 the Superior of the convent of St. Celestine, at Hieres, as a relation of her own.
The coincidence of this story, with what I had heard before relative to Madame Pellatier, struck me with more force

than any thing I had yet learned. I left the house of Lord Castlenorth more miserable than I had ever been before, and again set out for Provence, hardly knowing why, and not caring at all what became of me.
Ever since that period, Celestina, I have been wandering from place to place in search of information which I cannot obtain, and, which obtained, would certainly render me wretched, if indeed any wretchedness can be greater than that which in my present state of miserable uncertainty it is my lot to suffer.
Are we then, Celestina, are we related by blood? and is there an invincible bar between us? Was my mother, that admirable, that excellent, and almost faultless woman, capable of living in a state of continual dissimulation as to you, and of hiding one fault by another, which might have been followed by consequences so hideous to my imagination? Oh! Celestina, it seems sacrilege

to her memory to think it: yet her aversion to my expressions of tenderness towards you, her conduct in a hundred instances I can recollect, her strong injunctions, the promise she extorted from me to marry Miss Fitz-Hayman—a promise urged with such vehemence, even in her last moments! Could the poor consideration of pecuniary advantage influence her then? did it ever influence her? And the repetition of your name with her last breath, mingled with words that might be a prayer for you, but which I have since thought was possibly the fatal secret which she determined to divulge only in death. The sad recollection of that scene, her countenance, which I continually behold, her voice, which murmurs still in my ears, all, all contribute to empoison every moment of my life, and to make that tender affection, that ardent love, which was once the joy of my existence and the

pride of my heart, the severest curse with which heaven can pursue me.
Yes, Celestina, unless I dared indulge that fondness with which my heart overflows, I would I could forget you for ever, and determine never to see you more, for I despair of ever seeing you as I—Pardon me, I am lost in the confusion of sensations I cannot describe; and at this moment I hope so miserable a being does not exist on this earth. Write to me, Celestina: you have more strength of mind than I have;
