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curling the face of the ocean. In an instant, as if struck by some sudden thought, he shouted aloud, “ Heave the anchor, and set all sail!” With the speed of lightning were his orders obeyed, and like a thing of light and happiness she bounded across the waters. On her prow stood Ronald, gazing to the south, as if in ex pectation of some object which should strike upon his eye. With none held he converse, and seldom and few were his orders. Just as the god of day was descending in his car of glo ry, the solitary and storm-beaten abbey of Innis fail rose upon the sight. For the first time did he move from his position, and with hurried steps hastened below. In an instant he again returned, relieved of his weapons of warfare, and with a smile of joy beaming on his face. | The vessel had now neared the shore. At the command of Ronald, was the anchor given to the deep, and accompanied by two of his crew, his favorite Spaniards, Spalatroand Henriquez, landed on the holy island. At once he directed his steps to the abbey. The vesper hymn was sweetly rising on the wings of evening. The grey twilight was drawing her veil across the face of the waters, and the dashing waves rose in mournful murmurs on the ear. Slowly and alone he approached the building ; one solitary taper from a little casement, mingled its melan choly beam with the receding day and coming night, like the fading eye of departing mortali ty. Ronald’s heart was softened. Boyhood’s years were again before him, when, unstained with crime, he placed his hand upon his bosom, and bowed in devotion at the hallowed shrine. Tears gushed into his eyes, and unconsciously he sank upon his knee at the postern of the ab bey. The porter from within had beheld his approach, and unclosing the gate in charity and peace, bade him enter. He obeyed. The gate was again secured, and Ronald stood, for the first time, since the ocean claimed him as her son, within a house of prayer. “ Your mission son ?” inquired the old domestic. “ Have you,’* said Ronald, “a daughter, call ed Edith Glengyle, in your sacred sanctuary?” “We have! peace be with her,” answered he. The rover felt as a brand had entered to his soul. Sight and feeling seemed to forsake him, and he grasped the shoulder of the domestic to save himself from falling. “ The saints be merciful,” cried the attendant. “What has befallen thee—what ails thee, son. What have I uttered that thus thou shouldstbe sick at soul ?” “Nothing, nothing, my good man,” replied Ronald. “A sudden faintness came over me. Is she well? Does she ever think of me? Speak, I conjure thee.” “Os thee, my son?. Who? what art thou that thus shouldst ask such questions respecting the Lady Edith ?” inquirea the old man, sur prised at his singular and almost frantic man ner. “lam”—he was about to reveal himself, but a moment’s reflection caused him to refrain. Then continuing, he said, “ Can I not see her ? She knows me well—no—she does not now know me, but”—he could say no more; the fount of feeling had drowned his utterance, and a stream of tears coursed down his manly face. The domestic could not divine the cause of his sorrow, and only endeavored to soothe his grief with kind and consolatory words. “ Take this,” said Ronald, “ take it to her— place it in her own hands, and she will know that one who once was dear to her yet lives and loves her.” AUGUSTA MIRROR COVER. It was a small locket, containing the emblem of two hearts united, the first gift of the Lady iEdith to Ronald. It was a precious one—he had ever worn it next his heart—in love and in joy, in despair and in hope, in banishment and battle, there had this treasure reposed—dearer than the blood tears of his bosom. And now— when she deemed him numbered with the de parted—when the world was toiler now but as a dream—when every hope was gone—but one —yet that the best and biightest—her hope in Heaven ! again was she to be called back to | earthly happiness—again was the bloom of beauty to blush upon her cheek, and the kiss ot love to burn upon her lip. The old man depart ed. With tottering steps he sought the apart ment of the lady abbess, and revealed his mis sion to her. In silent wonder did she receive the intelligence, and gaze upon the token. Edith in their moments of converse, had unbosomed to her the story of her early love, and now the | abbess knew that it was Ronald, who, like a spi-! rit of the other world, had come to claim her for his own. “Thy will be done!” ejaculated the holy matron, and at once sought the chamber of; Edith. To describe the feelings of Edith, when in formed of her errand—of her doubt that it was Ronald who still existed, might be attempted, but weak would be the effort. They who have j felt the pang of separation from all that was dear to them on earth—who have been unex pectedly restored to the object of their affections jat the very moment when even hope appeared jto have forsaken them, can best conceive the feelings of the Lady Edith. “ Mother!” she exclaimed, “deceive me not. Is he alive? has Heaven yet such happiness in store for me? Oh! lead me to his presence. Ronald, thy Edith is yet true to thee.” Leaning on the arm of the abbess, slowly they followed the old man to the hall of the ab bey. The shadows of night had fallen thickly 1 upon the world ; in a recess stood Ronald, lost in the intensity of his feelings. The soft steps; of the party scarcely disturbed the silence that reigned around. The abbess consigned the trembling Edith to the support of the aged do mestic, and advancing to Ronald, softly ejacula ted, “ Benedicite, my son!” He started at the sound, and beholding the abbess, fell upon his knee. “ Rise,” she said. “Thou hast past through the furnace, and thy reward awaits thee. Edith approach !’ Edith raised her head, which, ’till now, had rested on the shoulder of the old domestic. The moon, at the same moment, burst forth in its majesty of radiance. The faces of the two lov ers met each other’s gaze. “ Edith Glengyle !” exclaimed the enraptur ed youth. A loud scream burst from the mai den,.and the next moment she lay senseless on the bosom of her lover. That night beheld her on board of the rover’s bark, and the first beams of the morning saw her before the towers of Ganna.. Brief was the message that Ronald sent to her father, and brief was the answer ihat was returned. “ Peace and welcome /” * That noon beheld the nuptials of the long parted lovers in the chapel of the castle, and at ; the same altar did Glengyle and Ronald swear eternal fidelity. The bread was broken, and ( the cup was drained, and long and loud were the shouts of joy that arose, and deep and fer vent were the blessings showered on the gallant Ronald and his lovely Edith. The reader will naturally ask how came the lover to be the rover captain. The question is easily answered. The night on which Glen gyle had hurled Ronald from the cliff, the pi rate bark was cruising in the bay of Canna. A party of her crew had landed close to its base, for the purpose of reconnoitering, when the splash of the body in the waters attracted their attention, and having recovered it—for the deep folds of his Highland costume buoyed it on the surface—they found that life was not extinct, They bore it to their vessel, and when Ronald a woke to consciousness, he found himself career ing over the blue waters of the Spanish main. No alternative was now presented to him but to embrace their lawless life. His noble form and daring soul soon raised him to the command,, and seizing the first opportunity to visit the scene of his love and injury, it was, as in the tale described, he gratified his revenge. With regard to Edith, in one of the Spanish islands he encountered a priest, who, in his pilgrimage, had visited Innisfoil. In his discourse he hap pened to mention her name. Curiosity led Ronald to inquire the minute particulars, and thus was the clue to the discovery. It is al most needless to add, that from the hour of his | nuptials with Edith, he renounced the life of a rover. Peace and plenty were offered to the remaining crew to leave their calling, but the dull life of the landsman accorded not with their feelings. The broad sea, the black flag, and the clearing cutlass were light and music to their soul, and the same night that beheld Edith and Ronald united, belield them again on their path of peril and of death. Laiies Companion for October. Consumption.— The editor of the New ! Hampshire Telegraph, in an article relating to j the frequency of this disease among us; and its character, says: “If there be a disease in this world of ills, which seems in a peculiar manner to fit its vic tim, for the fate which human skill cannot avert, that disease is consumption. To one who is full of life, and hope, and joy, the first conviction that it has fastened its death grasp upon him, the fearful certainty of its end will flash through him with a thrill of terror— more doubtless, than that of most other dis eases. Startling, it must be, indeed, to feel for the first time, that there is a worm knawing at one’s vitals, whose greedy teeth no human skill can stay —startling to feel the certanity of dis ease within, whose end is surely death. But how soon does the spirit grow calm; and as he feels the disease tugging at his heartstrings, and his strength wasting away before it, how calmly then, does the soul plume itself for its upward flight—how trustingly then, does it lean upon the bosom of its God—and when flesh and heart grow faint, and fail, how sweetly sinks to ns final rest, the victim of consumption,’” “ So fades a summer cloud away, So sinks the gale when storms arc o’er, So gently shuts the eye of day, So dies a wave along the shore.” I Friends.— There are few persons in tlie world, who are so poor, that they have no friend to share their sorrows and partake of their joys. But while we are blest with kind friends, it should be the warm desire of our | hearts to promote their interest. They “should live in our hearts by the emotion which sub sist there—in our memory, by our fragrant remembrance of them—in our voice, by our ewlogiums—in our conduct, by our imitations of their virtues,” 11