The Ogilvies

She, like the hazel twig,
Is straight and slender; and as brown in hue
As hazel nuts, and sweeter than their kernels.
SHAKSPEARE.

"Katharine, Katharine--where is Katharine Ogilvie?"

This call resounded from the entrance-hall of an old family mansion, in which, between the twilight and moonlight of a December evening, a group of young people were assembled.

"Where is she?--why, staying to adorn herself, of course," said a "young lady," the type par excellence of that numerous class; being pretty-faced, pretty-spoken, and pretty-mannered. "Was there ever a girl of sixteen who did not spend two hours at the least in dressing for her first evening party? I know I did."

"Very likely," muttered a rather fine-looking young man who stood at the door. "You do the same now, Bella. But Katharine is not one of your sort."

The first speaker tossed her head. "That is a doubtful compliment. Pray, Mr. Hugh Ogilvie, is it meant for your cousin Katharine, or your cousin Bella?" And Miss Isabella Worsley, shaking her multitudinous ringlets, looked up in his face with what she doubtless thought a most bewitching air of espièglerie.

But the young man was quite unmoved. He was apparently a simple soul--Mr. Hugh Ogilvie--too simple for such fascinations. "I wish some of you children would go and fetch your cousin. Uncle and aunt are quite ready; and Katharine knows her father will not endure to be kept waiting, even by herself."

"It is all your fault, cousin Hugh," interposed one of the smaller fry which composed the Christmas family-party assembled at Summerwood Park. "I saw Katharine staying to tie up the flowers you sent her. I told her how scarce they were, and how you rode over the country all this morning in search of them," continued the wicked, long-tongued little imp of a boy, causing Hugh to turn very red and walk angrily away,--and consequently winning an approving glance from the elder sister of all the juvenile brood, Isabella Worsley.

"Really, Hugh, what a blessing of a cousin you must be!" observed the latter, following him to the foot of the staircase, where he stood restlessly beating his heel upon the stone steps. "One quite envies Katharine in having you so constantly at Summerwood. Why, it is better for her than possessing half-a-dozen brothers, isn't it, now? And I dare say you find her worth a dozen of your sister Eleanor."

Hugh made no audible answer, except beginning a long low whistle--sportsman-fashion.

"I declare, he is calling for Katharine as he does for Juno--how very flattering!" cried Isabella, laughing. "Really, Hugh, this sort of behaviour does not at all match with that elegant evening costume, which, by-the-by, I have not yet sufficiently admired."

"I wish heartily I were out of it," muttered Hugh. "I had rather a great deal put on my shooting-jacket and go after wild ducks than start for this dull party at Mrs. Lancaster's. Nothing should have persuaded me to it except"--

"Except Katharine. But here she comes!"

At this moment a young girl descended the stairs. Now, whatever the poets may say, there is not a more uncomfortable and prepossessing age than "sweet sixteen." The character and manners are then usually alike unformed--the graceful frankness of childhood is lost, and the calm dignity of womanhood has not yet been gained. Katharine Ogilvie was exactly in this transition state, in both mind and person. She had outgrown the roundness of early youth; and her tall thin figure, without being positively awkward, bore a ludicrous resemblance--as the short, plump Miss Worsley often remarked--to a lettuce run to seed, or a hyacinth that will stretch out its long lanky leaves with an obstinate determination not to flower. This attenuated appearance was increased by the airy evening dress she wore:--a half-mourning frock, exhibiting her thin neck and long arms, the slenderness of which caused her otherwise well-formed hands to seem somewhat disproportioned. Her features were regular and pleasing; but her dark--almost sallow--complexion prevented their attracting the notice which their classical form deserved. The girl had, however, one beauty, which, when she did chance to lift up her long lashes--a circumstance by no means frequent--was almost startling in its effect. Katharine's eyes were magnificent; of the darkest yet most limpid hazel. Therein lay the chief expression of her face; and often when the rest of the features were in apparent repose, these strange eyes were suddenly lifted up, revealing such a world of enthusiasm, passion, and tenderness, that her whole form seemed lighted up into beauty.

"Come here, Katharine, and let us all have a look at you!" said Isabella, drawing her shrinking cousin under the light of the hall lamp. "Well, you are dressed tolerably to-night; your hair is neat and pretty enough."--It was, indeed, very lovely, of a rich purple-black hue, its silken masses being most gracefully folded round her small head. "But, Katharine, child, what makes you so pale? You ought to be delighted at going to this grand soirée; I only wish I had been invited in your stead."

"So do I, too. Indeed, Bella, it would have been much pleasanter for me to stay at home," said Katharine, in a low, timid voice, whose music was at least equal to the beauty of her eyes.

"You little simpleton to say so! But I don't believe a word."

"You may believe her or not, just as you like, Miss Bella,--nobody minds," answered Hugh, rather angrily, as he drew his young cousin's arm through his own. "Come, Katharine, don't be frightened, I'll take care of you; and we will manage to get through this formidable literary soirée together."

She clung to him with a grateful and affectionate look, which would certainly once more have roused Isabella's acrid tongue had not Mr. and Mrs. Ogilvie appeared. After them followed a light-footed graceful girl in deep mourning. She carried a warm shawl, which she wrapped closely round Katharine.

"There's a good, thoughtful little Nelly," said Hugh; while Katharine turned round with a quick impulse and kissed her. But she only said, "Good night, dear Eleanor,"--for her young heart had fluttered strangely throughout all this evening. However, there was no time to pause over doubts and trepidations, since her father and mother were already in the carriage; and thither she was herself hurried by Hugh, with an anxious care and tenderness that still further excited Isabella's envious indignation.

"It is a fine thing to be an only daughter and an heiress," thought she. "But one can easily see how the case will end. Hugh thinks, of course, that he may as well get the estate with the title; and uncle Ogilvie will be glad enough to keep both in the family, even if Hugh is not quite so rich as Crœsus. I wonder how much money old Sir James will leave him, though. Anyhow, it is a good match for a little ugly thing like Katharine. But the husband she gets will make matters even,--for Hugh Ogilvie is a commonplace, stupid boor. I would not have married him for the world."

Miss Worsley's anger had probably affected her memory, since she came to pay this visit to her maternal grandfather with the firm determination so to "play her cards" as regarded Hugh, that on her departure she might have the certainty of one day revisiting Summerwood as its future mistress.

Let us--thinking of the fearful number of her class who sully and degrade the pure ideal of womanhood--look mournfully on this girl. She had grown wise too soon; wise in the world's evil sense. With her, love had been regarded alternately as a light jest and as a sentimental pretence, at an age when she could not understand its character and ought scarcely to have heard its name; and when the time came for the full heart of womanhood to respond to the mystic, universal touch, there was no answer. The one holy feeling had been frittered away into a number of small fancies, until Isabella, now fully emerged from her boarding-school romance, believed what her mother told her, that "a girl should never fall in love till she is asked to marry, and then make the best match she can." And until this desirable event should happen--which, at five-and-twenty, seemed farther than ever from her earnest longings--Miss Worsley amused herself by carrying on passing flirtations with every agreeable young man she met.

But while Isabella's vain and worldly mind was thus judging by its own baser motives the very different nature of Katharine Ogilvie, the latter sat calmly by Hugh's side, enjoying the dreamy motion of the carriage, and not disposed to murmur at the silence of its occupants; which gave her full liberty to indulge in thought.

"It is very cold," at last observed Mrs. Ogilvie, trying to make the most original observation she could, in order to rouse her husband, who was always exceedingly cross after a doze--a circumstance which she naturally wished to prevent if possible. A "humph" answered her observation.

"Don't you think you will get colder still if you go to sleep, Mr. Ogilvie?" pursued the lady.

"Pray suffer me to decide that. It was very foolish of us to go to this party, all the way to London, on such a wintry night."

"But, my dear, you know Katharine must be brought out some time or other, and Mrs. Lancaster's soirée was such an excellent opportunity for her, since we cannot have a ball at home on account of poor Sir James. Mrs. Lancaster knows all the scientific and literary world--her parties are most brilliant--it is a first-rate introduction for any young girl."

Poor Katharine felt her timidity come over her with added painfulness; and heartily wished herself on the ottoman at her grandfather's feet, instead of on her way to this terrible ordeal. But Hugh gave her hand an encouraging pressure, and she felt comforted. So she listened patiently to her mother's enumeration of all the celebrated people whom she would be sure to meet. After which the good lady, oppressed by her somnolent husband's example, leaned her head back so as not to disarrange her elegant cap, and fell asleep in a few minutes.

The carriage rolled through the unfrequented roads that mark the environs of the metropolis. Katharine sat watching the light which the carriage-lamps threw as they passed, illumining for a moment the formal, leafless hedges, until every trace of rurality was lost in the purely suburban character of the villa-studded road. The young girl's vision and the most outward fold of her thoughts received all these things; but her inner mind was all the while revolving widely different matters, and chiefly, this unseen world of society,--about which she had formed various romantic ideas, the predominant one being that it was a brilliant dazzling compound of the scenes described in Bulwer's "Godolphin," and Mrs. Gore's novels, passim.

It is scarcely possible to imagine a girl more utterly ignorant of the realities of life than was Katharine Ogilvie at sixteen. Delicate health had made her childhood solitary, and though fortune had bestowed on her troops of cousin-playfellows, she had known little of any of them excepting Hugh and his sister. She had seen nothing of society, or of the amusements of life, for her rather elderly parents rarely mingled in the world. Mr. and Mrs. Ogilvie were a pattern couple for individual excellence and mutual observance of matrimonial proprieties. United in middle life their existence flowed on in a placid stream, deep, silent, untroubled; their affection towards each other and towards their only child being rather passive than active--though steady, very undemonstrative. So Katharine, whom nature had cast in a different mould, became, as the confiding and clinging helplessness of childhood departed, more and more shut up within herself--looking to no other for amusement, seeking no sharer either in her pleasures or in her cares. A life like this sometimes educes strength and originality of character, but more often causes a morbidness of feeling which contents itself throughout existence with dreaming, not acting. Or if, at length, long-restrained emotions do break out, it is with a terrible flood that sweeps away all before it.

Katharine was by no means sentimental, for the term implies affectation, of which no stain had ever marred her nature. But her whole character was imbued with the wildest, deepest romance; the romance which comes instinctively to a finely constituted mind left to form its own ideal of what is good and true. Her solitary childhood had created an imaginary world in which she lived and moved side by side with its inhabitants. These were the heroes and heroines of the books which she had read,--a most heterogeneous mass of literature,--and the beings who peopled her own fanciful dreams.

One thing only was wanting to crown her romance. Though she had actually counted sixteen years, Katharine had never even fancied herself "in love," except, perhaps, with "Zanoni." A few vague day-dreams had of late floated over her, causing her to yearn for some companionship, higher and nobler than any she had yet known,--something on which she might expend not merely her warm home-affections, already fully bestowed on her parents and on Hugh, but the love of her soul, the worship of her heart and intellect combined. This longing she had of late tried to satisfy by changing her ideal hero, on whom she had hung every possible and impossible perfection, for a real human being,--that young poet whose life was itself a poem, Keats. His likeness, which Katharine had hung up in her room, haunted her perpetually, and many a time she sat watching it until she felt for this dead and buried poet a sensation very like the love of which she had read,--the strange delicious secret which was to her as yet only a name.

And thus, half a woman and half a child, Katharine Ogilvie was about to pass out of her ideal world, so familiar and so dear, into the real world, of which she knew nothing. No wonder that she was silent and disposed to muse!

"Wake up, little cousin; what are you thinking about?" said Hugh, suddenly.

Katharine started,--and her reverie was broken. The painful consciousness that Hugh might smile at her for having been "in the clouds," as he called these fits of abstraction, caused the colour to rise rapidly in her cheek.

"What made you imagine I was thinking at all?"

"Merely because you have been perfectly silent for the last hour. Your papa and mamma have had time to fall comfortably asleep, and I have grown quite weary and cross through not having the pleasant talk that we promised ourselves this morning."

"Dear Hugh! It was very stupid of me."

"Not at all, dear Katharine," Hugh answered, echoing the adjective with an emphasis that deepened its meaning considerably. "Not at all--if you will now tell me what occupied your thoughts so much."

But Katharine, sincere as was her affection for her cousin, felt conscious that he would not understand one-half of the fanciful ideas which had passed through her brain during that long interval of silence. So her reply was the usual compromise which people adopt in such cases.

"I was thinking of several things:--amongst others, of Mrs. Lancaster's party."

Hugh looked rather annoyed. "I thought you did not wish to go, and would much rather have been left at home?"

"Yes, at the last, and yet all this fortnight I have been longing for the day. Hugh, did you ever feel what it is to wish for anything, and dream of it, and wonder about it, until when the time came you grew positively frightened, and almost wished that something would happen to frustrate your first desire?"

"Was this what you have been feeling, Katharine?"

"Perhaps so--I hardly know. I enjoyed the anticipation very much until, from thinking of all the wonderful people I should meet, I began to think about myself. It is a bad thing to think too much about oneself, Hugh--is it not?"

