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142 fears and regrets, as when I stood by your cra dle, some twenty years ago. When the doubt that still hangs over your future fate is solved, write to me without any misgivings. Remem ber, that to tell Old Walter that you are happy, is to make him so; though his joy may seem to himself and to others like grief, it will be great as his love for you, and nothing can be greater. And now, farewell, and God bless you, Margaret Leslie. I have said much, but not all I feel about you and for you. “ Your most affectionate, . Walter. “p. S.—l start with young Wyndhnm at an early hour to-morrow. Give my love to your father and Ginevra. Write to me about her; how beautiful but how ill she looked last night. Tired with the exertions and the excitement of the previous evening, Margaret slept till past twelve o’clock on the next day, and when she woke, and saw several letters lying by her bed side. she stretched out her hand, and drew Wal ter’s from among them, with a feeling of won der at its size and apparent length. She opened it, and started with surprise at the tone and the tenor of its contents. She was disposed to irri tation ; several circumstances had combined to annoy her; and this misunderstanding (if, in deed, misunderstanding there was) exasperated her to the greatest degree. Tears of vexation stood in her eyes. Walter was gone without seeing her, and placed her under the painful ne cessity of writing an explanation which she was particularly desirous of making (if indeed she made it at all) by word of mouth, or of leaving him under an impression, which she scarcely knew how to define. There is no doubt that we are apt to judge the conduct of others with pe culiar severity when we are secretly dissatisfied with our own, and that to be provoked with those we love distorts our understanding as much as it disturbs our peace of mind. Nervous and irritable from fatigue and excite ment, Margaret resented Walter’s conduct as if it amounted to an insult. She went almost into a passion, spoke (luckily she was aloue, and spoke to herself —what nonsense people talk to themselves sometimes!) of his absurd jealousy, his ridiculous suspicions; recollected that after all it was she who hau originally proposed to marry him—she actually turned crimson at the • thought, but there was more of resentment than of modesty in the emotion. She suggested to herself (without in the least believing it) that he was a regular old bachelor, and did not want to marry at all, and was seeking to find a pretext for giving her up. She saidt for the next hour, to herself and of him, all the most disagreeable things she could think of, and then felt a little relieved, and by degrees a smile passed over her face. Perhaps she was glad to be released ; and then she read his letter again, and a tear, a bright round tear, glistened in her eye, and then stole down her cheek. Perhaps she was for giving him. In another hour’s time she was at her writing-table, and this note was written, sealed, and sent to Pal is : . • “ It is your own fault if you choose to give up our schemes of happiness. I am not going to propose to you a seconcl time, for I begin to think you would be a sort of Rlueboard in modern dress- I should be always watching for the key, or, like another Anne Boleyn, laying hold of my nock to make sure that my head was still upon my shoulders. You are grown so very flighty, Old Walter, that it is difficult to keep up with you, both literally and figuratively. You take a crotchet into your head, and fly off to Paris like a lover in a novel. To think of my having to scold you for rashness, and precipitancy, and thoughtlessness! It is rather pleasant to turn the tables upon you. Ido not know what you taw with your own eyes, and heard with your own ears (it must have been something very dreadful, to haye 'sent you rambling over the world in this hair-brained fashion), but as to what my own words gave you to understand, your comprehension was decidedly at fault, and your journey to Paris quite superfluous. When you want to solve this riddle, you may come here again. Did you really think that your little Margaret was going to give you up ? 