to foot in a sheet. The first thought of Conyers was, that he beheld the lifeless form of some victim of the, as he now apprehended, murderous wretches in whose house he had taken shelter, his next was to ascertain if the corpse bore any mark of violence. Aubrey Conyers was constitutionally and morally brave, apart from the habits of his profession, but a cold chill fastened upon his heart, and his hand, despite his utmost firmness, slightly trembled, as he drew the covering from the head and shoulders of the corpse.

Never was the awful mystery of death presented in an aspect less terrible than that which he then beheld. But for the pallor of the skin, the dark circle round the slightly sunken eyes, and a something too fixed and mournful in the smile that yet lingered round the mouth, he might have thought that the beautiful boy, stretched so still and cold on that unseemly couch, was not dead but sleeping. So fair, indeed, was the face of death in that youth, whose years could scarce have numbered seventeen, that Aubrey forgot for a brief space the strange and alarming circumstances of his own situation, and stood in a kind of religious awe, wholly unmixed with any feeling of repugnance or horror, gazing on the pale features whose serenity spoke of that peace which the world cannot give. Then it was, on a longer inspection, he discovered in the features of the dead boy so close a resemblance to those of Magdalen, that they seemed to have been cast in the same mould: he might have been her twin brother, but that there was a disparity in their years, as Magdalen could scarce be judged less than three or four and twenty years of age. The beautiful countenance of the dead youth was, however, much wasted, the finely chiselled outline was very thin and sharp; Aubrey judged that he had died of consumption, or, perhaps, of a disease more terrible,

starvation, utter want. He remembered what the hostess had said of the sufferings of her family from poverty, and how she had spoken to Magdalen of the sorrows of the last sad week, and he severely rebuked himself for the hard thoughts and frightful suspicions he had entertained of those people, who perhaps had no crime but their poverty, which had probably induced them to conceal the fact that the awful presence of death was in their house. Very reverently did Aubrey replace the covering on the corpse, and withdrew with a light step from the room, closing the door softly, as though he feared to disturb the dead; and when he regained his own apartment, he sat down thoughtfully by the window, and speculated as to what might be the strange and unhappy destiny of the inhabitants of that house, especially of the beautiful Magdalen, the sister of the deceased youth, for that he seemed intuitively convinced must have been the bond of relationship between them.

Meantime the fury of the storm had somewhat lulled, the wind no longer raved round the house, but sunk into a low melancholy wailing, though the snow still continued its noiseless fall. Thus it was that, in the silence and his utter abstraction, the harsh sound of creaking bolts met the ears of Aubrey Conyers. This sound appeared to proceed from the garden, and at the same time a red beam of light flashed upwards through the old curtain which was drawn across the casement in Aubrey's room; this light he would not perhaps have noticed, but that his chamber was partially dark from the circumstance of his having placed his candle in the fireplace. From an impulse of curiosity, not unnatural, Conyers was anxious to discover who were the persons moving in the garden, and screening himself against the wall of the chamber he cautiously drew aside the curtain. The snow had almost

C

ceased falling, but as it thickly covered the ground, it threw into relief the figures of the boy Giles and his mother, as they moved across the garden; the former bearing in his hand a lanthorn, the strong reflector of which had thrown out the light which had first excited Aubrey's attention. The pair now proceeded towards the boundary wall of the garden, where they unfastened a door. Two men then entered bearing between them the body of a third, who seemed either insensible or dead. The bright lurid light of the lanthorn, as they bore this person directly under the casement at which Conyers was posted, discovered to him the slender form and pale features of a young man, whose elegant and fashionable attire showed at once that he could scarcely by fair means have been associated with the persons in whose charge Aubrey beheld him. A sickening horror fastened on the heart of the latter at this seeming proof that he was himself at the mercy of a gang of thieves and murderers; then he sought relief in the thought that the insensible person was possibly some unfortunate traveller benighted in the snow-storm, and that it was with a charitable and not an evil intent that these men were bearing him to their dwelling. Something, however, in the caution of their movements, in their truculent, brutal appearance, observable even by the light of the lanthorn, seemed to discourage this more satisfactory judgment; and, abandoning all thoughts of repose, Conyers sat watching anxiously for the first break of day, and listening with a nervous eagerness for any noise in the house. To add also to the unpleasantness of his position, his candle, which had been for some time wavering in the socket, suddenly expired, and though as free as most men from superstitious imaginations, Aubrey found it difficult to resist the freaks of fancy in that almost palpable darkness, with the storm still moaning