Hugh assented abstractedly. It always gave him much more pleasure to hear Katharine talk than to talk himself; and besides, his conversation was rarely either rapid or brilliant.

Katharine went on.

"It was, after all, very vain and foolish in me to fancy that any one I should meet to-night would notice me in the least. And so I have now come to the determination not to think about myself or my imperfections, but to enjoy this evening as much as possible. Tell me, what great people are we likely to see?"

"There is the Countess of A--, and Lord William B--, and Sir Vivian O--," said Hugh, naming a few of the minor lights of the aristocracy who lend their feeble radiance to middle-class reunions.

"I do not call these 'great people,'" answered Katharine, in a tone of disappointment. "They are not my heroes and heroines. I want to see great writers, great poets, great painters," she continued, with an energy that made Hugh open his eyes to their utmost width.

"Well, well, you little enthusiast, you will see plenty of that sort of people too."

"That sort of people," repeated Katharine, in a low tone, and she shrank into herself, and was silent for five minutes. A feeling of passing vexation even towards Hugh oppressed her; until a chance movement wafted towards her the perfume of her flowers--the flowers to procure which he had ridden for miles over the country that rainy morning. A trifle sways one's feelings sometimes: and Katharine's at once turned towards Hugh with an almost contrite acknowledgment. She sought an opportunity to remove any painful impression that her sudden silence might have given him.

"Well, here we are almost at our journey's end, and papa and mamma are still asleep. We shall have very little more time for our talk, Hugh; so make haste and tell me what occupied your thoughts during that long hour of silence?"

"Not now, dear Katharine--not now!"

He spoke--at once more gently and more hurriedly than Hugh Ogilvie was used to speak. Katharine was about to repeat her question, when the carriage stopped.

Meanwhile the day sinks fast, the sun is set,
And in the lighted hall the guests are met.
On frozen hearts the fiery rain of wine
Falls, and the dew of music more divine
Tempers the deep emotions of the time.
* * *
How many meet who never yet have met,
To part too soon, but never to forget;
But life's familiar veil was now withdrawn,
As the world leaps before an earthquake's dawn.
SHELLEY

Before Katharine had time once more to grow terrified at the sudden realisation of her dreams of the world, she found herself in the brilliant drawing-rooms of Mrs. Lancaster,--following in the wake of her stately parents, and clinging with desperate energy to the arm of her cousin Hugh. Her eyes, dazzled and pained by the sudden transition from darkness to light, saw only a moving mass of gay attire which she was utterly unable to individualise. Her ear was bewildered by that scarcely subdued din of many voices which makes literary conversazioni in general a sort of polite Babel. Indeed, the young girl's outward organs of observation were for the time quite dazzled; and she recovered herself only on hearing her mother say:

"Mrs. Lancaster, allow me to introduce to you my daughter Katharine."

Now, ever since Mrs. Ogilvie had discovered an old school-fellow in the celebrated Mrs. Lancaster, Katharine had heard continually of the lady in question. Every one talked of her as a "clever woman"--"a blue"--"an extraordinary creature"--"a woman of mind"; and somehow the girl had pictured to herself a tall, masculine, loud-voiced dame. Therefore she was agreeably surprised at seeing before her a lady--certainly not pretty, nor young, except in her attire--but, nevertheless, graceful, from her extreme smallness and delicacy of figure; there was nothing outré in her appearance except a peculiar style of head-dress, which set off the shape of her face to much advantage. This face was not remarkable for an intellectual expression, though the features evidently perpetually struggled to attain one. In spite of her semi-tragic glances, compressed lips, and fixed attitudes, Mrs. Lancaster never could succeed in appearing a genius; but was merely an agreeable-looking, stylish little lady.

In that character Katharine was not in the least afraid of her. She felt the light touch of the jewelled fingers, and listened to the blandest and best-modulated welcome that female lips could utter, until the girl's prevailing sentiments were those of intense relief, deep admiration, and undying gratitude towards Mrs. Lancaster.

Immediately afterwards a pale young man, who stood behind the lady, timidly and silently shook hands with Katharine's parents, and then, to her infinite surprise, with herself.

"Who is that gentleman? I don't know him," said Katharine, in a whisper, to Hugh. "Why did not mamma introduce me--and why did he not speak?"

"Oh! it is only Mr. Lancaster, Mrs. Lancaster's husband," answered Hugh, with a scarcely perceptible smile. "He rarely speaks to anybody, and nobody minds him at all."

"How very odd!" thought Katharine: whose idea of a husband--when the subject did occupy her mind--was of some noble being to whom the wife could look up with reverent admiration, who was always to take the lead in society, she following after like a loving shadow, but still only a shadow, of himself. Katharine watched Mrs. Lancaster as she flitted about here and there, all smiles and conversation, while the silent husband retreated to a corner; and she thought once more how very strange it was. She expressed this to Hugh, when, after great difficulty, they at last found a seat, and talked together in that deep quietude which is nowhere greater than in a crowded assembly of strangers.

But Hugh did not seem at all surprised. He had not known the Lancasters long, he said,--but he believed they were a very happy couple. Mrs. Lancaster was a very superior woman; and perhaps that was the reason why she took the lead rather than her husband.

"My husband shall never be a man inferior to myself; I should not love him at all if I could not worship, reverence, look up to him in everything," said Katharine, her eye dilating and her cheek glowing. But when she caught Hugh's look fixed upon her with intense astonishment, she suddenly felt conscious that she had said something wrong, and shrank abashed into her corner. She was not disturbed; for Hugh did not answer a word; but once or twice she fancied she heard him sigh.

"Ah, poor Hugh!" thought Katharine, "he imagines his wild cousin will never amend. And yet, I only spoke what I thought. I must not do that any more. Perhaps my thoughts are foolish or wrong, since no one seems to understand them."

And Katharine, glad as she had felt of Hugh's society and protection in this gay place of desolation--for so it seemed to her--experienced a feeling very like relief when a lady near them addressed her cousin, and occupied his attention so that she herself could sit still and think. It was an amusement to her to watch the different combinations of the kaleidoscope of moving humanity which passed in review before her: looking at the different individuals, speculating on their characters, or weaving little histories for each. Katharine took most interest in her own sex, who at least approached her idea of outward grace; but "fine gentlemen" of a modern drawing-room did not at all resemble the heroes with which the romance-loving girl had peopled her world. She scarcely bestowed a second glance upon any of them.

At last, while her eyes were vacantly fixed on the door, it opened and admitted--a gentleman. One who--in this instance--truly deserved the name. Katharine looked at him: her gaze was attracted a second time--a third--until it rested permanently on him.

He was, in truth, a man of striking appearance. Not from his personal beauty, for there were many handsomer in the room,--but from an inexpressible dignity, composure of manner, and grace of movement, to which his tall figure gave every advantage. His countenance was not disfigured by any of the modern atrocities of moustache and imperial, no starched white cravat hid the outline of his chin and upper throat, and his black crisped hair was thrown back, giving a classic beauty to the whole head. Yet its character was neither Greek nor Roman, but purely English;--the lines firm, sharp, and rather marked, denoted one who had seen much, felt much, and is no longer young. But no description of features would adequately convey an idea of the nameless air which at once impressed the conviction that this man was different to other men. Even slight singularities of dress--usually puerile and contemptible affectations--were by him made so completely subservient to the wearer, that the most captious could not accuse him of conceit or eccentricity.

This was he on whom Katharine's young eyes rested the moment he entered the room. She watched his face with a vague deepening interest, feeling certain that she had seen it before--it seemed so familiar, yet so new. His form appeared at once to individualise itself from every other in the room; her eye followed it with a pleased consciousness that it brought sunshine wherever it moved. Poor Katharine! The world may laugh as it will at "first impressions "--

Love at first sight, first-born, and heir to all--

but there are in human nature strange and sudden impulses, which, though mysterious in their exercise, and still more so in their causes, are nevertheless realities.

Katharine watched this man for a long time. Sometimes when he came nearer, she listened and caught a few tones of his voice: they were like his face, calm, thoughtful, expressive,--and they went to her heart.

"What are you looking at so earnestly, Katharine?"

Katharine had no reason to conceal her thoughts,--so she frankly pointed out the object of her contemplation.

"Look at him, Hugh! Has he not a pleasant face?"

Hugh could not see any such face,--or would not.

"There! standing by the lady at the harp. I have watched him a long time. I feel sure I must have seen him somewhere before."

"In the clouds, very likely," answered her cousin, with a sharpness rare to his quiet manner. "You could not have seen him anywhere else, for he has but just come from abroad. I have seen him here once before; but no one excepting my romantic little cousin ever called Lynedon handsome."

"Lynedon--Lynedon. Is that his name?"

"Yes; and that is all I know about him. But, Katharine--there, your eyes are wandering after him again. Why, you will be noticed if you look at him so much, even though you do think him handsome."

"I do not," said Katharine, quietly; "but his face seems as if I knew it. It is pleasant to me to look at him, as it is to look at a picture or a statue. However, I will not do so if it is wrong, or at all events rude. I do not know the world so well as you, dear cousin."

Hugh's countenance brightened, and he said no more. Meanwhile, Katharine persevered for at least five minutes in looking in the direction exactly opposite to Mr. Lynedon. At last, casting her eyes in the mirror, she saw the reflection of his face as he stood silent at the opposite end of the room. That face in its thoughtful repose revealed to her the vague likeness which had at once made it seem familiar and dear. In character it strongly resembled the head of Keats, which had been her admiration for so many months. As the fancy struck her Katharine's cheek flushed, and a strange thrill shot through her heart. She looked at him again,--and still the likeness seemed to increase. It was a pleasure so new!--and with the aid of that friendly mirror surely there could be nothing wrong in thus watching the living semblance of her poet! So, Katharine gazed and gazed, utterly unconscious that she was drinking in the first draught of that cup which is offered to every human lip: to some, of honey,--to others, of gall.

Lynedon still kept close to the harp, until a lady sat down to play and sing. Her voice was touching and beautiful, and its pathos hushed even the noisy murmur around. A foppish, affected young man at one side of the harp went into ecstasies of rapture. Lynedon stood on the other side:--his figure drawn up to its utmost height and his arms folded, intently listening. His head was bent, and half in shadow; but once Katharine thought she saw the lips tremble with deep feeling. She did not wonder, for the tears were in her own eyes.

"Divine, enchanting! Miss Trevor, you sing like an angel," cried the young dandy, taking out his pocket-handkerchief.

Lynedon did not say a single word, but he offered his hand to lead the musician to her seat. She seemed a shy, timid creature, neither fashionable nor beautiful. As they passed, Katharine heard him say in answer to some remark of hers--

"Yes, it gave me pleasure. It is a dear old song to me. I had a little sister who used to sing it once. She had a sweet voice, very like yours."

Katharine longed for an angel's voice, that she might have sung that song. She wondered if his sister lived: but no, from the tone in which he spoke of her she must be dead. He was surely good and affectionate, since he loved his sister. How well she must have loved him! Katharine had already woven out the whole romance of this stranger's life,--and yet she did not even know his Christian name, and he had not once spoken to or even looked at her. Only some time after, as she was in the act of bidding adieu to Mrs. Lancaster, Katharine's flowers fell, and Mr. Lynedon, who stood beside the hostess, stooped and gave them into the young girl's hand. It was a trifling act of courtesy,--but he did it as he did everything else, more gracefully than other men. He would have done the same, apparently, to any woman, old or young, ugly or pretty. Katharine felt that he had not even looked in her face. She experienced no surprise or wounded vanity, for she never remembered herself at all. She only thought of him.

"Well, it has been a pleasant evening," said Mrs. Ogilvie, when they were again in the carriage. "Do you think so, Hugh?"

Hugh did indeed:--for there was still the long quiet ride home, with Katharine close beside him, ready to talk over everything, as she had proposed.

"And you, Katharine, love; have you liked your entrance into society?" inquired the mother.

"Yes," said Katharine gently, but briefly. She did not seem half so much disposed to talk as Hugh expected.

"I asked Mrs. Lancaster and her husband to spend a day with us; was I right, Mr. Ogilvie?"

"Certainly, my dear, ask whom you please. Mrs. Lancaster is a woman of very good breeding; and besides, for an intellectual lady and a lover of antiquities there are many curious and remarkable sights near Summerwood Park. Of course, she will come!"

"Not just at present, as she has a friend staying there, a Mr. Lynedon. I did not know whether you would like him to be included."

"By all means, Mrs. Ogilvie. I happened to have a good deal of talk with Mr. Paul Lynedon--a clever, sensible young man; has no conceit about him, like the puppies of our day. He is trying to get into Parliament, admires Sir Robert, and is particularly well read on the currency question. By all means invite Mr. Paul Lynedon."

Katharine's ears drank in all this. Here was new matter added to her little romance. He was about to enter Parliament--a noble career! Katharine was sure he would rise to be a great statesman--a second Canning. And then, his Christian name was Paul.

Most young girls think much of a Christian name; indeed, more or less so does everybody. We have all a sort of ideal nomenclature; names that please us by their euphony, or else make us love them for their associations. Some seem suited to peculiar characters, and when we meet the impersonations of them we are fain to apply our fanciful ideal, saying, "Ah! there's a bright-faced, clear-hearted Clara;" or, "This girl is surely a Mary, sweet, gentle Mary;" or, "Such an one is the very beau-ideal of a Walter, a Henry, or an Edmund!"

