him that I determined to leave him to his own
devices, and to get rid of him as soon as I could.
He talked very little at breakfast, and looked
gloomy, but brightened up when a small parcel
was brought in to him, containing the handkerchief
he had bought at the school. Soon after
this he went out, saying he should dine with
a friend he had met, who had also invited him
to go the other day to his villa, on the borders
of the lake. After he had gone out, I could not
help saying to my servant Juan that I was afraid
there was something the matter with my visitor.

"The matter! yes, sir," said Juan, in a very
oracular voice. "It's downright certain there
is. If ever I see a man whose place was booked
for a passage over Jordan, as my old mother
used to call it, it is Mr. Hayward. And then
to see him at that house," here Juan jerked his
head in the direction of Erminia's residence,
"a-going on with that gall—" Juan did not
finish his sentence, but stalked off, leaving the
rest to my imagination.

The following morning Hayward took leave
of me, and went to the house of his Spanish
friend, which was about twelve miles off.
When he had left, as I felt curious to know
what had been going on, I resolved to call on
Erminia, and see how affairs stood in that
quarter. I was surprised to find the shutters
half closed. I entered the hall, nevertheless,
which in most Venezuelan houses leads to
the quadrangle round which the rooms are
built, and knocked at the inner door. It
was opened by one of the younger girls, who
had evidently been crying. "What is the
matter?" I asked. "I hope no one is ill."

"Papa is ill," she said; "but you may come
in. Mamma or Erminia will speak to you."

So saying, she showed me into the drawing-
room, and went to tell them, and I had to wait
so long, that I began to think I had been indiscreet
in calling. At last Erminia came, with the
same little sister who had let me in.

"Papa is very ill," said Erminia; "we have
been up all night with him."

She looked so pale and ill as she said this,
that I could not help thinking she was more in
need of being nursed herself than able to attend
to others. After expressing my regret, and
inquiring about the illness of Señor L., I said,
"My English friend, Mr. Hayward, has left me.
I suppose you did not see him before he started?"

Erminia's pale face flushed, and she said with
a sort of reluctance "We saw him last evening.
He called; that is, he was passing by the window,
and he stopped to bid mel—mamma I mean
—good-bye."

Just then, the Señora L. herself entered the
room, and Erminia went to take her place by
the bedside of the invalid, so I had no further
opportunity of speaking to her that day.

The illness of Señor L. continued without
improvement all the time I remained at
Valencia. I went daily over to inquire for
him, and always saw Erminia, but never alone,
except for half a minute on one occasion. I
then said, "I want to talk to you about my
English friend." Her face flushed, as it had
done before when I mentioned his name, and
she said hurriedly, "We shall never be able to
speak about that. I am never alone; I am
siempre acompañada."

Meantime, I could not help being struck
with the love and devotion with which Señor
L. was nursed by his family. His daughters,
who, when I first came, had every day
been seated, radiant with smiles, and beautifully
dressed, at the windows, now never left
the sick-room. I had the pleasure of seeing, in
this instance, that the Creole ladies, who to
a superficial observer might appear bent only
on coquetry, are in reality not to be surpassed
in that affection which binds families together.
I had before admired Erminia for her beauty:
I now esteemed and respected her for her
devotion to her father.

One evening, a few days before the date I had
fixed upon for leaving Valencia, and about a
fortnight after Hayward had left, I was sitting alone,
smoking, when some one on horseback came
clattering up to my door, and stopped.
Presently Juan entered with a letter. With some
difficulty I made out that Hayward was very ill,
and that Don Pedro Raynal, at whose house he
was stopping, earnestly begged me to come over
at once and see him. I immediately ordered my
horse, and set out on the twelve miles' ride to
Don Pedro's house. My surprise was great,
when, on reaching the villa (which we did about
midnight), I discovered by the light which was
brought to show me up the steps, that my
companion was the very same old Creole who had
been so rudely dismounted by Hayward, and who
turned out to be one of Don Pedro's servants.

"I hope the Señor Inglis is better?" said I,
as I sprang up the steps.

Don Pedro shook his head. "You have arrived
too late: he is dead."

"Good Heavens!" I exclaimed, "is it
possible? What was his illness?"

"He died, señor, of yellow fever."

After writing to Hayward's friends to tell them
of the melancholy termination of his visit to
Valencia, I went to sleep, but passed an unquiet
night, disturbed by horrid dreams, and was right
glad when morning broke and allowed of my
return to the city. Two days afterwards I left
Valencia, having seen the beautiful Erminia only
once more, and then but for a few minutes.

I have since heard, with but little surprise,
that her aunt's wish has been gratified, and that
she has entered a convent.

WARLOCK WOODS.

THE oaks are doom'd in pleasant Warlock Woods,
   Soon they'll come crashing through the hazel copse,
Already rocking like poor wind-toss'd ships,
   I see their reeling spars and wavering tops.
Shipwreck'd, indeed! The old estate is gone,
  The knights have yielded to King Mammon's lords,
Rent is the brave escutcheon, sable—gules,
   Shiver'd at last are the Crusaders' swords.