exclaiming, "Yer adopted daughter, Mr. Lindsay! I'm glod I'm sae weelcome!" . . . . Babie Douglas! . CHAPTER XLIX. “Is there, in human form that bears a heart, Points to the parents, fondling o'er their child? Then paints the ruined maid, and their distraction wild!" The Cotter's Saturday Night. And where was Annie Annie, with her young heart full of its unhappy love, her Hebe beauty, which even passion had scarcely power to canker or to dim; so redundant were the health and bloom of the wild Scotch lassie, her warm, untutored fancy, and her love-taught cunning? Annie was now, by her own earnest request, among a kind, a wily, and designing set. It was De Villeneuve who had suggested to her, during their lonely conferences at the Covent Garden Hotel, that if she wished to see him alone when her family were settled in Switzerland, she had better contrive to be left for her education at the convent he named in the neighbourhood of Cologne. With Love's omnipotence, Annie had conquered all obstacles and effected this. Here she corresponded with this dangerous man; here, in the poetical solitude of a Roman Catholic Convent, love grew into idolatry. Those about her, with their own views to answer, fathomed her secret, and turned it to their own accounts. Their object was a proselyte . . . and with them, the end sanctified the means. It was nothing to the Lady Abbess, the friars or the nuns, that a solemn promise had been given not to interfere in any way with the religious opinions or practices of the young Scotch girl; they really considered that a higher duty than that to their neighbour namely, that to their God-called upon them to call back this poor lamb into the true fold, this lost child to the breast of the true mother Church. Let this be a lesson to those rash and mistaken parents, who are beguiled by specious promises (never even meant to be kept), or if kept to the ear, to be broken to the sense, to place their young and impressionable daugh ters in the very circle of the enchantress. She of Babylon has forgotten none of her witcheries; as she was of yore, so is she now; hers, all that can seduce the senses and captivate the fancy. Music lends her mighty aid to melt and to inspire; painting to realize, and affection and sympathy to win -to win what? to win the young heart to the shrine of idols, to lead the young mind from light into darkness. Oh! what are a few foreign accomplishments worth, an accent, or a grace?-that for such flippery, parents, fond parents, should risk the pearl of great price, the religion of a darling child? Yes, eloquence, and kindness, and music, and sympathy, were all brought together on poor Annie's wounded heart; and ere long the confidence which she had withheld from the fosterers and companions of her childhood, was freely given to a specious monk and a coaxing nun. No marvel, then, that her affections for those once so dear waxed fainter and fainter ; no wonder that her letters grew constrained and cold; no wonder that cunning and concealment were now her policy. At heart she was already half a Jesuit, and quite a papist. Entirely guided by a monk, who was the ruling spirit of the place, a clever, endearing, and most eloquent man, her heart, her soul, her conduct, were guided by him. About this time, De Villeneuve came to see her; he was on his way to Winterthur-they met, as he supposed, by stealth; but Annie was a Jesuit |