Katharine felt a painful twinge, excusable in a romantic damsel of sixteen, when she found that her hero was called Paul.

"Mr. Paul Lynedon coming to Summerwood," observed Hugh, with the faintest shade of annoyance perceptible in his tone, "then, Katharine, you will have a splendid opportunity of admiring your handsome hero, and of talking to him too."

"A man like Mr. Lynedon would never think of talking to such a child as I," answered Katharine, in a low tone. "And, Hugh, I believe I told you before that I do not think him handsome. There is nothing strikingly beautiful in his features; indeed, I do not consider them any better than yours."

"Thank you," said Hugh, good-humouredly. "Then, what made you notice him so much?"

"I can hardly tell, excepting that there seemed in his face something more than beauty--something I never saw before in any other. I cannot describe what it was, the sensation it gave me was so peculiar. But pleasant--yes, I think I had more pleasure in looking at his face than at any I ever saw in all my life."

"Katharine! I shall be quite jealous soon."

"You need not. Mr. Paul Lynedon is not my cousin, my old playfellow, and friend. And if he were, I think I should be too much afraid of him ever to feel for him the same affection that I bear to you and Eleanor."

Hugh looked joyfully in his cousin's eyes--they were calm and clear. They did not droop, or turn from his. There was not a feeling in Katharine's heart that she wished to hide.

"What are you and Katharine talking about?" said Mr. Ogilvie, rousing himself from one of his usual taciturn moods. "We cannot hear a word on this side of the carriage, and the lamps are so dim that we can hardly see your faces."

"Never mind, my dear," observed Mrs. Ogilvie; "young people generally like talking over a party, and Hugh and Katharine seem always to have plenty to say to one another." And a quiet smile passed over the matron's face, showing how skilled she thought herself in the womanly acquirement of reading hearts. And when, an hour after, that worthy lady and affectionate mother lay cogitating over the past evening, she thought with satisfaction that her Katharine had not seemed the least dazzled by her first sight of "the world," and appeared to care for the attentions of no one save that good, kind, cousin Hugh, who would one day make her such an excellent husband.

While, in the next chamber, Katharine was dreaming one of her wild fantastic dreams, wherein she herself was transformed successively into the heroine of several of her pet romances. And somehow, whenever she looked into the face of the dearly-loved dream-hero, it always changed to the same likeness--the deep dark eyes and black wavy hair of Mr. Paul Lynedon.

Love took up the glass of Time, and turned it in his glowing hands,
Every moment lightly shaken, ran itself in golden sands.
Love took up the harp of Life, and smote on all the chords with might,
Smote the chord of self, that, trembling, passed in music out of sight.
TENNYSON.

The mistress of Summerwood was a living homily on the blessings of early rising. Every morning she took her place before the old-fashioned silver urn exactly as the clock struck eight. She had done the same for some eighteen years; during which her fair serene countenance slowly settled into that of a matron of fifty-two. But it still retained its fresh, unwrinkled look, as though the years which had passed over it had been counted by summers only. And certainly, since her marriage, life had been one long summer to Mrs. Ogilvie.

Her husband would rather have missed the daylight than her pleasant face at his breakfast-board; and, winter or summer, there could not be a more cheerful sight than the group assembled round the early meal at Summerwood. For Mr. Ogilvie would allow "no nonsense" of late rising; and even his niece Isabella was forced to give up her fine lady airs and descend at proper time with the young brothers and sisters of whom she was the unwilling guardian. The family circle on the morning after Mrs. Lancaster's party was completed by Hugh, with his bright merry "morning face,"-- and Eleanor, always serene, though over her still hung the shadow of a grief (now some months past), that of a mother's loss. Katharine, usually the blithest of the group, seemed on this particular day rather thoughtfully inclined. Isabella attributed the fact to "the effects of dissipation," and laughed at her cousin for being so country-bred as to feel overwhelmed with fatigue by only one party on the same night.

"If you lived the life that I do, what would become of you, Katharine? You would be dead in six months. You look half dead now."

"I really do not feel so."

"Then why drink your coffee with such a sentimental air? Did you meet any of our poetical heroes among the great geniuses who, as Hugh says, congregate at Mrs. Lancaster's? Pray, tell us whom you fell in love with last night."

This was spoken in an under tone and with a meaning smile that made Katharine's cheek flush against her will. Her simplicity took in solemn earnest all the careless jests of this young lady; whose first lessons in the art of love had been received at that source of all evil--a fashionable boarding-school.

"I do not understand you, Isabella," was her hurried reply; while Hugh darted across the table the most frowning look his good-tempered face could assume.

"I think, Bella, you might let Katharine eat her breakfast in peace for once!" he exclaimed.

"I beg your pardon, Hugh; don't quite kill me for troubling your dearly-beloved cousin with my unwarrantable curiosity. But, as her breakfast is nearly ended, I should like to hear from her a little about last night, if you will kindly allow her to make the exertion."

Hugh coloured with vexation; and Katharine, resigning herself to her fate, sighed out, "Well, Bella, of what must I tell?"

"Oh, in the first place, of the dresses."

"I am very sorry, but I did not notice one. Indeed, I afraid I do not care for dress as much as I ought," continued Katharine, in a deprecating tone. Her sensitive unformed mind was ever painfully alive to ridicule; this weakness constantly subjected her to the influence of the worldly Isabella. But Eleanor Ogilvie came to her aid.

"Katharine, I will relieve Bella, and turn catechist. Did you see any of those 'celebrities,' as you call them, about whom you have been thinking and wondering so much all the week?"

"Hugh pointed out several, and it was very interesting to watch them; but"--

"But they were not quite what you expected:--is it not so?"

"Perhaps," said Katharine, doubtfully, as she took advantage of a general move from table, and drew near the window,--Eleanor following. "I wonder why it is that people whose books we read rarely come up to our expectations--at least, not exactly. I have heard this, and last night I found it out for myself. Why is it, Eleanor?"

Eleanor smiled. There was something peculiarly sweet and expressive in Eleanor Ogilvie's smile.

"Nay, you must not expect me to answer a question which involves the solving of such a problem--I, who am little older than yourself, and have scarcely seen more of the world. But I imagine the reason to be this: that most men write out in their books their inner selves--their deepest and purest feelings--and we form our ideal of them from that. When we meet them in the world, we see only the outer self--perhaps but a rough and clumsy shell--and it often takes some time and a great deal of patience before we can get at the kernel."

"Bravo, little Nelly!" cried Hugh, coming behind his sister, and putting his two hands on her shoulders. "Why, this is a speech quite à la Wychnor,--the fellow himself might have said it."

"Who is Mr. Wychnor?" asked Katharine.

"Did you never hear Eleanor speak of him? Philip Wychnor was her old playfellow: and we met him again this autumn at Mrs. Breynton's, when we were all staying there together."

"What is he like?" again inquired Katharine.

"I think I can best answer that," said Eleanor, turning round, with the faintest rose-tint on her usually colourless cheek; "Philip Wychnor is a nephew of Mrs. Breynton's. He has great talents--but that is his least gift. He has the faculty of making every one honour and respect him, though he is as yet little more than a boy."

"A boy--why, Nell, he is more than twenty," interrupted Hugh, with one of his merriest laughs. "Only fancy, Katharine, calling an Oxford undergraduate--a boy!"

Eleanor only smiled, with a composure which had its effect upon the young man,--who possessed Katharine's grand qualification to make a perfect character; "he loved his sister." Moreover, he felt the influence of her more finely-constituted mind and character to a degree of which he was himself hardly conscious.

"Well, he was a good fellow, this Wychnor,--though rather too sentimental and poetical for me. But, there is Aunt Ogilvie calling for Katharine. What a pity that our pleasant talk in the corner must end!"

Katharine bounded away, in answer to her mother's summons. One circumstance gave her considerable surprise, and yet satisfaction,--that at breakfast, and after, amidst all the conversation about Mrs. Lancaster's soirée, no one had ever mentioned Mr. Paul Lynedon. No one even seemed to think of him. Now, in her own reminiscences of the evening, both dreaming and awake, this one image stood pre-eminent amidst all the rest. It was very odd, surely. But she felt the omission a relief.

"I want you to write a note to Mrs. Lancaster, my love;' observed her mother. "Your papa wishes the Lancasters to visit us while Mr. Lynedon stays with them:--he has taken such a fancy to the young man. Did you see him, Katharine?"

"Yes," said Katharine,--and could not find another word for her life.

Her mother did not require one; since she was busy fidgeting about in the writing desk for various instruments of epistolary labour, the absence of which showed how little versed the lady was in the art of correspondence.

"Shall I fetch my own desk, mamma?"

"Ay, do, love; you have everything you want there, and I am not used to writing,--especially to such clever people as Mrs. Lancaster."

This latter portion of her mother's sentence rested painfully on Katharine's mind during her journey to her own room and back. It was indeed a formidable thing to write to Mrs. Lancaster,--and about Mr. Paul Lynedon! Poor Katharine felt positively alarmed; especially when she remembered that all the care of her governess and masters had never succeeded in making her a calligraphist, and that she now wrote the sorriest hand imaginable. Timidly did she hint this to her mother.

"Why, my dear child, you never cared for your handwriting before; what makes you so particular now? I suppose you are afraid of Mrs. Lancaster. But never mind; for I once heard her say that clever people always write badly,--and certainly her own handwriting is a specimen of this."

Katharine laughed; but she did not say a word more of excuse, lest her mother should discover that there was another person's opinion which she had thought of even before Mrs. Lancaster's.

"He will certainly see the letter--she will be sure to show it to him," said Katharine to herself, when she was left alone to fulfil her task. And the idea that Mr. Lynedon's eyes would rest upon her letter--or at the least that he would hear it read--made the writing and composition seem matters of momentous importance. She changed the sentences, and re-arranged them; one said too much, another too little. First, the invitation appeared too warm,--and then it was worded in a style so coldly polite that Katharine felt sure a man of his dignity would never accept it. She wrote more copies than she cared to count before the final decision was made. Then, when in the last carefully-indited epistle she came to his name--Mr. Paul Lynedon--it was written slowly, almost tremulously. She had said it to herself many times, until it had grown almost a familiar sound,--but she had never written it before. It was a simple arrangement of simple letters; and yet, when she had completed the epistle, the one name seemed to her to stand out in bold relief from the rest of the page, distinct and clear,--as the face of its owner among all other human faces in that motley crowd.

Let us travel in spirit, whither Katharine's thoughts often wandered that day, and accompany the letter to its destination. If in real life this clairvoyance existed, how many of us would wish to employ it! And with what result? Perhaps to see lines--over which the full heart had poured itself, or stilled its beatings in a vain effort to write carelessly of what it felt so much--glanced over with an idle, passing notice, and thrown aside! Or, perchance, to mark with almost equal pain, that what we wrote as mere "words, words, words" of custom or of courtesy, became to the receiver a mine of treasure, to be pored over and reconstrued again and again, hopefully or despondingly, with feelings of which we knew not, and knowing would only regard in sorrowful pity that they should be thus cast at our feet in vain.

"Here is an invitation," said Mrs. Lancaster, throwing down Katharine's precious note among a heap of others. "It concerns you, Lynedon; will you read it?"

"Thank you--presently!" He finished his coffee, and then took up the letter. "It seems a cordial invitation--shall you accept it?"

"If you are also inclined. Summerwood is a pretty place, I believe, with many antiquities in the neighbourhood."

"That will just suit you," said Lynedon, smiling, as he remembered the archæological hobby which Mrs. Lancaster had lately mounted, and which she was now riding to death.

"Yes, but you yourself might find some interests even among such quiet folk as the Ogilvies. The old father, Sir James, is in his dotage, and Mr. Ogilvie has considerable influence in the county. He might be of use in this parliamentary scheme of yours: especially as he told me, in his solemn way, how much he liked you."

"Liked me? Oh, yes, I remember him now. A precise, middle-aged specimen of the genus 'country gentleman,'--with a quiet, mild-looking lady always creeping after him. His wife, probably?" He looked at the signature. "'Katharine Ogilvie,'--a pretty name, very: it is hers, I suppose?"

"No, the note is from their daughter. You saw her too the other night,--a little brown-complexioned girl, who dropped her flowers, and you gave them to her."

"I really do not remember the fact," said Paul Lynedon, shaking back his hair. "Was she pretty? Really, my dear Mrs. Lancaster, you fill your house so with beauty that one is perplexed with abundance. But for this visit--I am quite at your service, you know, invariably."

"Then it is agreed upon. Julian, my love, put it down in my visiting-book, that we may not forget." Mr. Lancaster did as he was bidden; and his wife and Mr. Lynedon went on with their conversation, during which the latter--who had a habit of always playing with something while he was talking--twisted Katharine's note into every conceivable shape, finally tearing it into small diamonds, and then again into triangles.

Poor Katharine!--And yet she might not have thought it an unworthy destiny for her letter. Had it not been torn in pieces by Paul Lynedon's very own fingers?

