my men have just measured the body, sir; the shell will be here to-night, sir, the leaden coffin the day after, and the outer coffins

"Stop, sir-Mr Hillary is premature. He has quite mistaken my wishes, sir. I act as the executor of Mr Elliott, and Mr Hillary has no concern whatever with the burial of these remains."

He bowed with an air of mingled astonishment and mortification.

"It is my wish, and intention, sir," said I, "that this unfortunate gentleman might be buried in the simplest and most private manner possible”

"Oh, sir! but Mr Hillary's orders to me were-pardon me, sir, so very liberal, to do the thing in a gentlemanlike way

"I tell you again, sir, that Mr Hillary has nothing whatever to do with the matter, nor shall I admit of his interference. If you choose to obey my orders-you will procure a plain deal coffin, a hearse and pair, and one mourning coach, and provide a grave in churchyard-nay, open Mr Hillary's vault and bury there, if he will permit it—I care not."

"I really think, sir, you'd better employ a person in the small line," said he, casting a grim look at his two attendants-"I'ın not accustomed "

"You may retire then, sir, at once,” said I; and with a lofty bow the great undertaker withdrew. No!-despised, persecuted, and forsaken had poor Elliott been in his life; there should be, I resolved, no splendid mockery—no fashionable foolery, about his burial! I chose for him not the vault of Mr Hillary, but a grave in the humble churchyard of - where the poor suicide might slumber in "penitential loneliness!"

He was buried as I wished- —no one attending the funeral but myself, the proprietor of the house in which he had lived at the period of his death, and one of his early and humble acquaintance, who had been present at his marriage. I had wished to carry with us as chief mourner, little Elliott-by way of fulfilling, as far as possible, the touching injunctions left by his father.

-but my wife dissuaded me from it.

"Well, poor Elliott,"

said I, as I took my last look into his grave

'After life's fitful fever he sleeps well!

Heaven forgive the rash act which brought his days to an untimely close, and him whose cruelty and wickedness occasioned it!"

I shall not bring the reader again into the guilty and gloomy presence of Mr Hillary. His hard heart was indeed broken by the blow that poor Elliott had so recklessly struck, and whose mournful prophecy was in this respect fulfilled. Providence decreed that the declining days of the inexorable and unnatural parent should be clouded with a wretchedness that admitted of neither intermission nor alleviation, equally destitute as he was of consolation from the past, and hope from the future!

And his daughter! Oh, disturb not the veil that has fallen over the broken-hearted!

Never again did the high and noble spirit of Mary Elliott lift itself up; for her heart lay buried in her young husband's grave the grave dug for him by the eager and cruel hands of her father. In vain did those hands thenceforth lavishly scatter about her all the splendours and luxuries of unbounded wealth; they could never divert her cold undazzled eye from the mournful image of him whose death had purchased them; and what could she see ever beside her, in her too late repentant father, but his murderer!

THE LAST CHAPTER.

THE DESTROYER.

FAIR and innocent readers! how many, many thousands of you will read this narrative with beating and indignant hearts! Shrink not from its sad-its faithful details; consider them, if it be not presumptuously spoken, in somewhat of that spirit in

which you ponder the mournful history of Eve and Eden-of her, our first mother, who, weakly listening to the serpent tempter, was ignominiously thrust out of her bright abode, degraded from her blessed estate, and entailed innumerable ills upon her hapless progeny!

With kindly and fervent feeling, my conscience bearing testimony to the purity of my intentions, have I drawn up, and now thus commend to you to readers indeed of both sexes, and of all classes of society, but those especially who move amidst the scenes from which its incidents have been taken-this narrative, the last Passage from the Diary of a late Physician: of him who, having been long acquainted with you, now bids you farewell; and could his eye detect among you one whose trembling foot was uplifted to deviate from the path of honour and of virtue, he would whisper, amidst his reluctant adieus— BEWARE!