0, dearest Walter! if truth, and honor, and love were ban ished from the world, I should know where to seek for them—not in the hearts of kings, as the French monarch fondly deemed, but in a heart that I am proud and happy to claim as my own, by right of birth, Old Walter, and by right of conquest, too. When you can decently abandon your travelling-companion, come and see with your own eyes, and hear with your own cars, that I love you as dearly, more dearly, than ever; and help me by your counsel to attain an obiec't which, next to your affection, is dearer to me than any thing else in life. Ever, dear Wal ter, your most affectionate Margaret." THE PACIFICATOR —A CATHOLIC JOT J l AAL. Owing to some mistake in the direction, this letter did not reach Waiter till long after it was written, and in the mean time we must, in an other chapter, follow the progress of Ginevra’s history. CHAPTER XVII. It was the day after the play, and a hot July afternoon. Margaret was lying on the sofa, quite exhausted with heat and fatigue, when she raised her eyes, and observed that Ginevra was dressed to go out. “ Where on earth are you going, this Irroiling day ?” she exclaimed, tired at the very of stirring. “ To Lady Mordaunt’s breakfast,” answered her sister, without raising her eyes from her book. “ Mrs. Wyndham will call for me in a moment.” “ I could as soon fly across the Park as go with you,” Margaret returned, while she bathed her own head and hands with Eau do Cologne. “ And you ought not to go,” she continued, raising herself on the cushions, and observing the almost transparent whiteness of Ginevra’s complexion, and the dark shade under her'Pfts. “ I must go,” she answered quickly, “ 1 have promised.” “ Whom ?” Margaret asked. “ Myself,” she replied; and her sistenKiw that there were tears in her eyes. . M “0, Ginevra, take care what you do,” she cried, for a vague fear connected with Neville’s return seized her at that moment, and she gazed on her with an almost frightened expression.. “Ginevra,” she said timidly, “remember that my father—your father—loves nothing in this world but you; remember how much he has suf fered, and that if you—” “0, Margaret, in mercy!” The pale girl clasped her hands together, and then raised them to heaven with an expression of such in tense supplication, that her very attitude was a prayer in itself. “Do not try to stop me,” she said hurriedly, “ for I must go.” “Ginevra,” cried Margaret, starting to her feet, and throwing her arms round Uor,f-‘ 'C.o vra, yob are not going ior—fmeVer.” * V* 1 “0, no, dearest, no! Be calm, Margaret, I am not going to leave you. It would be better for you if I was. I have thrown a dark shade over your life. I know it—l feel it—but I never will steal away from you like a culprit. I will speak, before I leave you, sister. Do not be afraid,” she added, and her brow contracted as she spoke ; “I have no home, no hope on earth, no refuge, but your love.” At that moment a loud rap at the door an nounced Mrs. Wyndham’s carriage, and her voice was heard on the stairs. She was come to persuade Margaret to go with them, but she vainly urged it, and was obliged to content her self with carrying off Ginevra. In the cak-che was seated Sir Charles D’Arcy, whose eyes lighted up with pleasure when he saw her, and whom she greeted kindly. Her mind was so absorbed in one subject, .that she had not had leisure to observe bis devotion to her. ' She had not the slightest idea that lie was supposed to like her, or that his attentions were generally remarked and commented upon. Margaret was aware of it; but in all that concerned Ginevra, she felt as if treading on delicate and danger ous ground. If she suggested to her too soon the necessity of seriously considering the nature •of his sentiments or of her own, she might pos sibly be interfering prematurely in an affair, which, under certain aspects, and under certain contingencies, might turn out to he highly de sirable, and, also, whenever at the beginning of their stay iu London, she had, seriously, or in joke, alluded to the admiration Ginevra inspired, or to the attentions that were paid her, she had invariably seen an expression of indescribable annoyance on her sister’s face, which had in duced her to abandon the subject. Ginevra’s manner had therefore been constantly courteous, kind, and free from all constraint in her inter course with Sir Charles, whom she liked as an acquaintance, and, latterly, had grown to con sider almost as a friend. He was very much in love with her, hut his manners and his charac ter were essentially English, and therefore, to one who, like her, was Ik tie acquainted with so ciety, and whose ideas of love were derived partly from hooks—but chiefly from the vehe ment expressions and emotions which had at tended the course of Neville’s romantic court ship, and passionate devotion to her—the placid and calm interest which was evinced in her wel fare, the quiet watchfulness which marked the attention of Sir Charles D’Arcy, and the deep but concentrated expressions of feeling which escaped