Few people were ever endowed with a greater capacity of receiving pleasureable emotions than Selina Seymour, and the whole tenor of her joyful life had hitherto tended to increase this inestimable gift of nature. She had been as happy at Mrs. Sullivan's ball, as it was possible for any innocent being, without a care for the present or a regret for the past; and the pleasure of her own mind was reflected back to her tenfold in the approving smiles of her father and aunt. Her delight in the gay scene was unalloyed by envy or competition. She had never been taught to estimate her happiness by her height in the scale of admiration; for her fond relatives, thinking her always charming, and ever considering her felicity more than the gratification of their own pride, had not tortured her by preparations for exhibition; and, as long as she danced with pleasure to herself, they cared not how. The happy girl so keenly enjoyed the brilliant scene, was so grateful for the marked attention she received, that she had not time to stop to consider whether she was admired or not; and, perhaps, if this query had even occurred to her mind, the answer to it might have been a matter of indifference—sufficient was it to her felicity to know she was beloved.

But all Selina's delight would have been turned to pain the more exquisite, could one fold of the veil of futurity have been raised to show her the near approach of misery. On that night she first saw pleasure decked in her festal robe, her brow crowned with flowers, her countenance radiant with smiles, presenting her enchantments with one hand—but saw not the other beckoning to the hovering forms of disease and death, to array her in the garb of wo:—a task they too quickly performed; for alas! this scene of gaiety was but the antechamber of grief.

Selina rose next day, refreshed with a few hours sound sleep; and, animated with more than her general vivacity, was skipping down stairs with her usual velocity, when she was stopped by Mrs. Galton; and, terrified at the expression of her countenance, "Good God, aunt Mary!" exclaimed she, "what is the matter you look so pale—are you ill?" "No, my dear, no; but I am sorry to say your father is very unwell. Don't be so much alarmed, my dear child—he is better now. Where are you going?" continued she, holding Selina fast. "To see my dear papa." "You must not, Selina, Mr. Lucas is with him, endeavouring to compose him to sleep.—Come to the library, my love, and let us have breakfast." They proceeded quietly and sorrowfully; and Selina, on entering it, perceived her aunt was in the dress of the night before. "Why, my dear aunt, you have never changed your dress. Oh, that vile ball! my dear dear father has got cold. I wish we had never gone;" and here, quite overcome by the acuteness of her feelings, she burst into a paroxysm of tears. Mrs. Galton was not sorry to see her give way to her grief; but when she became a little composed, addressed her with much solemnity of manner, saying, "Selina, my dear Selina, command yourself! I require you to exert all your fortitude; you must not, in a scene like this, render yourself worse than useless. Do not selfishly give yourself up to your own feelings. Remember, my child, you may be of much comfort to your father." Selina answered but by a motion of the hand, and, retiring for a short time to a solitary apartment, threw herself on her knees, and, by a fervent supplication for support from Heaven, at last composed herself so far as to return to her aunt with a calm countenance, though still unable to speak. One expressive look told Mrs. Galton she was aware of her father's danger, and was prepared to make every proper exertion. Sir Henry had at Webberly House most imprudently accompanied his darling Selina in one of her visits to the hermitage; and, in consequence of the draughts of air and damps to which he had thereby exposed himself, was, on his return to the Hall, seized with the gout in his stomach in a most alarming manner. Mr. Lucas had been immediately sent for, and, pronouncing him in imminent danger, had requested that better advice might be procured without delay. At length the violence of the attack seemed to give way to the remedies administered; and Mr. Lucas was, as Mrs. Galton said, endeavouring to procure sleep for his patient, when she heard Selina's bell; and, taking a favourable opportunity of leaving the sick room, was proceeding to break the intelligence to her, when they met on the stairs. The ladies continued at the breakfast in perfect silence, Mrs. Galton not even addressing Selina by a look, as she well knew that a mere trifle would destroy the composure she was endeavouring to acquire. When they left the breakfast table, Mrs. Galton took Selina up stairs, to assist her in changing her dress, as she feared to leave her alone, and wished to employ her in those little offices of attentive kindness, which, by their very minuteness, disturb the mind from meditating on any new-born grief, though they only irritate the feelings, when sorrow has arrived at maturity. Mrs. Galton's watchful eye soon discovered Dr. Norton's carriage at the lower end of the avenue; and that Selina might be out of the way on his entrance, sent her to walk in the garden, promising to call her the moment she could be admitted to see her father. When Dr. Norton arrived, he immediately repaired to Sir Henry's apartment; and, on hearing it, gave a sad confirmation of Mr. Lucas's opinion, expressing his fears, that though his patient was tolerably easy at that moment, violent attacks of the complaint might be expected; and if they should not prove fatal, the weakness consequent on them most probably would. Mrs. Galton entreated he would remain at Deane Hall till Sir Henry's fate was decided, which request he, without hesitation, complied with.

Had Dr. Norton conveyed his intelligence to Selina herself, it could scarcely have afflicted her more deeply than it did Mrs. Galton. Her regard for Sir Henry was great, and not less lively was her gratitude for the constant kindness he had for a long course of years shown her; so that had not another being on earth been interested in his life, she would, in her own feelings, have found sufficient cause for sorrow. But when she anticipated Selina's grief, should the fears of the physician be realized, her own misery was tenfold aggravated by her commiseration for the beloved child of her heart—the dearest solace of her existence!

