That day which had nineteen times been passed at Ballinamoyle in solemn sadness, as the anniversary of the death of its lovely heiress, arrived once again—and was again marked by those outward signs of woe, which gratified the feelings of a disconsolate father, as a tribute of respect to the memory of her, who still in the freshest youth lived in his heart.

No stranger on that day approached the desolate mansion, to partake of its hospitality, or receive its charity. The domestics, habited in deep mourning, flitted about the halls and passages in total silence; every countenance was impressed by a dejection, that affected the most thoughtless with unusual seriousness—even Mrs. O'Sullivan's servants spoke in a whisper.

When the visitors assembled in the breakfast-room, neither their host nor the priest appeared; and Theresa informed her guests, that the former always passed this day in solitude. The same depression which pervaded the rest of the house, seemed to exert its saturnine influence in this apartment also. Mrs. O'Sullivan and her son were both too much irritated, and each too completely engrossed in forming plans to circumvent the intentions of the other, to offer a single word of conversation. Adelaide and Miss Fitzcarril were occupied by a train of distressing reflections, little aware, that they were caused in the mind of each by the same event. The Miss Webberlys only interrupted the general silence, by occasionally indulging in that pettish crossness, which the sight of unparticipated sorrow always produces in weak and selfish minds, whilst their fretful words and looks terrified the timid little Caroline.

In the mean time Mr. O'Sullivan, after assisting in that service, by which the Catholic Church permits the living relative, with fond anxiety, to extend its cares beyond the grave, retired with the reverend priest to his own apartment.

"Oh, my friend," said the afflicted parent, "you received my child into the bosom of our holy church; you heard her first innocent confession, you sanctified her fatal marriage vows, and how soon after did you offer up the prayers of my broken heart for the repose of her departed soul!"

"She was almost as much the child of my affections as of yours," replied the priest, greatly moved: "and how graciously did Heaven reward my endeavours to form her mind to the practice of every virtue! Never did a purer spirit inhabit a human form! Let us rejoice in this," continued he, his countenance beaming with the cheering hopes of devotion; "we have both hitherto offended by a grief that 'would not be comforted.' Shall we, standing on the brink of the grave, still presume to murmur? Let me exhort you to break through the accustomed indulgence of unavailing sorrow, that would vainly strive against the will of Heaven: you have always shunned consolation, seek it humbly and sincerely, and it will be sent from above!"

The old man sighed deeply, and made that devotional sign which marks the pious Catholic. His eyes were cast upwards, and his lips moved as if in prayer. Whilst the creature addressed his Creator, the holy minister of religion paused in reverential silence; but when the spontaneous supplication had ceased, he again addressed his friend. "I would fain impose a trial on you—a bitter one I confess; but could you accomplish it, you would hereafter feel as becomes a mortal sufferer. The solitude, the lugubrious forms of this day, nourish the grief it behoves you to struggle against. The presence of strangers is a fortunate circumstance, and will afford you an assistance your own domestic circle is incapable of. Return to society; receive your guests as if this were to-morrow and to-morrow will rise with a feeling of satisfaction, to which you have long been a stranger."

Though O'Sullivan afterwards pondered on these words till he almost believed them to have been an inspiration from Heaven, he at the moment vehemently asserted the impossibility of his making such an exertion. A considerable time elapsed, before the remonstrances of Father Dermoody could overcome his reluctance to wrestle with "this cherished woe, this loved despair;" but at last the advice of the friend, the admonitions of the pastor, prevailed; and Mr. O'Sullivan, accompanied by his reverend guide, appeared amongst his visitors, who were still assembled in the breakfast-room. On entering, he bowed profoundly to all, then seated himself in silence, with a mournful sternness that repelled every body from addressing him, farther than to manifest that respect, which was always involuntarily testified towards him. Miss Fitzcarril could scarcely have been more surprised, had she seen the apparition of Rose herself, than she was by the sight of her father on this morning; lifting up her hands and eyes, she whispered her astonishment to Father Dermoody, who requested her to abstain from exhibiting any further token of it. Some of the party continued their occupations, some their idleness, but no one spoke; and all, from time to time, anxiously looked towards the windows, to judge from the increasing gloom of the sky, how near the tempest it foreboded approached.