With Mrs. Lancaster's acceptance came one from Mr. Lynedon himself: in a few courteous words, which won the marked approbation of the formal Mr. Ogilvie.

"A proper, gentleman-like note. Mr. Lynedon is, as I thought, very superior to the young men of the present day." His young daughter's eyes brightened at the words. It was so pleasant to hear her hero praised!

"And read what Mrs. Lancaster says of him," observed Mrs. Ogilvie, as she handed the lady's epistle to her husband.

Mr. Ogilvie looked, shook his head, and passed the note on to his daughter. "Read it, Katharine. I never could make out Mrs. Lancaster's hand."

Katharine read with a voice wonderfully steady, considering how her little heart fluttered all the time. "'I thank you for including my friend, Mr. Lynedon, in your invitation; it will give me pleasure to introduce to your circle one whom you will, I trust, esteem as I do. He is a man whose talents will one day raise him very high in the world. He has the minor advantages of a good social position and, I believe, an excellent heart; but these are little compared to his highest possession--a commanding and powerful mind."

"Is Mrs. Lancaster quite right there?" said Eleanor, lifting up her soft quiet eyes from her work. "She seems to think of Mr. Lynedon's intellect alone, and to regard no other qualities. Now, he may be a clever man"--

"He may be--he is!" cried Katharine, energetically.

Then, seeing that, as usual, her sudden burst of enthusiasm met with but a freezing reception, she grew hot and cold,--and heartily wished she could run away.

"Really, Katharine, that is a very positive declaration to be made by a child like you," said her father; "and, besides, what opportunity can you have had of judging of Mr. Paul Lynedon's intellect? Did he speak to you?"

"Oh, no! but I heard him talk to others: that was much better than if he had spoken to me. I liked very much to listen to him; I did not know it was wrong."

"By no means, my love," said Mrs. Ogilvie. "A taste for refined conversation is always becoming in a lady; and when you grow up, and are aware of the position which you hold in the world, I hope you will always have clever men and women in your society. But still, as a child, you should not express quite so decided an opinion--at least not in public. Here, with only your papa, myself, and Eleanor, it signifies little."

Katharine did not at all understand why a right opinion was not right to be expressed at all times and in all places: prudence, reserve, and conventionalism being quite unknown in her young life's exquisite Utopia. But she said nothing; for she always found that arguing on the subject did not avail in the slightest degree. Her father never gave reasons, but merely repeated his opinions in a tone gradually more and more authoritative. The girl's only chance of finding out truth lay in pondering over everything she saw and heard in the depths of her own heart, and thus struggling towards a conclusion. But with the wisest of us this internal course of education is often at first groping through dark ways. Our minds, not only in their powers of acquiring knowledge but in their perceptive and reflective faculties, need a guiding hand as well as our bodies. We must be led awhile before we have strength to walk alone.

Katharine Ogilvie had no one to direct her--not one living soul. She was ever looking towards the light, and in vain. Each glimmering taper she mistook for the fulness of day. Perhaps it was this intense yearning for something whereon to rest--some one from whom to learn wisdom, excellence, truth--who would take her restless, unformed life into his hands, and become at once its law, its guide, its glory, and its delight--perhaps it was this which made her cling with such sudden vehemence to that ideal which she thought she saw in Paul Lynedon. It was not that, according to the rule of young misses of her age, she "fell in love." Katharine would have started with instinctive delicacy had the expression met her ear or the thought entered her mind. Love had as yet little place in her world--except as something that was to come one day, as a vague sentiment, full of poetry, and carrying with it a mysterious charm. Her fanciful interest in Paul Lynedon--a man so much older than and superior to herself--was something akin to what she experienced towards her pet heroes in romances or her favourite poets: an appreciative worship, drawn forth by all that was in them of noble and beautiful--

A devotion to something afar
From the sphere of our sorrow.

Of "falling in love" with or marrying Paul Lynedon she no more thought than of uniting herself in affectionate earthly ties to an angel who guided some "bright particular star."

Yet, in spite of all this child-like unconsciousness of the real nature of the life-phase which was opening upon her, it was strange how much her vague interest in her hero grew during the few days that intervened between the acceptance of the invitation and its fulfilment. But she kept her thoughts closely locked up in her heart; which, as we have said, was indeed a reserve neither strange nor new to her.

When, a few days after, the departure of the Worsley tribe left Katharine alone with her two cousins Hugh and Eleanor, she felt the restraint a little removed. But still, though she loved them both sincerely, neither they nor any human being had ever passed the circle of the young girl's inner world. Hugh could not--it was beyond his power; and Eleanor, detained for years by the sick couch of her lost mother, had scarcely visited Summerwood. Thus not even she had ever won from Katharine's extreme shyness that friendship and confidence which mere ties of kindred can never command.

Therefore, no hand had yet lifted more than the outer fold of this young heart,--trembling, bursting, and thrilling with its full, rich life, and ready at the first sun-gleam to open and pour forth its whole awakened being in a perfume--at once the purest and most passionate form of that essence which we call Love.

On a girl like this, calmer hearts and wiser heads may look with mingled pity and blame. And yet not so--for God never made a more innocent creature than Katharine Ogilvie.

Like to a good old age released from care,
Journeying in long serenity away,
In such a bright, late quiet, would that I
Might wear out life, like thee, 'midst bowers and brooks,
And, dearer yet, the sunshine of kind looks
And murmur of kind voices ever nigh.
BRYANT.

Children ought to consider themselves in the house of their father as in a temple where nature has placed them, and of which she has made them the priests and the ministers, that they might continually employ themselves in the worship of those deities who gave them being.
HIEROCLES.

Mrs. Lancaster's expected three days' visit necessitated considerable preparation within the quiet precincts of Summerwood; and Katharine was deputed to stay as much as possible by her grandfather's side, in order to amuse him and keep from him the knowledge of any domestic revolutions. This was rather pleasant to the young girl than otherwise; for she was a great favourite with Sir James, and returned his affection by a watchful love above that of most pet grandchildren. Besides, the office gave her more opportunities of indulging in those fits of dreaminess which now more than ever became her delight.

Every morning Hugh looked in upon his grandfather's study. It was called so still, though now this scene of youthful labour had been transformed into the quiet, luxurious asylum of feeble old age. Hugh, as he came with his guns or his fishing-rods, had often glanced half-contemptuously at the various oddities which decorated the chamber of the old politician,--ponderous tomes, in century-old bindings,--dusty files of newspapers, which chronicled the speeches of Pitt, Fox, and Burke, possibly with the announcement that the orator was "left speaking." And so he yet continued to speak in the mind and memory of Sir James Ogilvie; who by relics so carefully preserved was thus enabled to blend the past and the present. Every morning, when he had listlessly heard the last night's speeches in the Times,--listening perhaps more to the echoes of his pet granddaughter's young voice than to the eloquence of Macaulay or of Peel,--he would make Katharine turn over the old file of newspapers and read the daily chronicle of fifty years ago. Thus, events which had grown dim even in historical recollection acquired the freshness of yesterday; and great men, sharing in the resuscitation, spoke, not from their tombs, but from their old haunts in palace and in senate. To the old man--the last relic of a departed age--this past was a reality; and the stirring, teeming present, a mere shadow,--less than a dream.

Katharine never laughed at these vagaries. They were to her strangely sacred, and her fanciful mind cast a poetry over all.

"Still busy with those yellow old pamphlets," said Hugh, putting in his head. A very cheerful face it was, glowing with health and good-temper, a fur cap sitting jauntily on the thick brown curls. "Katharine! will you never have done these readings? at Warren Hastings still, I see."

Katharine knitted her brows, and laid her finger on her lips, as a sign to stop her cousin's thoughtless speech. She looked much prettier in her high close morning dress than in the ball costume she wore when first described; it hid her thinness, and left to her girlish figure its natural gender and airy grace. She sat on a footstool, leaning against her grandfather's arm-chair, with pamphlets and papers all scattered around. Sir James, a little, spare, withered old man, whose sole remnant of life seemed to exist in his bright restless eyes, leaned back in abstraction so perfect, that he only noticed Hugh's entrance by the cessation of the reading.

"Go on, Katharine," he said, in the querulous tone of extreme old age; "why did you stop in the middle of that fine sentence of Mr. Burke's?"

"Hugh has just come in to say good morning, dear grandfather."

"Hugh--what, Sir Hugh Abercrombie!--I am really honoured."

Hugh could not help laughing; at which Sir James turned sharply round, and, as he recognised his grandson, his keen, glittering eyes wore an expression of annoyance.

"You are exceedingly rude, sir! Go away, and do not interrupt us again."

"Very well, grandfather. I only came to say how d'ye do to you, and to have a word with my little cousin here. Katharine," he continued, lowering his voice, "I met your mamma on the stairs, and she desired me to say that you must try to make Sir James understand about these visitors, the Lancasters--you know they come to-morrow, more's the pity." And Hugh's face grew clouded, while Katharine's brightened considerably.

"Mamma told him yesterday--I heard her."

"Ay, but he did not seem to make it out clearly, and was rather cross. Now, you can persuade grandfather to anything, and I don't wonder at it," continued Hugh, looking fondly in her face as she stood in the window, whither he had drawn her aside.

"Very well, I'll try; and now run away, and good success to your skating, which I see is to be your amusement to-day."

"But, Katharine, I shall be so dull alone. Will nobody come and see me skate this fine morning?"

"How vain you are, cousin Hugh," laughed Katharine. "But it will soon be grandpapa's lunch-time, and then I shall be at liberty, and will come to the pond. So goodbye for a little."

"Good-bye, and mind you come, Katharine." And as Hugh departed, his cousin heard him whistling all the way down the staircase, "My love she's but a lassie yet"--his favourite tune.

"How tiresome that boy is," said the old man. Katharine did not answer, but again took her place and began to read. Sir James tried to compose himself to listen, but the thread was broken, and would not reunite. Besides, the interruption had made her own thoughts wander, and she read on mechanically, so that her voice took a monotonous tone. Her grandfather nodded over the very exordium of Warren Hastings' defence, and at last pronounced that it seemed not quite so interesting as it was at first; so he thought they had read enough for to-day. Katharine felt really glad; she put by all the books and papers with alacrity, and took her place again at her grandfather's feet.

Now was the time for introducing the subject committed to her care. There could hardly be a more favourable moment, for she had got fast hold of her grandfather's thin, yellow, withered fingers, and was playing with the magnificent rings which still daily adorned them. Nothing contributed so much to the old baronet's good-humour as to have his rings admired, and he began to tell Katharine, for the hundredth time, how one had been a bequest of Lord Chatham's, and how another, a magnificent diamond, had been placed on his finger by King George the Third, with his own royal and friendly hand. The young girl listened patiently, and with the interest that affection always taught her to assume. Then, taking advantage of a pause, she observed:

"I think, grandpapa, you, who are so fond of antique rings, will like to see one that Mrs. Lancaster wears. I will ask her to show it you when she comes to-morrow."

"Who comes to-morrow, child? Who is Mrs. Lancaster?"

"A very clever, agreeable woman. Don't you remember that mamma invited her to spend a few days here--she and her husband. And a friend of theirs--Mr. Lynedon."

"Lynedon--Lynedon. Ah! I remember him well. Mr.--no, he was afterwards made Viscount Lynedon, of Lynedon. A clever speaker----a perfect gentleman. He and I were both presented at the King's first levee. I shall be delighted to see Lord Lynedon."

"I do not think this is the gentleman you mean, grandpapa," said Katharine, meekly, while the faintest shadow of a smile hovered over her lips. "He is not Viscount, only Mr. Lynedon--Paul Lynedon; but he may be related to your old friend."

"Ah--yes, yes--just so," repeated Sir James, his look of disappointment brightening. "Of course he is! Let me see; the Lynedons were a large family. There was a second brother, and his name was a Scripture one--Philip, or Stephen, or Paul. Yes, yes! it must be Paul, and this is he. Right, Katharine."

Katharine hardly knew what to answer.

"I shall be delighted--honoured--to receive Mr. Paul Lynedon at Summerwood," continued the old baronet. "I well remember Lord Lynedon--a fine, tall, noble-looking man. I wonder if his brother is like him. Describe Mr. Paul Lynedon, Katharine."

"I am afraid you are still a little mistaken, dear grandpapa," said the girl, caressingly. "This Mr. Lynedon is not an old man, while your friend must be"--

"Eh, eh, Katharine; what are you saying?" sharply asked Sir James. "I am not so very old, am I? Let me see; it is since then only twenty--forty--fifty years; ah, fifty years, fifty years," repeated he, counting on his trembling fingers. "Yes, child, you are right, it cannot be the same; he must have been dead long ago. I was a youth then, and he a man of fifty. Yes! yes! all are gone; there is nobody left but me." And the old man fell back in his chair.

Katharine leaned her rosy cheek against his withered and wrinkled one, saying gently, "Dear grandpapa, don't talk so. What does it matter being old when you know we all love you. And though this gentleman is not the friend you knew, I am sure you will like him very much. Papa does. And you know he may be one of your Lynedons after all, and able to talk to you about your old friends."

