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he told me he was fearful he should never see her again ; and that if what had been done could be recalled, he would not desire her to take the veil contrary to her inclination. My father is a very humane man, and a tender and indul. gent parent. It is greatly to be lamented, that the infinitely benevolent religion of the meek and lowly Jesus should be so far corrupted, as to make those who are naturally of an amiable temper the persecutors of the servants of Jesus. I must do father Albino the justice to say, that he is as tender and benevolent a man'as any in the world, where religion is not concerned: but the least contradiction in that tender point greatly irritates him. He has, however, car. ried his point too far, and has thereby lost much of his influence over my father.

To-day my father asked my sister how Miss Barnwell came to be at Thomas Livingstone's.. Permit me, Sir, replied she, to tell you the truth. I was very ill while you were out; indeed I'am far from being well now; and I entreated Miss Barnwell to visit me. She knew that she had offended you by corresponding with my dear sister: I could not persuade her therefore to stay after you came home. :'.

My father rang instantly for the footman. John, said he, go to Thomas Livingstone's, and give my respects to Miss Barnwell, and desire her to be so kind as to come to my house.

Sir, said father Albino, I think you have had trouble enough through that heretic, without running a fresh hazard of having the minds of your children poisoned with her dainnable doctrine.

The greatest calamity I ever met with, said my father, is the death of my dear child : and you, Sir, ought to know who it is that has been in a great measure the cause of it. This lady has her peculiar sentiments, as we have ours ; but she could not be the intended enemy of my child. I was a witness of the grief with which she was filled at the news of her death. The pressure was so great, that nature sunk under the load. I tell you, Sir, I am, I must, I will be the friend of those who were friends to my dear child.

When Miss Barnwell was come, my father apologized for not sending for her yesterday. He told her, that his grief was then so intense that he had not power to think of any thing; but that the affection she had manifested for his Eusebia would for ever endear her to him.

Miss Barnwell thanked him, and said that the affection between his daughter and her had been reciprocal, and that they had only parted a short time to meet again for ever.

Oh Miss Barnwell, said my father, if you and I and my dear child shall be so happy as to meet in the mansions of the blessed, we shall not engage in religious contention, which of all things I the most abhor. It is this which has influenced me to adhere to the good old way, in preference to novel opinions.

Pardon me, Sir, replied your niece, but I am confident neither you, nor Signior Albino, nor Miss Neville, knew any thing of Eusebia. She whom I had the honour to call my friend, was a humble follower of the Redeemer, so far as she understood his will; and I will venture to assert, that she held no novel opinion whatever.

Having said this, Miss Barnwell pulled out of her pocket the book which contained the correspondence between my sister and her friends, and gave it to my father. This, Sir, said she, belonged to your daughter; and it is the only thing that was saved from the wreck, except a small bundle which is at Thomas Livingstone's. You may now con vince yourself that iny invaluable friend, if she could not hold every sentiment you did, rejected them merely because they were new-fangled opinions, and confined herself to a few self-evident truths, none of which are less an. cient than the time of the apostles. My father took the book very graciously, opened it, and, seeing it was her hand-writing, put it in his bosom, the tears trickling down his cheeks.

The colour rose in father Albino's face.' Sir, said he with an imperious tone, the friendship I owe to you and your family obliges me to protest against your having any thing to do with heretical books. The fire is the place for those

accursed writings, as well as for their authors. While I have a being I will not be awed into silence, where the eause of God, of his saints, and of liis church, is concerned. I tell you, Sir, you show a weakness unworthy of a wise man, and much more so of a religious man, in the fondness which you manifest for one of God's most impla. cable enemies. If I thought that I had a drop of heretical blood in me, though it were in my heart, I would let it

out.

My father is not given to wrath, except upon strong provocation. He looked sternly at the priest. Thou unfeel. ing monster, said he, henceforth I desire thee to herd among thy fellow savages, that delight in murder and blood. Wretch that thou art! Thou hast robbed me of my peace for ever. Othat I should hearken to thy inhuman counsels! Thou hast been the murderer of my child. It has been entirely owing to such blood-thirsty creatures, that catholics have stunk in the nostrils of protestants. My dear child's reading concerning their cruelties was the reason, and the only reason, of her forsaking the religion of her ancestors.

