“Why', a funeral, to be sure-a grand funerai! The French say it will be a most beautiful sight, and Madame d'Elfort has given us leave to see it. Will you not come to the gate?"

As she uttered this question, without waiting for a reply, she darted from the room, and Emily just saw her raven hair floating in the morning breeze, as, with the swiftness of a fawn, she bounded across the lawn to join her companions.

Emily turned toward the garden-window, to give Caroline her bonnet, which she had taken from the table; but Caroline was gone, and, supposing that she had left the house with Agnes, she proceeded to the outer gate, revolving in her mind the strange scene she was about to witness.

"Who is the person they are going to inter?" inquired she of Anna Lushington, who, with her characteristic indolence, was leaning against the gate in a languid posture

"I have forgotten her name," was the answer, "but she belonged to the congrégation. She had lately inherited a considerable fortune, which she expended in the most charitable manner. Every one is loud in the praise of her piety and benevolence; they seem to regard her almost as a saint, and the congregationists are to attend her funeral, in their distinguishing costume."

Emily recollected the account she had lately heard, of the society called the congrégation. It was composed of some hundreds of young ladies, who consecrated themselves, solemnly and publicly, to God and the Virgin. The dedication did not include any vow of celibacy or retirement, but the persons so dedicated professed to employ themselves chiefly in works of charity and devotion, and always accompanied the religious processions.

The deep sound of funeral chanting now arrested the attention of Emily, and, looking forward, she perceived a cortège, which was strikingly calculated to produce a powerful effect on the senses. It was preceded by several orphan girls, belonging to an institution which the deceased patronized: one of them carried a gilt cross, and the others wax tapers of an immense size. Then fol. lowed two or three hundred ladies, dressed in black, their faces shrouded in long white muslin veils, which floated gracefully over their mourning drapery. They also carried lighted tapers. The coffin was covered with black velvet, over which was thrown a white silk pall; another large cross was borne before it. It was surrounded by a great number of priests, in white surplices, with tapers in their hands. A multitude of persons in black closed the procession.

There was an air of grandeur and majesty in the whole of this ceremony, which was well calculated to strike the mind with awe, and operate powerfully on the feelings; and Emily felt its thrilling effect in no inconsiderable degree. When the glare of the tapers met her eyes, contrasied as it was with the mourning dresses

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and flowing veils of the attending ladies. when the deep silence of the scene was, at intervals, suddenly interrupted by the sonorous voices of the priests, chanting, in a slow and sepulchral tone, the requiem for the departed soul;-she felt the whole fall on her heart with such a feeling of painful and overpowering emotion, that she could not, without fainting, have borne it much longer. She leaned, half-insensible, against the wall; a deep-drawn sigh, accompanied with tears, in some measure relieved the oppression of her bosom, when the procession was past; but as she walked back to her room, leaning on the arm of Louisa Selwyn, who was herself much affected, she could not but tremble for the effect of these delusive exhibitions, on the minds of those who were most dear to her in the place.

On re-entering the house, she was forcibly struck by Caroline's altered countenance. She, too, was pale with emotion, and had evidently been weeping. Emily drew near, and affectionately took her hand; but she averted her face, and, with a sudden movement, disengaging herself, hastily walked into the garden, with an evident determination not to be followed. Emily stood riveted to the spot with surprise, and gazed after her till she disappeared, then sought her own room, to reflect on the change which a few hours seemed to have produced on her once gay and open-hearted cousin. In crossing the corridor, she met little Agnes Beverley, who followed her into the room. Her dark eyes sparkled with animation, as she said,

"O Miss Mortimer! was not the funeral beautiful? I think I never saw anything so solemn; and then it was so affecting !"

"It was pompous," said Emily, pensively, "but I think the beautiful simplicity of a Protestant funeral infinitely better calculated to impress the heart with suitable feelings. There is no warrant in Scripture for so much display, and the effect it produces on the mind is, perhaps, not the best calculated to encourage serious reflection."

"Oh! indeed I think it is. One cannot but be serious, when one sees such solemn things, and I am sure I approve very much of that Roman Catholic custom."

These words were uttered with a tone of much self-sufficiency and conceit. Emily made no reply, for her heart was too full to allow her. The impression produced by Caroline's behavior dwelt painfully on her mind, and her tears flowed unrestrainedly, when Agnes had left the room. When the two cousins again met, Caroline seemed to have recovered her composure; but there was a chilling reserve in her manner, which effectually prevented Emily from inquiring into the cause of an alteration so wounding to the feelings of a friend.

From that day, Emily seemed to have lost all access to the heart of her cousin. That sweet union of soul which they had hitherto

enjoyed, that delightful oneness of sentiments, feelings, and pur suits, which had till then subsisted between them, seemed now completely at an end, and gave place to the most painful reserve The smile of unaffected cheerfulness no longer brightened the face of Caroline; her natural sprightliness had disappeared; she seemed thoughtful and unhappy, avoided all conversation with ner cousin, and frequently shunned her approach with the most sedulous care.

Many were the tears which Emily shed over this painful es trangement; many were the prayers she offered up, for the return of her cousin's confidence. She had recourse to every method that the most sisterly affection, and tender anxiety, could suggest, to win back the heart she so much prized; but, alas! they were all ineffectual. Caroline continued gloomy, cold, and silent; she seemed to indulge in some secret anguish, and to be violently agitated by some powerful conflict. Emily struggled to conceal her distressed feelings, and strove to gain, by gentleness and forbearance, a disclosure which she longed, yet dreaded to obtain. Disappointed in this hope, she could no longer conceal her anxiety, but resolved openly to request some explanation from Caroline.