The aspect of nature was at that moment as dreary as O'Sullivan's heart. That stillness, which sometimes precedes the coming storm, reigned unbroken. Clouds of portentous blackness were slowly congregating, to dart the forked lightning; but not a leaf moved, not a bird flitted in the motionless air; and as the dark veil hung over the lake, its dormant waters gave but the idea of fearful profundity. The silence of night is awful, yet the soul confesses it the repose of nature; but when this dread torpor appals the joyous day, every animate and inanimate object seems fearfully resigned to await her dissolution. While the ear paused in expectation of the hollow thunder, and the eye half closed as it anticipated the vivid flash, a wild cry arose—"Good God! what's that?" was the general exclamation. It was the wail, with which the children of this mountain region deplored their dead. No softening gale lent it beauty; the winds that were wont to sport with the accents of human woe, wafting them to the mountain's rugged brow, or saddening the smiling valley at its foot, now slumbered in the slowly rolling clouds. Horrible and harsh the lamenting voice of hundreds smote the ear. Once it was reverberated from rocks as lifeless as the being it bemoaned, whilst the mourners and their sad burden were hidden from the view.

O'Sullivan started, and his eyes rested on the figure of Adelaide. As she had compassionately viewed his sorrowful countenance, memory had too faithfully depicted to her mind the anguish, which had always marked this eventful day to her father. The sudden doleful lamentation had completely overcome her spirits, and with her hands clasped in agony, torrents of tears were streaming down her cheeks, whilst, as the chilled blood recoiled to her heart, her dark hair threw a melancholy shade on her palid face. The impulse of humanity overcame the silence of sorrow; O'Sullivan instantly seized her hand, and as her eyes mournfully met his, exclaimed, "Desmond has told me all; you grieve for your father, I for my child. A desolate old man like me has little comfort to offer. But for her sake, whose living image you are, in my heart's core could I hide you from all trouble." Adelaide, leaning her head on his shoulder, sobbed aloud.