"Ah, well, little Katharine, you may be right. And it is worth being eighty years of age to find oneself grandfather to a little coaxing, loving, smiling thing like you."

The old man laughed, but there were tears in his eyes, and Katharine hastened to beguile them away by all the playful wiles of which she was mistress. By the time the arrival of lunch set her free, all Sir James's equanimity was restored. He even remembered that he had been rather hasty towards Hugh, and sent a message, intended to be propitiatory, challenging his grandson to an hour's backgammon in the study after dinner. Moreover, he made many inquiries concerning the way in which Katharine intended to pass the rest of the day; and, learning that she was going to watch Hugh's skating, he delayed her for full five minutes with a circumstantial account of various remarkable frosts that had happened in the days of his youth--and of what his nurse had told him of the fair that was held on the Thames in the winter of 1713. "But that, my dear, was before my time, you know."

"And, grandpapa," whispered Katharine, when she had listened patiently to all, "you will think of the visitors coming to-morrow, and be sure to like Mr. Paul Lynedon?"

"Mr. Paul Lynedon! Oh, I remember now," answered the old man, making an effort to collect his wandering ideas. "Yes, yes--the Viscount's son. Of course, Katharine, I shall be delighted to see him. You must not forget to tell him so."

Katharine made no attempt to explain the matter further, satisfied that her grandfather's mind was properly inclined to courtesy and kindly feeling. She went away perfectly content with the duty so well fulfilled, not reflecting that in their conversation she had entirely forgotten all that was to have been said about Mr. and Mrs. Lancaster.

In thee
Is nothing sudden, nothing single;
Like two streams of incense free
From one censer, in one shrine
Thought and motion mingle.
* * * *
They were modulated so
To an unheard melody
Which lives about thee, and a sweep
Of richest pauses, evermore
Drawn from each ether, mellow, deep,
--Who may express thee, Eleanore?
TENNYSON.

Though Katharine had been busy all the morning, aiding her mother in the various cares of the mistress of Summerwood Park, still, when the time approached for the arrival of the guests, she did not feel inclined to rest. Hugh had taken himself off for the day on a shooting excursion; Eleanor was occupied in her own room; and when all was prepared for the visitors, Katharine had no resource but to wander about the house. She did so, roaming from room to room with a vague restlessness that would not pass away. Every five minutes she went to the hall-window and listened for the sound of carriage-wheels; then she pondered and speculated about the Lancasters, ransacking her memory for all that she had ever heard about them, and wondering if Mrs. Lancaster would seem as agreeable as the other night. Wondering, too, if one always liked people as well the second time of meeting as the first. And if Mr. Lynedon--She stood a long time before that favourite head of Keats, thinking less of it than of Mr. Lynedon.

The quick-coming twilight of winter drew nigh, and the guests had not arrived. Katharine's pleasurable anticipations faded a little, and she felt vexed at herself for having wasted so much time in thinking about these new acquaintances. Conscience-smitten for the little notice she had taken of her cousin during that day, she proceeded to Eleanor's room, and finding it empty, followed her into the garden.

Eleanor sat quietly in the conservatory, her favourite place of study. A book lay on her lap, but she was hardly reading; her eyes wandered as her thoughts were doing. Eleanor, like her cousin, was still at that period of life when dreaming is so pleasant

There can hardly be a better opportunity than the present to sketch the personal likeness of Eleanor Ogilvie. It shall not be done in rose-colours, adorned with similes taken from flowers, shells, sky, earth, and air, for true beauty is independent of all these. Eleanor had no angel's face, only a woman's; sweet, fair, and mild as a woman's should be. Her beautiful soul shone through it, and therefore it became itself beautiful. Not that it was without a certain grace of form, but still that quality was subservient to the higher one, of expression, without which, features as perfect as the sculptor's chisel can create, are more soulless than the marble itself. Eleanor's countenance might have been passed over as merely "rather pretty," except for the inexpressible charm cast over it by each varying emotion of her mind. After all, the truest beauty is not that which suddenly dazzles and fascinates, but that which steals upon us insensibly. Let us each call up to memory the faces that have been most pleasant to us--those that we have loved best to look upon, that now rise most vividly before us in solitude, and oftenest haunt our slumbers--and we shall usually find them not the most perfect in form, but the sweetest in expression. Yet this generalising is idle. Every human mind has its own ideal of beauty, and almost always this ideal is based upon some individual reality. Therefore we will leave Eleanor Ogilvie's face in that dim mystery out of which each can create the image he loves best.

Katharine, even, was struck by it. The contrast was great between her own restless movements and her cousin's perfect repose. "Why, Eleanor, how quiet you are here, when all the house is full of hurry and expectation? You seem almost to have forgotten that the Lancasters are coming?"

"Oh, no; for you see I am already dressed for dinner."

"So you are; and how well you look, with your high black dress and your smooth fair hair. You are quite a picture!" And removing her cousin's fur wrappings, she regarded her with a sincere admiration, almost childish in its demonstration. "I wonder what he--that is, Mrs. Lancaster--will think of you?"

"You forget, Katharine, that I am not a stranger; she has seen me before. Hugh and I spent one evening with her when we were in town last year."

"And how did you like her?--and is not her house the most charming place in the world?" cried Katharine.

"That is rather going into extremes. But she seemed pleasing and gracious to everybody, and I met many agreeable people at her house that night."

"Mr. Paul Lynedon?" inquired Katharine, rather hesitatingly; "was he there?"

Eleanor could hardly help smiling. "Is Mr. Paul Lynedon, then, the only agreeable person in the world? Well, I am not quite sure, but I believe that he was of the party."

"Why did you not tell us so the other day?"

"I really quite forgot it at the time."

Amazing, thought Katharine, that she should not be quite certain whether she had met Mr. Lynedon, or, having met him, could ever forget the fact. In her own mind, Katharine set down her cousin as a girl of very little discrimination. But she did not pursue the conversation, for Eleanor, closing her book, prepared to return to the house.

"Let us take one turn before we go in, Katharine. There will be plenty of time, for now the Lancasters will probably not be here until dinner. Tell me what you have been doing all day."

"Following mamma, and delivering messages to cook and housemaids, until my poor brain is quite bewildered. Indeed I never could take an interest in such things; I wish mamma would leave me alone, and not try to make a sensible woman of me. I had much rather be with grandpapa, and hear him talk about public matters, and read the speeches in the newspaper. Eleanor, I was never born for this dull quiet life; I want to do something--to be something."

"To be what, dear Katharine?" said Eleanor, to whom this confidence was new; but it burst from the girl's lips under shelter of the twilight, and in consequence of the restlessness of her mind.

"I hardly know what exactly; but I think I should like to be in Mrs. Lancaster's position--clever, with plenty of society, able to write, speak, and think, just as I liked--quite independent of everybody."

"I do not think there is, or was, any individual in this world, certainly no woman, of whom one could say that she was 'quite independent of everybody.' Nay, even were it possible, I doubt if such a life would be a happy one, and, what is still more, if it would be useful and full of good to others, which is the highest happiness of all."

"Eleanor," said Katharine, looking fixedly in her face, "you reason where I only feel."

"Do you think I never feel, dear?" answered Eleanor, while her own peculiar moonlight smile cast a grave sweetness over her countenance. "But we will talk of these things another time. I am so glad we have begun to talk of them. Those are rarely very close friends who keep shut-up corners in their hearts. You must let me peep into a few of yours, my little cousin."

"Suppose you find nothing but cobwebs and dust there?" said Katharine, laughing.

"I will sweep them all away with a little broom I keep by me for the purpose," returned Eleanor, in the same strain.

"What is it?"

"It is made of a flowering plant that grows in every quiet dell throughout the world, and which you may often find when you least look for it. It is gathered in the fresh sunshine of Hope, and tied together with a ground-creeper called Patience, which, though as slender as a thread, binds all together with the strength of an iron chain. I would engage to brighten up the most unsightly heart-chambers with this broom of mine. Now, what is it made of?"

"I guess, dear Nelly, I guess," cried Katharine, clapping her hands with that sudden child-like ebullition of pleasure which was natural to her, and, both laughing merrily, with a brightness in their eyes, and a glow on their cheeks, the two girls entered the open hall-door. Bonnets in hand, and shawls carelessly dangling, they passed into the drawing-room.

There, talking to Mr. Ogilvie, and having evidently just arrived, stood the Lancasters and Mr. Paul Lynedon!

A woman's love is essentially lonely, and spiritual in its nature. It is the heathenism of the heart: she has herself created the glory and beauty with which the idol of her altar stands invested--L. E. L.

There was no retreat for Katharine--no rescue from the suddenness of this first interview, which, when in perspective, she had viewed in every phase of probability, fancying all she should do and say, and all they might do and say, in a mental rehearsal, which she supposed included every possible chance. But the momentous event had presented itself in a light quite unforeseen, and Katharine's only resource was to shrink behind her cousin as much as possible. Eleanor advanced in her usual composed manner to Mrs. Lancaster.

"My dear Miss Ogilvie, I am delighted to see you," said the lady, with her customary demonstration of cordiality--at least the amount of it which was consistent with gracefulness of deportment. "Julian, here is your young favourite. Mr. Lynedon, allow me to present you to"--

"Katharine Ogilvie, I believe," said Paul Lynedon, bowing over Eleanor's hand.

"No, no; I really beg pardon," cried Mrs. Lancaster, as Katharine's shrinking, blushing countenance met her eye. "This is the real fair one, the right Katharine. I must apologise for my short sight. My dearest Miss Ogilvie," taking Katharine's hand, "allow me to thank you for your charming note, and to present to you my friend Mr. Lynedon."

Paul Lynedon was a perfect gentleman. No passing blunder ever altered his composure or courtesy. His bend was as graceful over Katharine's timidly-offered hand as it had been over her cousin's. His compliments, addressed to the shy, awkward girl, were exactly as courteous as those of which Eleanor had been the recipient. Yet in this he was not insincere. The polish of his manners originated in the only quality which makes a true gentleman, and which no formal, Chesterfield-like education can bestow--a natural refinement, and an instinctive wish to give pleasure to others. This true urbanity never fails in its results, nor was it unsuccessful now. In a few moments Katharine became sufficiently reassured to lift her eyes from the carpet to Paul Lynedon's face. It was a little different from the one which had haunted her memory during this long ten days, for imagination is rarely quite faithful at first. But still it wore the same inexpressible charm. She dared look at it now, for the eyes were turned away--following Eleanor.

Thither Mrs. Lancaster's also followed. "I am really ashamed to have mistaken you for the moment, my dear young friend," said that lady, the universality of whose friendship was its chief recommendation.

"It is some time since you saw me," answered Eleanor's quiet voice, "and you must see so many people."

"True--true, my dear. You have been quite well since I met you last, and that charming young man, your brother--Peter?"

"Hugh," said Eleanor, smiling. "He is quite well, I believe; he made one of your guests the other day."

"Of course--oh yes!" And Mrs. Lancaster's lips formed themselves into a fixed smile, while her eyes wandered abstractedly about the room. She had in perfection the faculty which is so useful in general society, that of being able to train the features into the appearance of polite attention, attended by just so much of the mind as will suffice for suitable answers.

Mr. Paul Lynedon was not quite so much au fait at this; he had not lived quite so long in the world as his excellent friend Mrs. Lancaster. Therefore, in the conversation which he tried hard to commence with Katharine, he did not succeed in advancing one step beyond the weather, and the distance from London to Summerwood. Perhaps Katharine's own shyness had something to do with this, for though it had been her delight to listen when Paul Lynedon talked to others, the tones of his musical voice, addressed to herself, now oppressed her with a painful timidity. It was positively a relief when Eleanor proposed an adjournment.

When the two cousins re-entered the drawing-room, there was still the same striking contrast between them--Eleanor so calm and self-possessed, Katharine trembling with nervous agitation.

The little party were grouped, as was natural they should be--Mrs. Lancaster conversing with Mr. Ogilvie, while a feeling of hostess-like benignity prompted Mrs. Ogilvie to extract from the taciturn Mr. Lancaster small fragments of conversation relative to the weather, their journey, the country in general, and Summerwood in particular. Paul Lynedon sat aloof, carelessly turning over the leaves of a book, occasionally joining in with a passing remark.

On the entrance of the two girls he rose and displayed the customary courtesies, though in a manner enviably easy and quiet. There is nothing more annoying and uncomfortable to a lady than to enter a room and see every gentleman jump up armed with a chair, ready to perform acts of officious chivalry, which place the recipient in a position infinitely more unpleasant than if she were entirely neglected.

Paul Lynedon began with a commonplace, and, reader, almost all things in life, pleasant friendships, deep, earnest, life-long loves, begin with the same. He made the remark that the view from the hall-windows was--that is, would be in daylight, and in summer time--a very beautiful one; and then he could not help smiling as he thought what a stupid and involved observation he had made.

That very circumstance broke the ice.

"You seem to have a wonderful perception of the beautiful, Mr. Lynedon," said Eleanor. "You see it 'with your mind's eye,' which pierces through the darkness of a winter night, closed shutters, curtains and all." And the good-tempered smile which accompanied her words, fairly removing their sting, caused Paul Lynedon to laugh merrily.