Mrs St Helen, a young, a fond, and beautiful mother, having, one morning in June 18-, observed a faint flush on the forehead of her infant son-her first-born and only child, and ascertained from the nursery-maid that he had been rather restless during the night, persuaded herself and her husband that matters were serious enough to require immediate medical assistance from London. The worthy Colonel, therefore, ordered his phaeton to be at the door by ten o'clock; and, having been scarcely allowed by his anxious wife to swallow a cup of coffee and finish his egg, presently jumped into his vehicle and dashed off almost as rapidly as Mrs St Helen, who remained standing on the steps, could have wished. Though the distance was nearly nine miles, he reached my house by a little after eleven, and was at once shown into my room, where I was arranging my list of daily visits. It seemed clear, from this hurried statement, that his little son and heir was about to encounter the perils of scarlet fever or measles, at the very least; and such were his importunities, that though I had several special engagements for the early part of the day, I was induced, at his suggestion, to put two hacks to my carriage, and drive down to Densleigh Grange, accompanied by

the colonel, who ordered his servant to remain in town till the horses had been rested.

This was the first time that my professional services had been required in Colonel St Helen's family-in fact, I had never been at Densleigh, though, previous to their marriage, I had been rather intimately acquainted with Mrs St Helen. We had never once met even since the day of her marraige, three years ago. When I last saw her-upon that happy occasion-I thought her certainly one of the loveliest young women the eye could look upon. I really believe that her person and manners were the most fascinating I ever witnessed. When I first saw her she was only seventeen, and dressed in the deepest mourning; for her father, the Honourable Mr Annesley, a beneficed clergyman in the West of England, had recently died, leaving her to the care of his brother the Earl of Hetheringham, whose family I was then attending. Her mother had died about a year after giving birth to this her first and only child; and her father left nothing behind him but his daughter-and his debts. The former he bequeathed, as I have already intimated, to his brother, who accepted the charge with a very ungracious air. He was a cold, proud man-qualities, however, in which his countess excelled him-by no means rich, except in children; of whom he had three sons and five daughters, who instantly recognized in their beautiful cousin a most formidable competitor for the notice of society. And they were right. The form of her features was worthy of the rich commingled expression of sweetness, spirit, and intellect that beamed from them. What passion shone out of her dark blue eyes! Her figure, too, was well-proportioned and graceful, just budding out into womanhood. She was sitting, when I first saw her, at a little rosewood table, near the countess, in her boudoir—one hand hung down with a pen in it, while the other supported her forehead, from which her fingers were pressing aside her auburn hair-evidently in a musing mood, which my sudden entrance through the door, already standing wide open, put an end to. "You need not go," said the countess coldly, seeing her hastily preparing to shut up her little desk-" my niece-Miss Annesley, doctor!" I knew the countess, her character and circumstances, well; this exquisite

girl, her niece, and she with five daughters to dispose of!-Miss Annesley, after slightly acknowledging my salutation, resumed her seat and pen. I could hardly keep my eyes away from her. If she looks so lovely now, in spite of this gloomy dress, thought I, what must she be when she resumes the garb of youthful gayety and elegance! Ah, countess, you may well tremble for your daughters, if this girl is to appear among them. "You see, doctor," continued the countess, in a matter of fact manner, while these thoughts glanced across my mind—" we are all thrown into sables through the death of the earl's brother, Mr Annesley."

"Indeed!" I interrupted, with a look of sympathy towards her niece, who spread her hand over her eyes, while the pen that was in the other slightly quivered. “This young lady is, in fact, all my poor brother-in-law left behind him; and" (adding in a lower tone) "she now forms one of our little family!" I felt infinitely hurt at the scarce-concealed sneer with which she uttered the word "little" Poor Miss Annesley, I feared, had perceived it; for, after evidently struggling ineffectually to conceal her emotions, she rose and stepped abruptly towards the door.

"You'll find your cousins in the drawing-room, love! go and sit with them," said the countess, endeavouring to speak affectionately. "Poor thing!" she continued, as soon as Miss Annesley had closed the door, after which I fancied I heard her run rapidly up stairs-doubtless to weep alone in her own room "her father hasn't been dead more than a fortnight, and she feels it acutely!-shockingly involved, my dear doctor-over head and ears in debt! You've no idea how it annoys the earl! My niece is perfectly penniless! Literally, we were obliged to provide the poor thing with mournings! I insisted on the earl's making her one of our family;"—a great falsehood, as I subsequently discovered, for she had suggested and urged sending her abroad to a nunnery, which, however inclined to do, he dared not for appearances' sake. "She'll be a companion for my younger daughters, though she's quite countrified at present -don't you think so?"

“Pardon me, my dear countess-she struck me as extremely