At length she grew calm, but it was the fearful calmness of despair; she complained not—­reproached not; for she felt that she had been self-deceived; she could not, however, conceal the devastation which sorrow was making in her graceful form.  Albert beheld her with concern, but ascribed the alteration to her grief for his father’s loss, for Isabel had tenderly loved her uncle.  She rejoiced at his mistake, and attempted not to undeceive him:  one only wish possessed her—­it was, to see the chosen of her Albert; and, with a feverish impatience, she urged him to accelerate his nuptials.  The appointed day arrived—­Isabel, attired in robes of richest state, stood beside the altar, and witnessed the annihilation of all her earthly happiness; still she sunk not; but, with a mighty effort, pronounced a blessing on the wedded pair.  The excitement brought back a vivid colour to her cheeks, and rekindled the lustre of her large dark eyes.  The painter had seized that moment to depict her glowing form—­the enthusiasm was but momentary—­her angel face soon lost its lovely tint, and her beautiful eyes sunk again into languor.  The castle was thronged with noble guests—­sick at heart the wretched Isabel wandered abstractedly amid the gay assembly—­her large floating eyes seemed straying vacantly around, until they met the bridegroom’s look of joy.  Then came the madness of recollection; with a convulsive shuddering she averted her head, and stole unnoticed from the company.  Morning came, but she appeared not; her chamber was searched—­she had not entered it.  Albert flew distractedly into the park, and, at length perceived her quietly sitting by the side of the lake, near a bower, which, when a boy, he had helped to decorate.  She was still clad in the robes of last night’s festival.  He ran eagerly towards her—­she spoke not—­he entreated her to answer him, but he implored in vain—­there was neither breath, nor sense, nor motion—­she was dead!  ’Twas a mournful sight! one white hand, stiffened to marble, was pressed upon her broken heart, as she had sought to stay its painful throbbings—­the cold night dews hung in large drops upon her silken hair, and shed a tremulous gleam upon the diamonds that sparkled on her pale, icy forehead—­the withered leaves had found a resting place upon her bosom, and her white garments were embroidered by their many colourings.  The castle became hateful to Albert after this event:  he removed to a distant part of the country, and never again revisited the scenes of his earlier years.  He also was dead; and Isabel, her love, and her despair, were forgotten by all, save one aged, isolated being, whose time-whitened locks and decrepit frame showed that she too was rapidly descending to the silence of the grave.

London University Magazine.  No.  II.

* * * * *

NOTES OF A READER.

* * * * *