"You have saved me, Miss Eleanor--given me something to talk about, and preserved me from committing myself any more, by unfolding to me a few points in the character of the lady with whom I have the pleasure of conversing."

"What! can you find out my character from that one speech?" said Eleanor, rather amused.

"A little of it."

"Tell me how?"

"Why, in the first place, you have Shakspeare on your tongue, and consequently in your heart. One rarely quotes where one does not love the author; therefore you love Shakspeare, and, as a necessary result, all true poetry. Then my remark--commonplace, forced, and to a certain degree insincere, as I acknowledge it was--made you smile; therefore you have a quick perception of what is inclined to falseness and affectation, while your condemnation of it is good-tempered and lenient. Have I explained myself, even though I prove my own accuser?"

"Perfectly, though you are rather too harsh upon yourself" answered Eleanor. "What do you say to this sketch of me, Katharine?"

"If Mr. Lynedon means that you are always true in yourself, and always kind towards others, he is quite right," said Katharine.

Paul Lynedon directed towards the warm-hearted speaker a look of more curiosity than he had yet thought fit to bestow upon the "little school-girl."

"Thank you, Miss Ogilvie; that is, I thank you for proving my observations correct. A harmless vanity; yet I fancy they needed no proof but the mere presence of your fair cousin." And, as he bowed, his eyes rested on Eleanor's face admiringly.

No added colour came to that clear cheek; the smile was tranquil and self-possessed, and Paul Lynedon looked almost vexed. The little group were again sinking into small-talk, when a servant came to the door with "Sir James Ogilvie's compliments, and he was impatient for the honour of receiving Mr. Paul Lynedon."

"My father is very old, and has a few peculiarities; will it be agreeable to you to humour him with a visit now?" said Mr. Ogilvie.

"I have told Mr. Lynedon all about Sir James," observed Mrs. Lancaster. "Pray go,--you will be so much amused with his oddities," she continued in a low tone. It was meant for an aside, but it jarred painfully on Katharine's ear, which was ever open to all that was said by, or addressed to, Paul Lynedon.

But the young man's only answer was directed to Mr. Ogilvie.

"Pray do not talk about my 'humouring' Sir James; it is to me always not only a duty but a pleasure to show respect to old age."

Katharine's heart beat with delight, and her bright smile had in it something of pride as it rested on the speaker.

"Katharine, show Mr. Lynedon the way to your grandfather's study; you understand him better than any one," said Mrs. Ogilvie.

"May I be permitted?"--And Paul Lynedon led the young girl out of the room with a stately courtesy that made Katharine almost fancy she was escorted by Sir Charles Grandison.

Through the long hall, where the light of modern gas contrasted strangely enough with the quaint panelled walls and ancient mouldings, Katharine and her cavalier passed. She could hardly believe that she was really with him, that her hand rested on his arm, that his actual voice was in her ear, talking with gentle consideration of all things which he thought likely to set the timid girl at her ease.

And there was something so irresistibly winning in Paul's manners, that before they reached Sir James's door Katharine found herself talking frankly of her grandfather, his love for her, his waning intellect, and explaining the misapprehension which had led to his anxiety to see Mr. Lynedon.

"I hardly know whether it would not be as well to let him continue in the fancy," said Katharine. "It certainly gives him pleasure; but then, even to please him, I do not like to deceive dear grandpapa."

"It would not be deceit, for I may really belong to the same family," answered Lynedon as they entered.

The old baronet raised himself on his gold-headed cane and courteously greeted his visitor.

"It is to me an honour and pleasure to welcome my old friend's son. Am I not right in addressing the heir of Viscount Lynedon?"

"My name is Lynedon, and I have no doubt that my father was well acquainted with the name of Sir James Ogilvie," said Paul, evasively.

Somehow Katharine did not like the subterfuge; and yet it sprang from kindly feeling. She said this to herself until she, became quite satisfied; the more so, as Lynedon replaced the old man in his chair with an air of respectful courtesy, and then, taking a seat beside him, entered into conversation. A most entertaining conversation too--in which he showed himself perfectly acquainted with the history of the long-past era, wherein alone Sir James seemed to exist. Moreover, he appeared to throw his whole mind into the subject with a cordial earnestness that at first excited Katharine's surprise, and then her warm admiration.

"How kind, how considerate, how clever he is," she thought to herself, as she stood apart, watching each expression of his face, and listening to the music of his voice. Through every avenue by which brilliant and noble qualities first attract and then enchain a heart alive to all that is good and beautiful, was Paul Lynedon unconsciously taking possession of Katharine's.

While unwittingly stealing this young girl's liking, Lynedon no less won that of Sir James. Delightedly the old man passed from conversation about public matters to inquiries concerning his friend the Viscount and the whole Lynedon family, all of which Paul answered with a clearness and readiness that charmed his companion. Katharine, having now completely got over the fact that Paul had assumed an untrue character to please her grandfather, felt quite glad that, though there was a slight mistake about his being the Viscount's son, Lynedon was so well acquainted with all the history of his family, and could thus delight Sir James so much.

The dinner-bell rang when he was in the midst of an account of the marriage of Lord Lynedon's eldest daughter.

"I am sorry that I must now relinquish the honour of your society, my dear young friend,--for may I not bestow that name on your father's son?" said the Baronet, taking Lynedon's hand with a curious mixture of formality and affection.

"I shall always be proud of the title," answered Paul, earnestly.

"And besides, on second thoughts, I believe that more than one intermarriage has taken place between the Lynedons and the Ogilvies. Katharine, before you go, bring me that 'Peerage;' I feel almost sure that there must be some connection between Mr. Lynedon and ourselves. Suppose he were to turn out a cousin--eh?"

"I should be only too happy to claim any relationship to Miss Ogilvie." It was a common phrase of courtesy; he would have said the same to any one, especially a woman; and yet the blood rushed to Katharine's cheek, and her heart beat wildly. She hastily walked to the bookcase, but if "Debrett's Peerage" had been written as plain as with letters of phosphorus, her eyes could not have discovered it.

But Lynedon's practice of the bienséances was never at fault, and the book was soon in Sir James's hand.

"Adieu, my dear young friend. Katharine, bring him again very soon," said the Baronet.

"He must be a very old man, your grandfather," observed Paul Lynedon, carelessly, as they threaded once more the long passages.

"Very old. How kind of you to talk to him so much!" Katharine answered, in a soft, grateful accent.

"Oh, not at all--not at all, my dear Miss Ogilvie. But, here is the drawing-room a very desert, with Miss Eleanor for its solitary rose. Let me have the happiness of escorting both the fair cousins to the dining-room."

As on the finger of a throned queen
The basest jewel would be well esteemed;
So are those errors that in thee are seen
To truths translated, and for true things deemed.
SHAKSPEARE

Mrs. Lancaster, hemmed in on one side by the sedate and somewhat ponderous courtesies of Mr. Ogilvie, and on the other by the long interval of dinner-table space which separated her from the inanities of her husband, looked often towards the other side, where Paul Lynedon sat between the two fair cousins trying to enliven as much as possible the terrible solemnity of this always formal meal.

It is not in human nature to talk well during soup. This is the case even with the most serious and earnest of conversationalists--those who, disliking the current nothings of society, plunge at once into some sensible topic, so as to fathom, if possible, the minds of their associates. These excellent coral-divers of society find their occupation gone at the commencement of a dinner-party; a few refreshing dips over head, just to try the waters, are all they can venture, until the necessary duties of eating and drinking are performed.

Therefore, since we aim not at chronicling every word and action with exact fidelity, even as Van Eyck painted the hairs of a lapdog's tail and the nails in a floor, we do not think it necessary to enumerate all the graceful trifles that Paul Lynedon said, interesting his fair neighbours first, and by degrees the elders of the company. He threw over the commonest things a light filigree-work of imagination, which, while unsubstantial and evanescent, made everything seem beautiful--for the time. And is not such an art of passing glamour a most beneficial attainment in this weary, dusty, matter-of-fact world of ours?

When the serious business of dinner had resolved itself into the graceful dolce far niente of dessert, Mrs. Ogilvie observed:

"I hope, Mr. Lynedon, that my poor father did not weary you very much?"

"Not at all; we got on admirably together, did we not, Miss Ogilvie?" And Paul turned to Katharine, who gave a delighted assent.

"Grandpapa was delighted with Mr. Lynedon," she observed. "I never saw him more pleased. And Mr. Lynedon knew all about the branch of his own family of which grandpapa talked, so that he could answer every question. Where could you get so much information, Mr. Lynedon, and how well you seemed to remember everything!"

"Perhaps I did not quite remember everything, Miss Ogilvie," he answered, smiling. "My history of the Lynedon pedigree was, like hasty novels, only 'founded on facts.' It seemed to please your grandfather, and I was delighted to secure his good opinion, even though it entailed upon me some exercise of imagination. But--but," he stopped and hesitated, for he met the eyes of Eleanor Ogilvie fixed on him with an expression before which his own fell.

He grew confused, and tried to laugh the matter off. "I fear your cousin here thinks there was something very wicked in my little extempore romance. Yet I did all for the best. Let me plead before my fair accuser."

"I am no accuser," said Eleanor, gently.

"Surely Eleanor would not say one word against what was done with such kindly motives, and succeeded so well in giving grandpapa pleasure?" cried Katharine. "It was very kind of Mr. Lynedon; and very right too."

Paul looked surprised, perhaps a little gratified. He thanked his "young defender," as he called her, and changed the conversation; which, by his consummate skill, he caused to flow in an easy and pleasant current until the ladies retired.

"What do you think of Mr. Lynedon now, Eleanor?" cried Katharine, as, leaving Mrs. Lancaster and her hostess deeply engaged in a purely feminine discussion on dress, the two cousins crept away to Mrs. Ogilvie's dressing-room, and there indulged in a talk.

"Under what particular phase am I to criticise this hero of yours, Katharine? Do you wish me to call him handsome?"

"No; for that would not be true. But is he not very clever--so perfect a gentleman--so refined?"

"Too refined."

"How can that be possible?--Really, Eleanor, what taste you have!" said Katharine, turning away.

"To speak candidly, though there were many things in Mr. Lynedon that pleased me very much, there was one that I did not like; why did he make grandpapa believe what was not true?"

"Because he wished to give pleasure, and therefore it was not wrong;--I am sure it was not."

"Now, Katharine, I think it was. Plainly, what he called a little romance was a tissue of untruths."

"You are very unjust, Eleanor."

"I hope not, but you ask me for my opinion, and how can I help giving it? It seemed to me that Mr. Lynedon thought more of being generally agreeable than of doing what was right."

"There you are at your moralisings again; where did you learn them all?"

Eleanor would have been puzzled to answer; but, nevertheless, her perception of this man's character was a true one. He had a keener desire to appear than to be; public ambition and love of social approbation were united in him, and together seemed likely to become so strong as to render invisible in his own eyes the "indirect crook'd ways" by which he attained his end. Yet even this fault had its origin in that natural longing after the praise and love of human kind, which is the germ of the noblest qualities of our nature. It is a creed, harmless indeed, and inclining us to patience and long-suffering, that evil itself is but an ill-regulated good, and has no separate existence. There is not a poison-weed cumbering the ground that may not once have been a flower. And it rests still with the Great Fashioner, who, being all good, could not create positive evil, to stay the rampant growth, and to resolve each corrupted particle into its own pure elements.

We have wandered strangely from our scene, persons, and conversation; yet such wanderings are not uncommon in real life. Every one must now and then lift up the curtain of his inner being; and it is always good so to do. Perhaps Eleanor's "moralisings," as her cousin called them, had in some degree this effect, for it is certain that both she and Katharine looked silently into the fire for some minutes before they attempted to move.

At last Katharine rose, and smoothed her long black hair before the mirror. She looked at the reflection therein more earnestly than she was wont, for Katharine was one who cared little for her own personal appearance--probably because, having all her life been told how plain she was, she now fully believed it, and reconciled herself to her fate. But this night a faint sigh revealed a few rebellious feelings struggling in her young bosom.

"Eleanor," she said, "it must be very pleasant to be beautiful."

"Why?--in order to be admired?"

"Not exactly so; but that we might give pleasure to others. Is not every one glad to look on what is fair? and if we could ourselves be as pleasant as pictures or statues in the eyes of others, at least of those we love"--

"A sweet, loving definition of a desire which I suppose all have, more or less," said Eleanor. "What made you think of it just now?"

"Because I was looking at myself, and thinking how different it would be if I saw a beautiful reflection in the glass instead of that ugly face and lanky figure."

"My dear Katharine!" answered her cousin, putting her arms round the girl's neck, "do not speak so of yourself; remember, you are quite young; I should not wonder if you turned out a beauty yet--tall thin girls like you very often do."

"Do you think so? do you really think so? Oh, how glad I am!" And then a sudden shame dyed her face and neck crimson. "I am afraid you will think me very vain and foolish; but--but"--

"I think you a wayward, fanciful, darling girl, and the more you let me peep into your heart, no matter what I see there, the more you will please your cousin Nelly. And now let us go down stairs."