him, did not convey any notion of the real nature of his sentiments, or warn her from encouraging them .by marks of preference which she naturally showed to one for whom her es teem was great and her regard, sincere. This conduct on her part, joined to the emo tion which some casual expression sometimes caused her—to the agitation which he had some times noticed jn her manner and in her counte nance, without being able to assign it a cause— had given him hopes that she reciprocated his attachment; and on the preceding evening he had confided these hopes to Mrs. Wyndham, and entreated her to interest herself in his favor. To be made the confidant in an affair of this kind was one of the happiest incidents in her life; and actually to be the chaperon on the oc casion when a proposal might he anticipated, al most turned her head with joy and excitement. Her great object in persuading Margaret to go to the breakfast had been that she might have conversed incessantly with her as they drove to Rosewood, and have thus left the lovers, as she designated them already, in peace and comfort on the opposite side of the carriage; hut this scheme failing, vainly sought for some mode of suppressing herself altogether—of annihila ting herself for the time being. She would have liked to Jhire la morte, like her own spaniel, .or to have been for an hour— “ln second childishness and mere oblivion.” But it would not do ; she could not offer to shut her eyesjuul her ears, or go to sleep or read the “ Court Guide ;” the two last expedients she at tempted, but it did not help on matters ; and in this unsatisfactory state of mind she remained till they reached Rosewood, and joined the nu merous groups of people who were already as sembled on the lawn. A band of music ' was playing in one place, some Swiss peasants singing in another, chil dren dressed as children should not be—that is, so smartly, that they ought not to tear their clothes ; and yet scampering about happily, do ing exactly what they should not have done, with their lace frocks and gauze bonnets—wore running round and round between people’s feet. Girls were sitting. talkies as if \van-tire business of life; and men standing about, as if to be bored was the inevitable condition of hu manity, from which they sought no refuge and no escape. Some mothers, anxious about their daughters’ parasols being up and their veils down ; others pursuing their younger offspring through bushes and beds of flowers; some full of hopes and schemes, others full of weariness and heart-sickness; some anxious about them selves or curious about others; a few enjoying themselves in the pure air, in the gay scene, with the joyous music and the routing ehil dre.n—happy in the sight of happiness, and con fronting with their radiant smiles some of those careworn visages— “ As rich sunbeams and dark bursts of rain Meet in the sky.” • In a moment Ginevra was surrounded by r a tribe of children, among whom the little Vin cents, some of Lady Donningtou’s youngest boys, were foremost. “Oh, Ginevra,” exclaimed a little fellow of six years old ; “ come pull off your bonnet, and put on your scarf in that queer way in which you used to wear it at Genoa.” “ Oh, yes,” cried a little girl; “ and do sing us that funny Italian song.” Ginevra tried to escape, but children (leg cn fahts terribles) are unmerciful, and she was forced upon a garden chair, her bonnet removed, and her scarf presented to her with earnest en treaties that she would put it on. She complied with a smile, and with one child on her knee and the others crowding round her, she repeated in a low voice a few stanzas of the comic song they asked for. “ Louder,” cried the little tyrants; and “ louder,” was repeated by the older specta tors that had also assembled round her. The children were delighted, and one little thing climbing behind her tried to put a garland of roses on her head, but the flowers fell to pieces, and the scattered leaves flow about her. There was one gazing upon her at that moment, who remembered the Casa Masaui and the first day in which lie had seen her playing also with ehil *dren and roses. Alas! he had stolen away the youthfulness of her spirit—the roses of her life— and planted many- a sharp thorn in her path, lie had made sad havoc in her life, and in his own, too. Was he nut suffering more than her self in that instant ? Who can tell ? . Who can decide upon the acuteness of sufferings they ha’ve not felt—upon the capabilities of suffering, in natures so different ? [To ho continued.] jEssay and fitters trn Infallibility. 