These reflections even increased the usual fondness of Mrs. Galton's manner to Selina, when, on her return from the garden, she answered the anxious child's inquiries for her father. She had a hard task to fulfil—fearful of telling her too much or too little. To avoid any direct reply, she informed her she might now go to Sir Henry's room, and Selina, without a moment's delay, was at his bed-side. The poor old man, anxious, if possible, to postpone the misery of his child, assured her he was now easy, and desired her to tell him all she thought of the night before. The innocent girl, on hearing this request, flattered herself with all the delusion of hope, that her aunt's fears had exaggerated the danger; and, elated by the idea that her father's complaint had subsided, talked with much of her usual vivacity, which increased as she perceived her lively ingenuous remarks cheered the sick man's face with many smiles.—Little was she aware, they were the last her own would ever brighten on beholding.

An express, without delay, was dispatched to Mordaunt, requesting his immediate presence at Deane Hall. When Selina heard of her father's anxiety for his arrival, her spirits again sunk, and she reflected in an agony of sorrow, that "Yesterday she could not have supposed it possible the idea of seeing Augustus could have been a severe affliction to her." The night of that sad day Selina requested she might pass in attendance on her father. Her aunt, fearful of what the morrow might bring forth, gratified her desire. Dreadful were the reflections that night gave rise to, as she contrasted the awful stillness of Sir Henry's chamber with the noisy gaiety of the one, in which she had spent the night before.

Two or three days of dreadful suspense thus passed over Selina's head: whenever she was permitted she was at her father's bed-side, passing in an instant from the utmost alarm to hope. But though she saw despair expressed in every face, her mind still rejected it. She could not bring herself to believe her beloved father was indeed to die!

Those who most fervently love most ardently hope, and building their faith on the most trifling circumstances, cling to it with a force none less deeply interested can imagine. It is well they do. Their fond hopes make them use exertions, and bestow comforts, they would be otherwise incapable of. And thus affection is enabled to cheer the bed of death to the last moment.

And as for the survivors! no anticipation can prepare them for the overwhelming despair of the moment in which they lose what they most prize on earth!

Grief, rising supreme in this her hour of triumph, will have her dominion uncontrolled, and defies alike the past and the future,—even religion must be aided by time to subdue her giant force.

On the evening of the third day of Sir Henry's illness Augustus Mordaunt arrived at Deane Hall; the domestics flocked around him, each conveying to his agonized ear more dismal tidings,—he spent a dreadful half hour alone in the library, without seeing either Selina or Mrs. Galton, as Mr. Temple was at that time administering the sacred rites of the church to Sir Henry, whilst they joined in prayer in the antechamber. When Sir Henry had finished his devotions, he asked for Selina, and his voice brought her in a moment to his bed-side; where, kneeling down, in a half suffocated voice, she implored his blessing, which never father gave more fervently, nor amiable child received more piously.

"Selina! you have always been a good child, and obeyed me; when I am gone, mind what Mrs. Galton says to you. If I had followed her advice, I should have been better now." The baronet spoke with much difficulty, and, exhausted with the effort, closed his eyes in a temporary lethargy. Selina answered not, but with streaming eyes kissed his hand in token of obedience. At last, raising his head from his pillow, "Where is Augustus? he is a long time coming."—at that instant footsteps were heard slowly and softly traversing the anteroom. Selina opening the door admitted Augustus: she would have retired, but her father signed her approach; and recovering his strength a little, faltered out, "Happy to see you, my dear boy—I have been a father to you, Augustus, be a brother to this poor girl."

Augustus poured forth his feelings with more fervency than prudence, and was stopped in the expression of them by Selina, who perceived her father was quite exhausted: he once more opened his eyes, saying, "I die content;" he struggled for utterance, but his words were unintelligible, and he could only articulate, "Go away,—Send Mrs. Galton." Augustus flew to bring her, whilst Selina hung in distraction over her dying parent: as they entered the room, her exclamation of "Oh! my father, my dear father!" gave them warning, that all was over; and when they approached the bed, parent and child were lying side by side, the one apparently as lifeless as the other.

Augustus, in his first distraction, thought he had lost Selina as well as his beloved and revered friend, but being recalled to his senses by Mrs. Galton, assisted her in removing Selina to another room. At length their exertions revived Selina to a dreadful consciousness of her misfortune—how agonizing was that moment, when, in her frantic grief, she upbraided their kind care, and wished they had left her to die by her father's side! "I have no parent now." "Dearest child of my heart, have I not ever been a mother to you, and will you refuse to be still my daughter when I stand so much in need of consolation?" Selina threw herself into her aunt's arms, and gave vent, in tears, to the sorrow of her bursting heart; at length she cried herself to sleep, like a child, and her aunt remained at her side all night, ready to soften the horrors of her waking moments.

Selina, next day, being comparatively calm, was wisely left in perfect solitude to disburthen her heart: her grief was not insulted by officious condolence, too often resembling reproof rather than comfort. The aspect of grief is obnoxious to the comparatively happy, and they often use but unskilful endeavours to banish her from their sight, more for their own ease, than for the relief of the unfortunate beings who are bound down to the earth by her oppressive power. Those who have felt it, will with caution obtrude themselves on her sacred privacy, and will know when to be mute in the presence of the mourner.

But where shall the reign of selfishness end?—Her votaries intermeddle with sorrows they cannot cure, and absent themselves from scenes where they might bestow comfort: they are to be found in the chamber of the mourner, but fly from the bed of death, which their presence might cheer, leaving an expiring relative to look in vain for a loved face, on which to rest the agonized eye. The friends of the dying do not fulfil their duty, if they desert the expiring sufferer whilst a spark of life remains. For who can say the moment when sense begins to cease? Though the eye is closed, and the tongue mute, the grateful heart may yet be thankfully alive to the kind voice of affectionate care, or the last silent pressure of unutterable love!

Scenes of pain may be appalling to the delicate female. But should a wife, mother, daughter, or sister, shrink from any task, which may be useful to the object in which her duty and her love are centred? This is the courage, this the fortitude, it becomes woman to exert!