I could not help pityiog the poor priest, who wept like a child ; and we all besought my father to moderate his resentment. No one felt more for him than Miss Barnwell. The dear girl wept when she saw his distress. I earnestly beg, Mr. Neville, said she, that there may be no misun. derstanding between you and father Albino. I am certain that he means well, and that he thinks the honour of God is injured by the tenderness which you express for my friend. In a word, Miss Barnwell laboured so effectually to reconcile these two friends, that they shook hands, and it was promised on both sides that all which had passed should be buried in oblivion. Thus things rest at present. I have no doubt, Madam, but you will draw a favourable conclusion from what has passed, that our parent will not be inexorable when he knows that we are protestants. I daily pray that this may be the case, and that he himself may not only become a protestant, but also a true servant of Jesus Christ.

My sister and Miss Barnwell desired me to give you a deti il of what had passed since yesterday morning, when we received the afflictive news; to which I consented, as I shall esteem it no small happiness to be admitted into the number of your correspondents. My father, after reading the postscript of your letter, said he took it very kindly that Mrs. Worthington interested herself in his happiness; but above all, that you and every one were dear to bim who esteemed his dear child ; and that he would repay the expense you had been at in purchasing the bundle saved from the wreck, and ever gratefully remember the favour,

Your piece and my sister unite with me in the best wishes for your happiness. . ., .... Dear Madam, I am, very respectfully, ;.

; in Your obedient servant, ist .. .: , . WILLIAM NEVILLE.

LETTER XLVI..vis

From Miss Barnwell to Mrs. Worthington,

DEAR MADAM, THE loss of my excellent friend very much indisposes me for writing; but as I know that my dear aunt will want to be informed how things are going on at the Abbey, I shall endeavour to give her all the satisfaction in my pow. er. I have reason to bless God that all the respect is shown me here that I could wish for. Mr. William Neville is a modest, sensible, obliging man: he is indeed the very picture of Eusebia. There is in him, as there was in her, a sweet melancholy brooding upon his countenance, as well as a remarkable diffidence in his behaviour: yet he is sufficiently free and communicative among his friends, but never arrogant or assuming. His father treats me with great affability and tenderness; and even father Albino shows me uncommon respect. . .

I was yesterday in the wilderness, a place sacred to the memory of Eusebia, and accidentally met father Albino. What a pity it is, cried he, that so amiable a lady as you should be out of the pale of the holy catholic church. I do not mean to offend you, Miss Barnwell: what better thing could I wish my most valuable friend? What a divine temper are you mistress of, to feel so compassionately, and even to find an excuse for one who you knew was your avowed enemy. Believe me, my dear young lady, I am your most sincere friend. You have bound me to you for ever ; and I must and will esteem you while I have a being.

I am much obliged to you, Sir, replied I, and I am glad to find in you so ingenuous and grateful a temper. But why should you wish me to be a catholic ? I would not take any trouble to make you a protestant. I wish you to be something infinitely better than that.

No! cried the father, full of surprise ; would not you, who are so zealous a protestant, wish your friend to be a protestant, if you thought it the best religion?

I certainly do think it the best religion, answered I; yet I am ready to confess that many millions of protestants are not Christians. Why then should I endeavour to make you such a protestant? The truth is this; neither catholics nor protestants in general have the spirit of Christ.

Pray, Miss Barnwell, said he, do not you judge unchari. tably? · No, Sir, replied I, by no means; it would not be charity to tell a sick man that he is well.

That seems reasonable, said he, but pray tell me how you came to be so wise as to be able to distinguish those who are Christians from those who are not ?

It is not difficult, Sir, replied I, to answer your question; but you will neither understand nor believe me when I do answer it. However, as you are so candid as to hear me patiently, I will speak as intelligibly as I can. Our Lord told his disciples that all his children should be taught of

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