from the eyes of Clerval, as he read the account of my misfortune. “I can offer you no consolation, my friend,” said he; “your disaster is irreparable. What do you intend to do?” “To go instantly to Geneva: come with me, Henry, to order the horses.” During our walk, Clerval endeavoured to say a few words of consolation; he could only express his heartfelt sympathy. “Poor William!” said he, “dear lovely child, he now sleeps with his angel mother! Who that had seen him bright and joyous in his young beauty, but must weep over his untimely loss! To die so miserably; to feel the murderer’s grasp! How much more a murdered that could destroy radiant innocence! Poor little fellow! one only consolation have we; his friends mourn and weep, but he is at rest. The pang is over, his sufferings are at an end for ever. A sod covers his gentle form, and he knows no pain. He can no longer be a subject for pity; we must reserve that for his miserable survivors.” Clerval spoke thus as we hur