Mrs. O'Sullivan, inflamed by anger at her son, and by jealousy of the tenderness expressed in her brother-in-law's countenance for the lovely mourner, whose confiding attitudes seemed to repose her affliction on his solacing compassion, now whispered to Amelia, "This is too bad; that artful baggage has got him under her thumb too;—mayhap he may devize his fortin to her instead of Caroline, after all—I'll tell him what she is." So saying, passion accelerating her utterance and crimsoning her face, she addressed Mr. O'Sullivan with, "Sir, sir, that Miss that's putting a sham upon you is a wagabond; and if she doesn't look to her ways, I'll have her sent home by the alien act, as Meely bids me. She tells up about English relations; but in two years she's lived with me, she wouldn't never tell me who they were: she's an imposter, and vill make a cat's paw of you, as she did of your brother, and——" "Gad zooks, mother" interrupted Webberly, "what odds is it who's her relations; when she marries, her husband's family is all she has to look to." "Jacky! Jacky! you'll never come to no good—you're an undutiful son! I'll get her packed off to Germany as sure as——" "What's all this, madam?" said Mr. O'Sullivan, with a look of contemptuous displeasure, that produced instant silence: "I will stand in the place of my brother to this young lady, if she will honour me by committing herself to my protection. Your threats against the unoffending ward of your husband are shameful." "Sir," said Adelaide, commanding herself to composure, "the gratitude I feel is inexpressible! But on this day there is no impediment, to prevent my satisfying Mrs. O'Sullivan's desire to know my parentage; of this she is well aware. My father, madam," continued she, with grave steadiness, "Reginald Baron Wildenheim, was the youngest brother of the present Earl of Osselstone. Soon after my birth, he renounced his family name of Mordaunt, and adopted his German title." O'Sullivan essayed to speak in vain; his lip quivered, but no sound met the ear of man; and his half palsied hand trembled as it passed a sign of deepest import to the priest, who darting forward, exclaimed, "Your mother's name, young lady—speak, did she die at Hamburgh?" "Alas! yes, on the day I was born; her name was one which, honoured and lamented here, I trembled to pronounce—it was Rose!" The old man uttered an hysterical laugh, and clasping her in his arms, faltered out, "Her child then was saved!" "Produce your proofs!" exclaimed the priest; "by every sacred name I conjure you, produce your proofs!" Mrs. O'Sullivan, raging with passion, vociferated, "She is an impostor; an artful minx, come to cheat Caroline." The Miss Webberlys screamed in Adelaide's ear, "Produce your proofs if you dare!" Their brother, with equal fury, interfered on her behalf. Little Caroline clung crying to her knees, "They shan't hurt you, dear Adele, they shan't hurt you!" Whilst Theresa, with terror in her looks, went from one to the other, saying, "For God's sake have done; leave the room if you can't be quiet; Mr. O'Sullivan will never get over such a piece of work on this day, of all days in the year!" But Adelaide was unconscious of all; she had taken her grandfather's agitated laugh, his unintelligible words, for a wandering of reason, on hearing a name resembling his daughter's unexpectedly mentioned; and, horror-struck, had sunk lifeless in his arms. When he saw the paleness of death in her cold cheek and blanched lip, stamping on the floor, he exclaimed, "You have killed her! Unfeeling wretches, you have killed her!" Father Dermoody and Theresa hastily stepped forward to offer that assistance he was incapable of bestowing, and immediately removed her to a neighbouring apartment, excluding every body else.

It was long ere Adelaide revived. When consciousness returned, she found herself in a strange apartment. The gloom almost of midnight was around; the storm had burst, and was raging with awful fury; the thunder rolled tremendously above her head, and a vivid flash of lightning illuminated the countenance of one kneeling at her side, on which she saw despair—the despair of venerable age, depicted. With an involuntary shudder she averted her head, and raised both her hands, as if to save her from the terrific vision. "Father of mercy!" exclaimed O'Sullivan, "I lost my child, and lived—lived but to see hers shun me." "Oh, my God!" ejaculated the agonized girl, "have mercy on him!—poor old man! poor old man!" and she burst into a paroxysm of tears. When she recovered a little from the racking emotions which tortured her, she mournfully took his hand, and said, "I do not shun you; God knows to console yours would be a delightful solace to my own afflictions. But I implore you to pause before you cherish these delusive ideas; a few minutes will suffice to convince you of the fatal error you have fallen into." She then, in a whisper, entreated Miss Fitzcarril to procure her portfolio, as she feared to irritate Mr. O'Sullivan's mind, by leaving him herself. Theresa fulfilled her request, and then with true delicacy retired.

Adelaide eagerly tore open the important packet, and the first paper that presented itself was one directed to Mr. O'Sullivan, which, with inconceivable trepidation, she presented to him; but at the sight of the writing he dashed it from him with looks of fury—"Never will I read another from that detested hand, that last blasted my every hope of earthly happiness!" The priest seizing the letter, hurried him out of the room. "Unfortunate man!" exclaimed Adelaide; "Oh, why did I mention his daughter's name, after the warning I received from Colonel Desmond?" In an agony of mind not to be described, she attempted to read a letter addressed by her father to herself; but when it informed her of such of the particulars of his life as were necessary to explain her relationship to her present venerable protector, she was so bewildered, that she half despairingly pressed the letter to her heart, and silently implored a supporting power from above. When she had again composed her mind sufficiently to comprehend its contents, she was so stunned with surprise, that she had scarcely power to feel how happy she ought to be, as she repeated, "My grandfather! can it indeed be possible?" But she was roused to a painful sense of anxiety and acute perception of sorrow, when she came to the following paragraph, "Let it be your consolation, my beloved child, that all the happiness I have known since your angelic mother's death, has been your boon. Heaven permitted her to leave you to me, as a gift of love, as a pledge of its mercy. I bequeath that filial piety, which has been the solace of my existence, to her father, as a reparation for the loss of his daughter. For my sake he may be harsh to you, perhaps refuse to receive you; but pardon him, and, if he will permit you, soothe the sorrows of his old age; he has much to forgive your erring father." With indignation she now recollected how his letter had been received, and every softer feeling, every selfish consideration, was swallowed up in offended filial affection, as she thought, "Never will I accept of kindness from one, who could spurn me from resentment to my adored father!"