She did not, however, meet with the opportunity she sought, but was, some time after, delighted to see Caroline's cheerfulness gradually return. The gloom insensibly vanished from her brow, and her manners resumed their accustomed ease; yet a shade of restraint would occasionally damp her vivacity, and there was a marked reserve in her conduct, whenever religion was the subject of conversation, which painfully oppressed the heart of Emily. She trusted, however, that time might do much to dispel these >ccasional clouds; and, as she saw no diminution in her attention to the duties of religion, she at least endeavored to persuade herself that there was no real cause for anxiety.

But her attention was soon powerfully arrested, by the sad effects of French society on the minds of some of her young companions. She saw, with much pain, that Emma Selwyn gradually lost all relish for spiritual things-all pleasure in serious employment. The baneful influence of gay and thoughtless company, drew away her naturally yielding mind from that attention to religious subjects, which it had been the most anxious wish of her parents to inculcate. She betrayed a restlessness and languor, when engaged in the duties of the Sabbath, which could not fail to strike those who had witnessed the delight she took in them, on her first arrival in France. Alas! her religion now seemed to have been but as the seed cast into stony ground, which, not hav ing sufficient depth, sprang up with fair and joyful promise, but withered away beneath the rays of the sun of temptation. This idea was painfully impressed on the minds of Emily and her sis ter. They saw her enter with avidity into all the giddy pursuits

of her frivolous companions, mix with delight in the sung and the dance, and shun the company and conversation of those whose anxious affection would fain have recalled her from the path of danger and destruction. They prayed and wept over her case, and earnestly endeavored to take advantage of every feeling of compunction, every sign of returning reflection; but their efforts were generally followed by disappointment; and the thoughtless Emma became every day more insensible to the admonitions of her friends, the precepts of her Bible, and the voice of her Heavenly Shepherd.

Lydia Howard had too much reflection and principle, to be seduced by the frivolous amusements which surrounded her on every side. She felt their emptiness and insufficiency, and joined in them as little as she could, though she had not sufficient resolution to decline them altogether. Her natural gaiety of disposition often betrayed her better judgment, and then her enlightened conscience severely reproved her, for yielding to the force of example. At such times she was truly miserable, and passionately longed for a return to her native country, as the only means of deliverance from the snares with which she saw herself beset. She detested French society, and sought with eagerness that of her more serious English friends; she took the greatest delight in religious exercises, and engaged with ardor in every religious pursuit. Yet she had not sufficient courage to avow her sentiments, nor strength of mind to resist the sinful practices she abhorred.

She was often prevailed upon, by what she called the absolute necessity of circumstances, to do many things which her conscience condemned, and which she could not afterwards reflect upon without great mental anguish. In this state of mind she could not be happy; but she endeavored to check reflection, and generally avoided everything like close conversation on religious subjects. Emily perceived the conflict of her mind, and felt the most tender compassion for the interesting girl. She pointed out the only means of overcoming these difficulties, and urged her to an entire surrender of heart to the Saviour, and a conscientious taking up of his cross, as the only way in which she could ever obtain peace; but poor Lydia despondingly pleaded her inability to overcome temptation; and, as she, in a great measure, neglected the source from whence alone she might have derived strength equal to her need, she naturally remained in this dark and comfortless state, the unavoidable consequence of resisting her better convictions. Little Agnes Beverley was, if possible, still more in danger from surrounding allurements. She was not only involved in all the giddy pursuits of her companions: she not only renounced all the Christian maxims her parents had endeavored to inculcate, but she also seemed alarmingly prepossessed in favor of Roman

Catholic doctrines. It was often distressing to hear her repeat the arguments she had overheard, in order to prove those disputed points which had particularly come under her notice; these she maintained with a pertinacity which would hardly yield to the authority of Scripture evidence; and, though the fear of being ridiculed by the English generally induced her, at last, to give up the contest, Emily saw, with great uneasiness, that these pernicious errors gained daily ground in her mind, and superseded those scriptural principles, which she felt to be irksome on account of their strictness.

Poor Emily's mind was exceedingly distresssd, and indeed almost overwhelmed with grief, as she thought on these discouraging prospects. The weight of anxiety that oppressed her would have been too much for her naturally desponding spirit, had she not found support from the promises of the gospel, and some degree of cheering encouragement from Louisa Selwyn and Miss Douglas. The former had too much good sense and religion, to be allured, either by the seductive influence of Popish errors, or the false charms of youthful dissipation; and the latter, notwithstanding her natural reserve, gave the most promising indications of a mind gradually expanding to the light of divine truth, and a heart unconsciously yielding to the sweet influence of Christian feeling. She was a sincere and candid inquirer, and willing, through grace, to embrace those principles which a diligent study of her Bible pointed out. Louisa had, from the first, taken a decided part against the sinful practices, and worldly spirit, that prevailed in the school; she was always distrustful of herself; and, as she rested for safety on an Almighty arm, she was mercifully preserved from the assaults of temptation. But it is not sufficient that a Christian should refrain from actual transgressions, and avoid the society and amusements of the world; he must cultivate an habitual fervor of spirit, a constant spirituality of mind, an intimate communion with his God, if he would enjoy the light of his countenance, or make any advances in the divine life. Incessant watchfulness is necessary, and continual supplies of wisdom, grace, and strength, must be sought for by earnest prayer, if we desire to walk humbly with God in any situation, but more especially in those where every surrounding object is calculated to ensnare the imagination, and draw the heart aside from the service of God. This was a lesson which the youthful Louisa had not yet sufficiently learned. She was truly devoted to God, and earnestly desirous of serving him; but she was not careful to maintain a watchful and praying spirit; and the natural consequence of the neglect was, the gradual decline of religion in her soul. A distressing coldness and languor insensibly crept into her duties; she no longer enjoyed the same delight in spiritual things, nor the same freedom of access to the