At a private asylum in the west of England there lives, and has lived for some years past, an unfortunate lady, as to whom there has long since ceased to be any hope that she should ever live elsewhere.

Indeed, there is no one left belonging to her by whom the indulgence of such a hope on her behalf could be cherished.

Friends she has none; and her own condition is such, that she recks nothing of confinement and does not even sigh for release.

And yet her mind is ever at work,--as is doubtless always the case with the insane.

She has present to her, apparently in every waking moment of her existence, an object of intense interest, and at that she works with a constancy which never wearies herself, however fatiguing it may be to those who are near her.