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without moving. When Matilda's senses were a little restored she looked up, she exclaimed, "My mother! O, have I a mother?" That word recalled the Countess to sense and feeling; she clasped her in her arms, "Blessed! blessed sound! (she cried) my child, my dearest daughter! heaven be thanked." She dropped on her knees and lifted her hands and eyes to heaven, then again embraced her child, whose soft and tender emotions were too powerful to admit of speech, nor is it possible to describe the tumultuous joy of both for many minutes. The unhappy widow, the childless parent, dead to every hope of comfort, to embrace a child, adorned with every grace, to feel those delightful sensations to which her breast had been a stranger, and which mothers only can conceive,—a blessing so great, so unexpected, no language can describe. What then must be the feelings of Matilda, after suffering such a variety of sorrows, to find herself in the arms of a parent? O, sweet and undefinable emotions! when reciprocal between a mo-