15V THE RIGHT REV. JOHN ENGLAND. ' FOURTH LETTER* OF “TRUTH.” To the Editors of llie. United States Catholic Mis cellany : * Savannah, September, 1825. In my last Letter your printer lias done me i:: justice, or I must at least for once submit to U. charge of having written hastily. I have no copv upon which to rely, and consequently cannot be certain whether the error is owing to the printer or myself. The sense of the passage, as it how appears iu print, is incomplete, if it be not indeed wholly unintelligible. The passage is on the first column of the eight v first page, near the bottom. I will.transcribe it, with the substance of what was or should har, been added to convey the meaning for whieh’it was designed. A period being placed before the first words, it should have read to this effect: “My object was to shew, that it nothing short of strict £>r absolute i.ufallibility could be a sufficient ground for faith, then individual Horn in Catholics must be as fur removed from faith as any others ; unless this infallibility should extend to ever./ indi vidual who leaches and every one who is taught that Religion. But only admit my principle that strict infallibility is not essential to faith, which must be true, if indeed there be Faith on the earth ; ami then, these “inevitable results, which were so frightfully marshalled, Ac.—the rest is correct. The words underscored, or words of similar im port, were or should have been inserted, to evince my meaning in the passage. If the manuscript is not destroyed, and the mistake proves to be on the part of the printer, i beg yon will have the goodness to correct it iti some early number. If it occurred on the part of myself, I am content it should remain uncorrectod. It is not my design to intrude further upon your courtesy, in relation to this subject, nor is it mv wish that you should publish this letter. For the attention you have bestowed upon the subject at my request, you will please to accept mv thanks. I am convinced that minds, trained in different habits, cannot alwaysasee' the truth in the sunn, light. I bc;r f.uvvevi-rVu be assured |hat i . have not* designedly drawdrroncous inferences from any of*your statements. My objections, as stated, are such as appear to me really to be drawn from, the natural meaning of what you #TOte. If they are illegitimate or unsound, Jj shall always be glad to see them fairly met and confuted. I, too, luave thought that my sentiments in some eases were not fairly stated iu your re plies—particularly when you make me.say in your last reply that moral certainty is only “an indefi nitely near approximation to truth.'’ By'refer ence to my letter yoti will see I used the word infallibility and not Truth, which in my. mind materially alters the sense.. But I am far from thinking you had any design to state the passage incorrectly. We cannot yet see alike. But we can, I trust, both believe in the same Lord and seek to be gijflpd by him into the way of all ' TRUTH. REPLY TO FOURTH LETTER OF ‘-‘TRUTH ” Upon this letter we have to state that we do not consider the expression of our correspondent's absence of a wish that we should publish it, to bo a prohibition of its publication; it is only declar ing that he does not require its publication. Usin'- our own discretion, therefore, we have published it, because we thought it proper: Ist, In order to give room for our explanation ; and 2d‘ that we might not-be charged with suppressing any, even the most trivial of the objections against us. We have had no opportunity of communicating with our correspondent, because we neither know who he is nor how a letter could reach him: and his correspondence is not on any private business fi ;■ we know him only as a public writer. lie will acquit us of having suppressed the pas sage in question, when we inform him that the compositor in our printing office, set up his letter. from his own manuscript, without having anv mark whatever upon it save as we got it from ti # post-office; and without having any part taken from the two sheets upon which it was contained. That the correctors in the office, neither of whom is a Roman Catholic, compared it when set up with his MS,, and that it was subsequently com pared therewith by one of the Editors. In this last comparison, one line was found omitted, and was supplied. Os these facts, as well as that no wilful omission was made, our correspondent ear. if he will, be satisfied by the evidence ot those concerned. After the publication, the manuscrij 4 was put aside.and has not yet been found. The second change was not made in the letter: the text was given correctly; but iu the comment the word truth was substituted for infallibility , br