variations of a single minute, and you will cease either to pity me, or
to speak to me of life. For months I have had, night and day, a wasting--
wasting fever, of brain, and heart, and frame; the fire works well, and
the fuel is nearly consumed."

He paused, and we were both silent. In fact, I was shocked at the fever
of his pulse, no less than affected at the despondency of his words. At
last I spoke to him of medical advice.

"'Canst thou,'" he said, with a deep solemnity of voice and manner,
"'administer to a mind diseased--pluck from the memory'--Ah! away with
the quotation and the reflection." And he sprung from the sofa, and going
to the window, opened it, and leaned out for a few moments in silence.
When he turned again towards me, his manner had regained its usual quiet.
He spoke about the important motion approaching on the--, and promised to
attend; and then, by degrees, I led him to talk of his sister.

He mentioned her with enthusiasm. "Beautiful as Ellen is," he said, "her
face is the very faintest reflection of her mind. Her habits of thought
are so pure, that every impulse is a virtue. Never was there a person to
whom goodness was so easy. Vice seems something so opposite to her
nature, that I cannot imagine it possible for her to sin."

"Will you not call with me at your mother's?" said I. "I am going there
to-day."

Glanville replied in the affirmative, and we went at once to Lady
Glanville's, in Berkeley-square. We were admitted into his mother's
boudoir. She was alone with Miss Glanville. Our conversation soon turned
from common-place topics to those of a graver nature; the deep melancholy