At that moment she heard O'Sullivan's step. Oh, who shall tell the tide of tumultuous thoughts that overwhelmed her soul, as his hand tremulously turned the lock of the door? 'twas but an instant—but how much of misery cannot the human heart suffer in this short earthly denomination of time!

He entered; and, as he approached, her heart seemed to die within her. At first she could not move, but gazed almost unconsciously on his face, and seeing there the mildness of grief, the benevolence of pity, the warmth of paternal love, she knelt at his feet in speechless emotion, whilst her looks, her attitude, implored his benediction. "Oh, may the God of mercy bestow those blessings on you, that were denied your mother!" He pressed her in his arms, and wept as he said, "My child, my beloved child, I have not lived these years of misery in vain! Bless you, bless you!" And now "joy and sorrow strove which should paint her goodliest. You have seen sunshine and rain at once—her smiles and tears were like a better May—those happy smiles, which played on her ripe lip, seemed not to know what guests were in her eyes, which parted thence as pearls from diamonds dropp'd."

When the thunder rolled and the lightning flashed, the anxious parent looked at his loved treasure, first fearfully, and then a happy smile seemed to say, "Thank God, here at least she is safe from every storm!" with that a closer embrace pressed her to his heart. "My father!" were the first words she attempted to articulate. "Adelaide," interrupted the old man, "whatever may have been his errors, you will, on reading that letter, easily believe I no longer resent them. I erred deeply, sinfully, in not receiving the prodigal son when he first implored my forgiveness; but passion blinded me, and I have been severely punished. I knew him not then! Oh! did he live now, my heart would warmly open to him." Adelaide was nearly suffocated with her sobs. O'Sullivan supported her to the window for air: for the elemental strife was now over, and the rushing torrents had ceased to fall. The rippling waters of the lake laughed in the beams of the sun, and softly rolled on their verdant banks. Every bough waved in the wanton air, and from bush and brake innumerable birds poured forth joyful melody. The cottage cur once more barked at the stranger, and the peaceful herds again grazed the green islets. Adelaide felt the composing power of the scene, and, drying her tears, read the letter she had received.

To Cornelius O'sullivan, Esquire.

The misery I feel at this moment is not less, than that which rent my heart when last I addressed you. Time has but made the remembrance of my beloved Rose dearer, more afflicting to my soul; and her child, who for nineteen years has been my only earthly happiness, I now resign, as the sole reparation I can make, to Heaven and to you, for the errors of that guilty course, which have not been expiated by years of misery and penitence. I once again implore your forgiveness for all the sufferings I have occasioned you. Oh, my God! what a wreck of happiness I have made for myself and others! I have been a misfortune to all connected with me. What a stab must I not give to my daughter's heart, when I tell her we part to meet no more! What tears of bitter anguish will she not shed, when she hears the recital of those misdeeds, so degrading to the memory of the father, whom she fondly thinks the first of human beings! Yet the misery of her mind on hearing my errors would be felicity compared to the anguish mine has endured, when, for her sake, I have undergone the martyrdom of her praises. My lovely child!—Had you seen the happy smiles, the endearing caresses, with which she bid me good night, but a few minutes ago, and known the despair of my soul, as I thought, never shall I behold that unclouded smile again; but once more hear those words, you would say, the forfeit of his guilt is paid; and lament for the unfortunate being you have hitherto cursed. By every sacred name, by the memory of her sainted mother, by the agonies of a wretched father, I conjure you, protect, cherish, and console my child. All that a parent's heart could wish, all that the daughter of Rose should be, she is—and we part for ever. I shall not survive to have my miserable days cheered by the affection, with which I know you will treat the inheritor of the virtues of your beloved Rose, but my last moments will be brightened by the joyous hope——

