"I cannot tell how it came," said Harry, as he brought the story to an end, which we have narrated in the last two numbers, and which he confided to his new-found English relative, Madame de Bernstein; "but since that fatal day of July, last year, and my return home, my mother never has been the same woman.

She seemed to love none of us as she used.

She was for ever praising George, and yet she did not seem as if she liked him much when he was with us.

She hath plunged, more deeply than ever, into her books of devotion, out of which she only manages to extract grief and sadness, as I think.

Such a gloom has fallen over our wretched Virginian house of Castlewood, that we all grew ill, and pale as ghosts, who inhabited it.