Mrs. Ogilvie sat in one arm-chair, and Mrs. Lancaster in another,--two planets in opposition. They certainly belonged to different hemispheres, and no power on earth could make them blend their light. Poor Mrs. Ogilvie had had a most painful hunt after ideas, and now, wearied and worn, she fairly gave in, unable to pursue the chase, and determining to let the conversation take its chance. Mrs. Lancaster was one of those inflexible talkers who will choose their subject, and "say their say," without regarding the capabilities of their hearers. If the latter understood and followed, well; if not, she let them "toil after her in vain" until she had done, and then passed on, rejoicing in the superiority of her own intellect. Yet, at times, she positively plumed herself upon her skill in adapting her conversation to all varieties of listeners. Under this idea she would in these days have entered a village blacksmith's and talked about Elihu Burritt, or discussed with some poor stocking-weaver Lee's invention of the loom, illustrated by fragmentary allusions to Elmore's late picture on this subject; a speech on the union of art and manufactures forming an appropriate winding up to the whole.

Thus Mrs. Lancaster had glided from the examination of her hostess's dress to a dissertation on the costume of the middle ages, varied by references to Froissart and the illuminated manuscripts of monkish times. Mrs. Ogilvie, carried out of her depth, struggled for a little, and had failed in her last despairing effort, just when her daughter and niece came to the rescue. Eleanor saw at once the state of the case, by the sudden, half-imploring glance which her aunt turned to the opening door, and the unchanging smile of patient politeness which sat on her lips. Taking her place by Mrs. Ogilvie, she relieved guard, ingeniously sustaining the whole burden of Mrs. Lancaster's conversation until coffee appeared, and with it the wanderer, Hugh.

In most after-dinner female coteries the advent of one of the nobler sex produces a satisfactory change, and Hugh's coming formed no exception to the rule. His cheerful face always brought sunshine with it. Mrs. Ogilvie gathered courage, Mrs. Lancaster thawed, and the two girls were fully disposed to enjoyment. Only Katharine, while she tried to interest herself in Hugh's account of his day's sport, could not help wondering now and then what it was that detained Paul Lynedon.

Lynedon was deep in a conversation with Mr. Ogilvie concerning electioneering. There was a borough near, where the Summerwood interest still lingered, despite the Reform Act; and Paul's inward dreams of ambition invested Mr. Ogilvie's conversation with a wondrous charm. He did not act--for, as we have before stated, Paul Lynedon was not habitually insincere--but the golden shadow of the time to come, when his host's friendship might be of service, made him regard many a prosy commonplace with a feeling of real interest, and also exert his own powers to their utmost in order to produce a satisfactory impression.

When the clear singing of a young girl penetrated to the dining-room, Paul first remembered he had asked Eleanor the usual question, "Did she love music?" and the sudden brightening of her face had answered the question better than her tongue. He felt sure that the voice was hers, and the future election, with all its ingenious devices, began to fade from his mind. When he reached the drawing-room door it was quite obliterated.

Paul Lynedon never saw one cheek that glowed with sudden pleasure at his entrance; he walked straight to the piano, and said to Eleanor, "I knew I was right. It was you who sang, was it not?"

"Yes; I love music, as I think I told you."

"Will you sing again for me?"

"You are quite unconscionable," said Mrs. Lancaster, while the faintest shade of acrimony mingled with her dulcet tone. "I am sure she must be tired."

The hint failed; and Mrs. Lancaster was doomed to a little longer silence while Eleanor sang again, and yet again. Paul Lynedon was enchanted; for her voice was the true heart-music, and it touched the purest and inmost springs of his nature. He was no longer the mere polished gentleman of society; he stood as Katharine had first beheld him--so silent, so deeply moved, that he forgot to pay a single compliment, and even to say "Thank you."

He knew not that Eleanor had sung thus well only because she had forgotten his presence, his very existence; because every song, by rousing some hidden link of memory and touching some secret feeling, carried her farther and farther away into the dim past and blotted out all the present. He guessed not that while she poured out her whole heart, no thought of him or of his approval influenced the song,--that though he stood beside her, the face she saw was not his: and when at last his voice thanked her, it jarred on her ear like a painful waking from a pleasant dream.

And then her uncle and Mr. Lancaster came, with their vapid acknowledgments. But neither they nor the gentle Mrs. Ogilvie, who in the good-nature of others saw the reflection of her own, and praised her niece accordingly,--nor the worldly fashionable dame who, living all for outside show, secretly acknowledged that though done for effect it was almost as good as reality,--nor poor simple Katharine, who marvelled at no inspiration the guerdon of which was Paul Lynedon's praise,--not one of these had fathomed the truth, or knew why it was that Eleanor Ogilvie had sung so well.

The change wrought in Paul Lynedon made him seem more attractive even in Eleanor's eyes. His manner grew earnest, and lost that outside gloss of almost annoying deference which characterised it when he had talked with the two girls at dinner. He spoke like a man--put forth his own opinion honestly, even when it differed from theirs. They talked--he and Eleanor and Katharine--about books and music, and all pleasant things which are a continual feast to the young and happy. Recognising Hugh, Lynedon drew him, almost against his will, into the charmed circle; conquering his reluctance to talk, and making him feel interested upon subjects that otherwise he cared little about. It was rather an exertion, but Paul was in a happy mood. So all conflicting elements were reconciled; Lynedon and Eleanor leading the way and supporting the chief conversation. Hugh was happy, for he had Katharine next to him. She sat almost silent, veiling her dark dreamy eyes with their long lashes; and at times, when Paul Lynedon spoke earnestly, raising them to his face with a look which once positively startled him with its intenseness. Katharine was conscious of but one influence--new, strange, delicious--which breathed in his words, which brightened everything whereon he looked. He seemed to her some glorious and divine creature

Whose overpowering presence made her feel
It would not be idolatry to kneel.

And Paul Lynedon,--what did he think of her? Let his own words tell.

"You seem delighted with the Ogilvies?" whispered Mrs. Lancaster,--as, somewhat piqued by a dull evening passed with the elders, she was about to retire.

"Oh, certainly--delighted!" echoed Paul; "they are a charming family."

"Especially the young vocalist?"

Lynedon answered warmly, but laconically, "I quite agree with you."

"And the dark-eyed Katharine?"

"A gentle, thoughtful creature; evidently full of feeling, and so much attached to her cousin. That fact alone shows what she must be. I like--nay, I almost love Katharine Ogilvie."

And it so chanced, that, in passing by, Katharine heard the words!

He had said them idly, and forgotten them as soon as they were uttered:--but they gave a colouring to her whole life.

O ye who have passed through the cloudy time when youth is struggling with the strange and mysterious stirrings of that power which, either near or remote, environs our whole life with its influence,--ye who can now look back calmly on that terrible mingling of stormy darkness and glorious light, and know on what shadowy nothings love will build airy palaces wherein a god might dwell,--regard with tenderness that enthusiastic dream! Perchance there is one of you who has dreamed like Katharine Ogilvie.

Say never, ye loved once
God is too near above--the grave below,
And all our moments go
Too quickly past our souls, for saying so.
The mysteries of life and death avenge
Affections light of range.
There comes no change to justify that change.
E. B. BROWNING.

The memory of the withered leaf
In endless time is scarce more brief
Than of the garnered autumn sheaf:

Go, vexed Spirit, sleep in trust!
The right ear that is filled with dust
Hears little of the false or just.

TENNYSON.

There are in our existence days which are ages. True, at such seasons the hours glide as fast--nay, faster--in their golden stream: but when we look back it seems as though the narrow tide of a single day had swelled into a life's flood--a mighty ocean which upheaves itself between us and the last epoch that we called The Past.

It was thus with Katharine when she arose next morning. Her foot seemed already within the shining entrance-gate of a new paradise. The old childish world of a few hours since looked far distant,--and oh, how pale and dim! She scarcely turned her face to gaze upon it now. All night her spirit had floated amongst the most delicious fancies,--and even on her waking she felt as still in a dream. On descending, she found that her restless happiness had made her the earliest riser in the house. She lingered a few minutes in the breakfast-room, looking out on the dappled morning sky, and thinking how beautiful the world was. Then she went into the drawing-room, and began to pour out her heart's emotion to her usual friendly confidante--her piano forte. Katharine loved music intensely; but the very sense which made her feel so keenly the power of song rendered its science irksome in the extreme. Still, though in society she shrank from any display, she sometimes sat alone for hours; her light fingers and sweet but feeble voice weaving together all sorts of melodies, most of which were the inspiration of the moment.

Now, almost unconsciously, she glided into the song which Miss Trevor's rich tones and Lynedon's praise had impressed upon her memory. She sang it with her whole heart, seeing nothing, save perchance one likeness which her fancy conjured up, and which formed the inspiration of the strain.

"Thank you, Miss Ogilvie," said a voice behind--Paul Lynedon's own--for he had entered softly; "why will you compel me to act the spy in order to attain such a pleasure as this?"

Katharine did not answer. Poor child! she trembled like a little bird in its captor's hands.

Paul thought what terribly hard work it was to get on at all with young girls who bore the lingering traces of pinafores and bread-and-butter. But good-nature urged him to make another attempt.

"I was not aware that you sang at all, still less that you knew this pet song of mine, which I asked your cousin for in vain last night. Why did you not tell me so?"

"Because I cannot sing," murmured Katharine, "I have scarcely any voice."

"Nay, I must differ from you there. You have a very sweet one, only it wants power and proper cultivation. But you sing with your soul if not with your lips, and that is what I love to hear."

And then Lynedon, to relieve her confusion, went on talking in an easy, kind, quiet manner about the quality of her voice and the way to strengthen it. "But what a long speech I am giving you--quite a lecture on music," he added, laughing.

"I like to listen to you, pray go on," said Katharine, simply.

("So, here is some improvement; we shall get on in time," thought Paul Lynedon.) And then he continued, "What I mean to say is, that, as we ought to let no talent rust, you ought to try to sing as well as you can. It may not be quite so charmingly as your cousin, but you will give pleasure to many, as you did to me this morning."

"I am glad--very glad," said Katharine, with a bright smile, and that earnest look which always puzzled Lynedon.

"Thank you, and you will sing whenever I ask you, like a dear little friend?"

"Yes."

"Then, thank you once more," answered Paul, feeling towards the "little shy girl" a real liking, which sprang partly from gratified self-love at having succeeded so well in the difficult task of drawing her out. "Then it is agreed, Miss Katharine--Miss Ogilvie, I mean, for so you are by right, I think."

"Yes, but I am never called so--only Katharine, I like it best."

"Then I will call you Katharine, if you will allow me."

Another quiet "yes" sealed the contract.--and thus was woven one more link of the invisible chain.

The time of the visit flew by--the "rest-day," the "prest-day"--and still the guests lingered, to the satisfaction of all. It is astonishing how soon an agreeable party at a country-house seems to grow into one family. It was so at Summerwood. Whatever passions were dawning to life beneath, there were no stirrings on the surface to break the peace and harmony of that pleasant circle.

Paul Lynedon after a few days began to think of Eleanor a great deal more than he liked to confess. Perhaps this was because her character burst upon him with a freshness that quite contradicted his former notions of women. She was the first who, if not treating him with positive indifference, had at least never sought in any way to win his attention. Her perfect independence annoyed him. It was in vain that every time he spoke there dropped from his lips, like the fairy gift of pearls and diamonds, compliments graceful and refined--the envied wonder of all his fair friends of old. But Eleanor never once stooped to pick them up. His vanity was piqued, and, after trying the experiment for a short time on Katharine, he gave up these elegant flatteries, and became his own real self--his better self. But this change only gained from Eleanor a surprised, pleased, and friendly response. She treated him with greater warmth, but still with the unreserve and frank kindness which she showed to every one around her. With men of Lynedon's character opposition is often the greatest incentive to love. Before he had been many days in her society, Paul was more épris with Eleanor than he had ever been with any woman during his gay and mercurial life. Perhaps, added to the spur of wounded vanity, came the impulse of many purer and higher feelings long dormant within him, which her true nature had awakened once more, and the reverent admiration with which he felt constrained to regard this gentle, single-hearted girl, Lynedon's quick temperament mistook for love.

But though Eleanor's influence over him grew stronger every day, it was still not strong enough to be outwardly discernible. Perhaps Eleanor might have discovered it--for a woman generally sees intuitively where she is loved--but her heart was too full of one feeling to admit even the suspicion of another.

There was a second person whose eyes might have been open to the elements for future fate that were brooding among the gay idlers at Summerwood. But Mrs. Lancaster was deep in antiquarian researches, traversing the country with her host as pioneer; and in this lady, love for science--at least for the éclat that science brings--shut out even the feminine impulse of curiosity.