"Enclosed you will find papers written at a calmer moment, for the benefit of Adelaide—pardon him you once called son. As you value your eternal hopes, I charge you to be kind to my child. She has never offended you; her mother's form is renewed in hers; her mother's virtues perpetuated in her mind. Say not that Rose exists no more—in Adelaide she is again restored to your arms."

Adelaide had wept, when there was something of consolation, of tenderness, in her emotions. But now her anguish admitted not of tears; the universe presented but one idea to her mind—the agony of her father's soul when his hand traced the words her eyes rested on. O'Sullivan addressed her in accents of the tenderest affection; she answered him but by that bitter smile, with which misery sometimes loves to make her devoted victims confess her empire. He was alarmed by her fixed looks, and said, "Rouse yourself, Adelaide; I will leave you to compose your agitated feelings, but not in solitude: come with me to the companion of many a sad moment." He opened an inner door, and grasping her hand with convulsive earnestness, said, "There is your mother's portrait; and at the foot of that altar she daily poured forth her grateful thanksgivings. There the supplications of her father daily ascend to the throne of grace." He hurried away, and Adelaide long and fervently prayed in a spot so hallowed. Her tears again flowed, as she turned to gaze on the resemblance of that form, which had never blessed her conscious sight, and mournfully exclaimed, "Both, both lost to me!"

Rose had been drawn as Astarte inscribing her lover's name on the sand. The dejected expression of her heavenly countenance sadly contrasted the brilliant beauty of her youthful charms. Was it the melancholy of Astarte the painter's art depicted? or had the fair being, whose form he traced, been already struck by the hand of sorrow? O'Sullivan's grief was daily renewed as his heart whispered, "Not thus my child looked under this roof.—So soon was all her innocent gaiety gone?"

Adelaide was so absorbed by the ideas which rose in her mind, that she did not perceive the entrance of nurse, who came to perform her diurnal task of dressing the altar, and who standing behind her, now said, "That's the picture, dear, that Mr. Mordaunt sent his honour from London, six months after Miss Rose married him—an unlucky day that same! And a black-hearted false man he was, to leave my sweet angel, and run away wid another woman." Fire flashed from Adelaide's eye; the indignation which deprived her of utterance was expressed in her whole figure. Nurse awed, and as it were fascinated, by a look from which she could not withdraw her gaze, stared at her for a second or two, and then evidently terrified, exclaimed, "The blessed powers presarve me!—Who are you?—What are you? You're the very moral of Miss Rose! What brings you in her room this day of the year? No mortal has ever darkened the door since she died but myself and his honour. You're like enough to be her fetch, come in the storm to take him away from us. I pray God I may die first," continued she, weeping bitterly: "my heart was broke when I lost my sweet child. I trust in his mercy I haven't lived on these weary years, to drag my ould bones to his grave!"

"Dear, dear nurse," said Adelaide, kissing her affectionately, smiles and tears struggling for mastery in her eyes, "I'm not come to take him away from you, but to make you both happy—I'm your own Rose's daughter." The old woman set up a shout of joy, and kissed her, and hugged her, and drew back to a little distance, resting her hands on Adelaide's shoulders to look at her from time to time, saying, "The very moral of her! the very moral of her! Her daughter! You wouldn't be so mischievous as to make an ould body crazy? It's not joking you are, jewel?"