lady to think as I do 1 Away, girl ! Back, Isay ! Away with thee, page !’ Pale, drooping, quailing beneath her fath er’s angry glance, the gentle girl silently twined her arms around his frame, and strove to kiss away the angry spot upon his brow. ‘ Back ! Judas !’ exclaimed he, pushing her rudely from him. ‘ When thou hast learned to do thy father’s wishes, then will. he accept thy caresses.’ Frightened, crushed, she shrunk within herself, like the sensitive plant at some rude touch, nor dared to raise her gentle eye to the fire-darting ones of her angry sire. And the pego 1 The father glanced from the drooping form of his daughter to the unbending one of the presumptuous lover. * And so, sir menial, thou art aspiring; we like ambition. Thou thitikest to love my daughter, the daughter of the noble house of Llenaro —good !’ ‘ Count of Llenaro, hear me. I ask of thee thy daughter. My house, proud lord, is full as noble as thy own, perhaps more ancient. lam no page —I am the only son of- 1 1 will not even hear who thou art, wort thou the monarch of the universe, thou shouldst not wed my daughter. I have sworn she- shall become the bride of the Talavera; I never recall an oath.’ The group as they stood there would have made a picture for the pencil of a Sal vator. The proud, determined figure of Llenaro, standing with his arms folded, look ing lightning on the no less proud form of the handsome pnge, as he stood in the glow of his young manhood’s strength and beauty. Then the shrinking form of the Dona Ysa bel, slightly leaning forward, with clasped hands, her head partly raised, the speech less, imploring.agony of her lovely face. The room contributed not a little to the scene, all around was purely, beautifully feminine. The low damask ottomans ; the bright eyed birds in their glittering gold cages; the rich, mellow paintings hanging around the room. Among them was her own soft-eyed mother. The sweet, dreamy eyes of the Italian seemed to look down on the father of her daughter reproachfully for his harshness to that daughter. The part ing beams of the sun, as he bade adieu to his love the fair earth, streamed in the room, gilding with their warm glow*the expres sive faces of the three. A ray more soften ed full on the calm, angel face of liis wife, the mother. ‘ Alcaros de Llenaro, I entreat thee to listen to mo. On my knees I supplicate thee to give me thy daughter. Doom her not to misery. She loves me. Think upon thy child’s mother, on the love vows given and taken before thy child was born. When she, the mother, the wife, was all in all to thee. Thou didst love once, and she thou didst love, was the mother of the child thou’rt dooming to wretchedness, and now that mother looks down upon thee, implor ing happiness on bcrchil<|.’ Alcaros glanced at the image of liis wife. He fancied, as the warm, red sunlight fell upon it, the gentle eyes lopked a reproach ful gaze on him. He was not a hard-heart ed man. Pride was his ruling passion. False pride it might have been ; whether false or true, it fastened on him then, driv ing back the kindlier feelings the memory of his wife had roused within him. He checked the tear before it came to his eyes, and putting on a heavy frown— ‘ liise, sir minion,’ said'he, ‘ I have told thee my daugh ter shall wed tlie Talavera, and she shall!’ * Never! as I live, never !’ said the girl. ‘ Never shall a Llenaro become the bride of the man she cannot love ! never !’ The lady looked her father’s child, as though she had been born to be obeyed. The softness of the mother had gone. Her slight, round figure, straight as a young In dian’s, had lisen to its full height. Her eyes dilated, those eyes, where shone her soul, those warm, black eyes, whose every glance kept time to the throbbings of her impulsive heart. ‘ Ysabel,’ said Llenaro, sadly, after a pause, ‘ thou forgetest I am thy father.’ ‘ My father ! dearest papa ! my own fath er, forgive me. Thou art my father ! hut do not,’ her tones were low and earnest, ‘oh! do not force this hated match on thy child. She will do anything; all thou wishest, but oh ! do not seal her misery forever.’ The count permitted the ardent caresses of the maiden, then putting her gently from him, he told lier to remain in her turret. He had much to say to her. He would seek her when he was ready to tell her that he had to say. Then turning to Jose, he add ed, Follow me, sir page, 1 have somewhat to say to thee also.’ The maiden watched the receding forms of the two until they had disappeared, and then she murmured, ‘He spoke kindly to me,’and Hnj>e warmed her heart. A bright Hope! Hope the deceiver! What would the world be without thee, fairy Hope 1 Thou comest like a dream, whispering in our soul’s ear thy witching fancies, until they seem realities, and the is to he stands before us a living now ! Great is thy power, fair Hope, and thou knowest it, and so thou goest on deluding mortals, making the dim shadowy perspective a - glorious foreground. So, when our hearts feel sad and weary, and long to burst the chain that binds them to this dark earth, thou comest with the dews of heaven fresh glistening on thy lips. And we believe thee, syren, and let thee deceive us again and again. The lady Ysabel rested her wild, black .eyes, beaming with a thousand thoughts, upon her mother’s picture, and kneeling be fore it, she clasped her little hands and im plored her gentle mother to look down kind ly on her daughter. ‘ And mother,’ contin ued she, her lute-like voice scarce audible, ‘ask Him, the mighty one? whose throne is in high heaven, to forgive the erring child, if she forgets, in her love for the creature, the Creator. God fotgive me if I love him more than I ought, for I cannot love him less.’ The Lady Ysabel watched all that even ing for her father, and the next day, and the next, and the next, and then her cheek be gan to pale, and her eye grew dim with weeping. For Hope had grown weary and fled. She could not dream either why the page came not; a little indignation mingled with her sorrow. The duenna did all she could to restore her young lady to her right mind, as she said. .At length she brought her a letter, saying— ‘ Take it, mi senorifa, a holy friar gave it me for thee. Learn from it, Senorita Ysa bel, to control thy # too great grief. It is sin ful and wrong to indulge in sorrow us thou dost.’ The Lady Ysabel knew the writing, tremblingly she broke the seal, and read, “Mi/ gentle Ysabel—Thy father hath forbidden me, the castle, or ever to see thee again, but fear not, dearest, tin/ father can not withstand, /hi/ gentleness, thy gijodness. Thou were not made to be unhappy ; thou art too good, too kind, too true. God will not see thee made wretched. He watches over thee. He will, not desert thee, and, dearest, remem ber there is one heart that beats for thee, and thee alone ; whose entry pulse is thine. Sun shine is midnight without the light of thine eyes to tell where shincth the sun, and when, gentlest, I would see thee, I would press thy hands upon my heart, that its wild throb bings might be stilled. I would look into the clear depths of thy truthful eyes, and learn there a lesson of calmness, of faith to bear, and hope to look beyond. Thy duenna, siccefeit, more than mistrusts my disguise, but a golden bait has lured stronger minds than hers from the clear waters of truth. I cannot quit the castle grounds for in it is all that is dear to me an earth. Write, dearest, if thou canst, to thine men J o3E.” The lady sat before her scrutoire to write to him she loved, when she heard her fath er’s step. She had only time to crumple his letter in her bosom as the father entered. Ever obedient to her heart’s impulse, she sprang towards him, and throwing her white arms about his neck, she called him her dear, dear papa, and bust into tears. ‘ Calm thyself, my Ysabel. I will tell thee frankly why I ask thee to sacrifice thy self ; to seal thy misery, as thou sayest.’ He led her gently to an ottoman, and seated himself beside her. ‘ Ysabel, wouldst thou see lliy father pen niless, homeless, a beggar 1’ ‘ I’apa !’ looked the wondering eyes of Ysabel. ‘ I repeat it, Ysy, wouldst thou see thy father resign all these fair acres, and starve a houseless beggar! Wouldst tliou, l Ysy 1 ‘What meanest thou, papa! in merev tell me.’, ‘lf by one act of thine, it were in thy power to make thy father’s happiness, wouldst thou not do that act V ‘ Dear papa, thou knowest I would, but oh! tell me all. What am Ito do! And yet I know, but why ? tell me why’— ‘ Ysabel, by becoming his bride, thou canst save thy father from becoming a beggar.’ The girl shuddered but said in a low calm voice, ‘Father, tell me why—tell me all. Make a confidant of thy child. I can bear any thing. See ! lam calm.’ ‘ Ysabel, I will ! in as few words as pos sible. A year ago, you may remember, Talavera was here. He has not been here since. A short time after that, his last visit, the page came, though it is not of him 1 would speak. We played, Talavera and I. At first I won, in the success of the moment I staked high, and lost. I still played on* — every throw swept off acre after acre of the lands my fathers owned. Midnight saw me without a farthing, and without a foot of earth to call my own. Then came a bond. I signed it. It gave me back my broad lands, my wealth, hut it deprived me of the only thing I had on earth to love—of you, my Ysabel ! See ! here is the bond.’ The lady’s heart was still—very still—so still it almost frightened her. Her cheek, lips, hands, were cold and bloodless. It seemed as though her blood had all gone to her heart, and frozen there ! Her eye was passionless, it was so calm. She held the open paper before her, and without reading or seeing, she read and saw enough to know tliatjthe fair grounds and* castle L os Ysolo- Rosse, where she had lived from her infan cy —where her father had loved her mother —were to go into the hands of the Talave ra, unless she became his bride. ‘ Ysabel, I have sworn'thou sliult become his bride, but I will recall my oath if thou sayest so. What is thy decision !’ ‘I will* wed him,’..replied the girl. Llenaro clasped her to his heart, and kissing her cold brow, he added, ‘ The day thoujart seventeen was the day decided upon ; it will he here in a week. But if’t will be too soon, no doubt the Mar quis will*— ‘ ’Twill not be too soon.’ ‘Ysabel, thou frightenest me, thou art so pale—l will not force thee into what would be thy unhappiness.’ ‘jNay, papa, I had much rather be unhap py myself thanjto see thee so. But I will not be. To-morrow thou shalt see me more cheerful.’ The wily lord had learned the way to make his daughter’s will his own. He lov ed that daughter, and felt a father’s pity for her. But he thought although she suffered then, and it pained fcitn to the soul to see it, she would soon forget her youthful passion, and, as the wife of Talavera, she would gradually learn to be happy. Her future husband was all that was noble and good ; all this thought the father, and then he thought ‘ the Castle of Ysolo Rosse will|still be mine.’ The father’s conscience was al most quieted. ‘I have foresworn playing, Belle,’ said he, sadly, ‘ never, should 1 live forever, will an other card pass through my hands. Ysabel, my darling child ! do not look so sad, seek the cool air, it will revive thee. Go and gather thy favorite wild flowers : they will divert thy mind from its sorrow. My noble, generous girl.’ Ho fondly kissed his child and then withdrew. Ysabel left to herself meclmnicajly sought the garden. She wandered over her favor ite harmts, scarce knowing what she did. Her heart, hei thoughts were still as the grave. She reached her bower, the little vine-clad bower, where the page and she had so often sat listening to the music of each other’s voices. And there, on the very seat where they were wont to sit, was Jose ! the page! * Ysabel! beloved !’ exclaimed he in un feigned delight, and the girl was in his arms. ‘ Dearest, best, my gentle Ysabel! am I once more permitted to see thee ? to clasp thee to my heart 1 But, sweetest, how thou hast changed. How pale thou art. Go with me, dearest, I will he thy father, broth er, husband, friend. Leave this hated cas tle, now, speak, dear one, wilt thou go with me I Dear, dear Ysabel, tell me.’ * Jose, I cannot, I have promised to be come his bride !’ * But, dearest, they shall not force thco to do what thou dost not wish,’ ‘ Jose, I had my own.free choice,’ ‘And thou didst choose’— ‘ To become his bride.’ ‘ Will nothing induce thco to alter thy determination V * Nothing /’ * Good bye, Ysabel,’ ‘Jose! dear Jose’— but the page was gone. The next morning found the lady Ysabel in the spot where the page had left her. Then followed many days of sickness. Her life was despaired of. Day after day she lay. pale, cold, insensible. Reason had for saken her throne. Her sweet smiles were gone; and the speaking glances of hci dewy eyes had fled. Her voice too, for she had not spoken since that night. Even the pulsations of her heart were silent. Life alone remained—life without its light. And how her father watched over her, and how bitterly he lamented, and cursed himself for having brought her thus. At length light shone in her eyes—the light of life. Morn ing dawned iu upon tlie darkness of her soul. ‘ Good bye, Ysabel,’ said she. ‘ My own child, what dost thou say V ask ed tlie father, bending anxiously over he.. ‘ Good bye, \ sabel’—and she looked up in her father’s face and smiled. That smile! it haunted him to his grave ! ‘Are you better, my qwn Ysabel ! mv dearest child !’ ‘Yes, papa, lam well. What a strange dream 1 have had. Ah ! now I recollect,’ and she sunk into a gentle sleep. Day by clay she gained health and strength. The father never left her side. ‘ Papa,’ said she one day, ‘ will you let me see that paper again ! you know the one I mean.’ ‘A o, my child, you never need see or think of it.’ ‘Do let me take it, papa, you do not know how well and strong I am, do, dearest papa V And her father was prevailed up on. She saw she could save her father from ruin, and her mind was made. * How old am I, papa V ‘ Three weeks ago saw you seventeen.’ ‘ Does the—does my future husband know of my illness V ‘He has sent repeatedly to inquire after your health. His courier was here this morning.’ ‘ Will vou send him word*! am well, and am ready in two weeks from now to become his wife V ‘ Are you in earnest, Ysabel V ‘ Perfectly so.’ ‘ It is your own free will you speak V * k ta> papa. And thcfatlier was deceiv ed, perhaps too willingly so. I he Lady \ sabel was able now to revisit her favorite haunts. Everything she saw brought the page,vividly before her eyes. Sometimes an inscription on a tree, tlie walks, the flowers, the bower where last they met, all, all brought with them the memory of him. She strove to banish, as high treason to her happiness, all thoughts of him, and the firmness of her nature con quered. She familiarised herself to ali the old spots where she had loved to be with him, and she thought she was happy; almost —happy. flit! day_at length came, clear, cloudless, sunbright. And then the lady’s heart mis gave her, she said not a word, however, hut let them deck her in her bridal gear, scarce knowing or caring what they did. Evening came. The chapel was brilliant ly lighted. The bright red wine flowed freely, and joy danced in all hearts, save one. The Talavera had not yet come. All was ready. The priest in his long flowing robes, the father, the bridesmaid, the guests; for the father bed invited many a nobie house to witness his daughter’s nuptials. All were ready, and still the bridegroom came not. At length was heard a confused movement, and, in the midst of that joyous mass of life, the Marquis of Talavera had been thrown from his carriage, and the ser vants, in their fright and dismay, scarce knowing what they did, had borne him in his litter to the chapel. The Lady Ysabel grew even more pale, as she looked upon the bier. There lav the lord who was to have been her husband ! She gazed on him in a sort of nightmare fascination, a weight seemed taken from her heart, a feeling of relief mingled with the horror of the hour. The Dona Ysabel enjoyed one short month of tranquility, and then came news from the castle of Talavera. The will of the marquis had been read. He had be queathed to his son and heir all the vast es tates together with the lady Ysabel, should he himself die before tbe marriage took place. The icwoTstill held good ! A letter.came from the young marquis to t'ue count, demanding his daughter’s hand in marriage. The letter was gracefully written, and told how he had long heard of the wondrous beauty of the Dona Ysabel, and how ardently he desired to become tbo possessor of it. . ‘ Ays* Again the lady yielded to her father’s persuation. The present marquis was young and handsome, so the objection of age was removed. All Spain knew he was noble, and I nave ; and all the bright-eyed daughters of Spain might well look envy on the favored Ysabel, that the young Tala vera had chosen her. He was than travelling in the interior of Europe. His letter was dated, Vienna. One year from the day of the eider Talave ra’s death was the day fixed upon to cele brate the bridals of the bravest cavalier and loveliest flower in all Spain. Ysabel yielded, and tried to seem cheer ful, but her step grew slower and slower, and her fair face paler and more pale. As her days went oil did she each day lose some part of this earth, earthly. So very gradual was the change that neither her father nor those around seemed to observe it. So pass ed seven months. Four months more were NUMBER 3.