So the young people walked, rode, drove in the pleasant winter mornings, sat by the evening fire, and talked, or sang, or told ghost stories, until the week ended, and with it Mrs. Lancaster's peregrinations. She spoke of going home, and after the usual friendly contest pro and con the affair was decided. The last evening came--the last morning. No more would there be of those social firesides at night, of that merry breakfast-table chat. When Katharine rose to answer her grandfather's summons, she felt this so strongly, that ere she reached the hall her eyes were overflowing. As she passed on towards her grandfather's room, she heard Lynedon call:

"Katharine, dear"--he often called her "dear" now, when they were alone, especially--"tell Sir James I will be with him by the time the reading is finished."

He had usually come in to aid her in the task--and now, the last day, every moment spent in his sight became so precious! It was a disappointment, that made what was ever a loving duty seem almost a burden.

Paul thought that during that time he might contrive to be a few moments alone with Eleanor; not to tell her he loved her--he was too cautious for that--but to try and gain some word or look on which his own heart might rest for a time when he should feel he was no longer in her presence. But there was Hugh, busy making flies, his usual morning occupation, and continually calling out for his sister's light fingers to aid in the dubbing, or to cut the wings. Eleanor, all-patient as she was, seemed quite content, but Lynedon grew restless and uncomfortable. At last, seeing no chance of the brief interview he sought, he went to Sir James's study.

Katharine was still reading, but there was a vacant look in the old man's eyes which seemed to imply that the listener profited as little as the reader. Every now and then he interrupted her to ask, in a voice feebler than usual, some question that betokened a wandering mind. He did not notice Paul's entrance, and the young man motioned to Katharine not to cease, while he placed himself behind her and looked over what she read. It was an old paper that chronicled the coronation of George III., and Paul could not help listening with a strange, almost painful feeling to the description of festivities shared by courtiers and court beauties whose very memory had passed away.

"It must have been a gay sight, grandpapa," said Katharine, pausing.

"Eh, what did you say, my child?"

Katharine repeated her observation.

"Read that last sentence again, dear; I don't think I quite understood it. Indeed, things do not seem to be quite clear here to-day." The old man touched his forehead with a feeble smile, and tried to attend while Katharine read. Then he shook his head mournfully, and said:

"It is of no use, Katharine, I can't make it out. What is it?"

"It is an account of the coronation levee, dear grandpapa, and of who were presented; look, here is your own name, Sir James Ogilvie, among the rest."

"Ah, yes--I remember I went--let me see, it must have been last week, for the Gazette appears weekly now. And the King has asked me to go down to Windsor and hunt; don't forget that, Katharine; and while I think of it, ring for Peters, to see about Ringdove. His Majesty said there was not a finer hunter anywhere than my Ringdove. Make haste, love."

Katharine looked imploringly at Paul Lynedon, who stepped forward.

"My dear Sir James, you are thinking of things long gone by."

"Eh--what--who are you, sir? I never saw you before," said the old man, over whom a strange change appeared to have come, for his dim eyes glittered, and he moved restlessly in his chair. "Katharine, who is this gentleman? I don't know him. What is he going to do with me?"--and he caught her hand uneasily.

"Dearest grandpapa, it is only Mr. Lynedon."

"Lynedon; ah, to be sure,--Viscount Lynedon. My dear lord, you have come from the levee; perhaps the King has invited you too? Ah! is it so?--that's well. How young you look! You find me not over strong, my dear friend, but I shall soon be better--very soon."

The old man paused a moment in his unusual volubility, and turned to Lynedon and Katharine--neither of whom would speak. A vague terror oppressed the latter; she became very pale, and her eyes filled with tears. Sir James looked wistfully at her.

"Who is that lady--I don't remember her?" he whispered to Lynedon. Katharine's tears overflowed, and she hid her face.

"It is Katharine--your own Katharine," said Paul.

"My own Katharine," repeated the old man; "yes, it must be Katharine--Katharine Mayhew. But you mistake, my lord, you must not call her my Katharine. Come another day and I'll tell you all about it; I can't now:"--and his voice trembled. "There she is, weeping still. My dear friend, go to her: we must do as the world does, and if her father should come in--! Tell her I did love her--I did indeed--and I always shall, though they will not let us marry. Katharine, my Katharine, do not weep."

His voice dropped almost to a whisper, and he leaned back with closed eyes, his fingers fluttering to and fro on the elbows of the chair. Lynedon motioned for Katharine to speak to him.

"Are you tired, dear grandpapa, or unwell? Shall I call any one?"

"No, no, no! I am quite well, only tired; so tired!"

"Is your father in the house, Katharine?" asked Paul; who felt more alarmed than he liked to let her see.

"No; he is gone out with Mrs. Lancaster--I think to the church."

"Church!" said the old Baronet, opening his eyes at the word. "Are we at the church? Ah, yes, I remember I promised. And so you are to be married, Katharine Mayhew--married after all? Well! well! This is your bridegroom,--and his name"--

"Dear grandpapa, you are thinking of something else," cried Katharine. "Here is no one but Mr. Lynedon and myself."

"Lynedon,--so you are going to marry a Lynedon! Well, I had not thought so once. But here we are, and I must say the words myself. Give me your hands"--

"Do not contradict him, it is best not," whispered Paul.

Sir James joined their hands together. Even at that moment of terror and excitement, a wild thrill shot through Katharine's heart, and her very brow crimsoned at the touch. The old man muttered some indistinct sounds,--and stopped.

"I have forgotten the service!--how does it begin? Ah! I remember," continued he very faintly,--"Earth to earth, ashes to ashes, dust to dust"--

Katharine started up and shrieked with terror,--for her grandfather had sunk back in his chair, white and ghastly. One feeble shudder convulsed the aged limbs,--and then all was stillness.

Paul and Katharine--their hands still clasped together--stood in the presence of Death.

The ordinary use of acquaintance is a sharing of talk, news, drink, mirth, together: but sorrow is the right of a friend, as a thing nearer the heart, and to be delivered with it.--BISHOP SELDEN

She did but look upon him, and his blood
Blushed deeper, even from his inmost heart;
For at each glance of those sweet eyes, a soul
Looked forth as from the azure gates of heaven.
PHILIP BAILEY.

"What a shocking occurrence,--really quite unfortunate, that it should have happened just now!" said Mrs. Lancaster, as she paced the drawing-room in a state of nervous agitation, half affected, half real. This was some two or three hours after the first excitement and terror-stricken grief of the family had subsided into the stillness of a household which had been invaded by Death.

The lady's remark drew no answer from Paul Lynedon, who was the only person present. He sat leaning his head on his hand in a grave attitude.

"I wish Julian would make haste with the carriage. I shall be glad to get away. It is so very unpleasant to be where there is a death in the house; it makes me quite nervous! If the old gentleman had but lived until night--Really, Mr. Lynedon, I wish you would speak instead of sitting there without uttering a word,--and when you see me so agitated, too."

"I am very sorry," began Paul, in an absent tone. "Death is indeed solemn!"

"Of course, of course; but you know I do not think with these stupid church-going people. No one of strong mind would. There is Mrs. Ogilvie, with her Bible quotations and her talk about 'submission;' as if it were not a good thing that the old man is gone--such a trouble as he was. Of course they are all in their hearts quite thankful for the event."

At this moment a low moaning from one of the distant apartments reached the drawing-room. Paul Lynedon's countenance changed from the apathy with which he had listened to Mrs. Lancaster, to an expression of deep compassion.

"Hark! that is Katharine. Poor child, poor child!"

"She has been in hysterics ever since you carried her to her room. It is almost time the scene were ended, I fancy," answered the lady sarcastically.

"How can you!" exclaimed Lynedon, with a look of grave reproof; but immediately recollecting himself, his countenance resumed its usual expression, and he relapsed into the silence which had excited Mrs. Lancaster's animadversions.

She, on her part, was becoming thoroughly vexed with her protégé. For several days he had not paid her half the attention which she exacted, or wished to exact; and now it appeared to her that his mind was entirely occupied by thoughts in which she had evidently no share. The lady's conjectures were right. At this moment her worldliness and cold-heartedness were almost abhorrent to Paul Lynedon. For days there had been a struggle within him between the two influences, the true and the unreal,--custom on the one hand, and on the other purity, simplicity, and nature. The latter were especially attractive as they came in the guise of Eleanor Ogilvie. Startled, awed by the day's event, and brought for the first time in his life within the presence of death--at least of sudden death--Lynedon had put off for a while the fictions which constituted his outer self. To him there was now something painfully repugnant in the affectations with which Mrs. Lancaster broke in upon the current of thoughts deeper and purer than the young man had indulged in for a long season.

"Thank heaven, there are the carriage-wheels," cried Mrs. Lancaster, who had been impatiently beating time on the window-panes with her gloved fingers. "Now we shall get away without meeting the family."

"What, shall you not see them before you go?" asked Paul.

"Oh, no; such an intrusion would be indecorous. I will send cards when I get home."

"Cards! Why, I thought of all woman's duties and privileges there was none so sacred as that of consolation. Surely I have heard you say so yourself."

Mrs. Lancaster shrugged her shoulders.

"In other cases certainly; but in this--however, my dear friend, I cannot argue the point now, for here is Julian with the boxes. Really, it is very disagreeable to wait upon ourselves, and all because of this old gentleman's death. However, we shall soon be at home. Of course, you are quite ready, Mr. Lynedon?"

"I beg your pardon, but I do not go just yet."

"Not go! And pray what is the reason of this sudden and most disinterested resolution?" said Mrs. Lancaster, with a smile of such ironical meaning that Paul Lynedon's cheek grew many shades deeper with annoyance. But, as was customary with him, he showed his vexation only by answering in a tone more firm and haughty than usual.

"Mrs. Lancaster, my only reason is one so trifling that it hardly deserves your attention. Merely, that having received much courtesy in this house, I wish to return it by inquiring if in this time of confusion and trouble I can in any way be of use;--and so, with an apology for troubling you with this explanation, allow me to lead you to your carriage."

Verily, the stateliness of the whole Lynedon race for a century back was compressed in Paul when he chose to exhibit that peculiar manner. The petite graceful Mrs. Lancaster shrank into nothing beside the overwhelming courtesy of his demeanour. They were silently descending the staircase, when Eleanor Ogilvie appeared.

"How very unpleasant!" and "How fortunate!" cried Mrs. Lancaster, in a breath,--the former being of course an aside. But a glance at Eleanor's face, which, though a degree paler than ordinary, was perfectly composed, freed the departing guest from the apprehension of a scene, and she reascended to the drawing-room.

"My dearest Eleanor, I would fain have saved us all the pain of an adieu. These most afflicting circumstances--your feelings--my own"--and here Mrs. Lancaster took out her pocket-handkerchief.

But Eleanor neither wept nor made any pretence of doing so.

"Thank you for your sympathy," she answered; "and since I see you are going, may I hope that you will excuse an omission which"--

"Excuse! My dear young friend, I would have remained could I have been any comfort, but I thought the kindest act was to intrude no longer on your sorrow."

Eleanor offered no word of dissent to this remark, and Mrs. Lancaster felt so completely at a loss that she again had recourse to her pocket-handkerchief.

"You will bear my adieux and condolence to your aunt and to poor dear Miss Ogilvie, who must be sadly afflicted."

"Yes," said Eleanor, briefly. She suffered Mrs. Lancaster's veil to sweep her cheek in a salute, and then held out her hand to Paul Lynedon, who had stood by in perfect silence.

He took the hand, but said quietly, "I am not bidding you adieu, for I do not return to town until night; perhaps I may be of some service."

"You are very kind," was Eleanor's reply, "but we will not encroach on your good offices,--there is no need."

"That is just what I have been telling him, Miss Eleanor; he will only be in the way. You had better come with us, Lynedon," said Mrs. Lancaster.

Paul never answered her, but looked at Eleanor. The look was so full of earnest feeling, sympathy, and sincere kindliness, that she was touched. "You will let me stay if I can be of use to any one here?" he said gently, when Mrs. Lancaster walked forward in ill-concealed impatience.

"Thank you, yes; do as you will," answered Eleanor,--while the tears which affected sympathy would never have drawn forth confessed the influence of real feeling. The traces of this emotion were still on her cheek when Paul Lynedon returned to the room. There is probably scarcely any man living who does not feel his heart drawn to the girl he loves, or even is only beginning to love, if he sees her under the influence of any grief deep enough to call forth tears.

So it was, that when Lynedon came again into Eleanor's presence his manner was so subdued, so tender, so free from all affectation, that she had never felt more inclined to regard him with friendly feelings. That she could either inspire or return a warmer sentiment had not once entered her mind with respect to Paul Lynedon; therefore her manner was always frank, open, and kindly, and now even gentler than usual.

"This is kind of you,--very kind," she said, giving him her hand. He pressed it warmly, as a friend might, and then let it go; he could not, dared not suffer the expression of love to intrude at such a time.

"I feel very much with you--indeed I do," said Paul's low musical tones, "and that dear child, poor Katharine--it was a terrible shock for her."

"Yes, Katharine loved him very dearly, and she was the darling of his heart. He chose her name, and she was his godchild. Poor grandpapa! I think he loved Katharine better than any one in the world. How strange that no one should have been present when he died except you and herself! Did he say anything, or seem to suffer? Poor Katharine has told us nothing--indeed she has been weeping incessantly ever since."

Then Paul Lynedon related the scene in the study and the strange delusion under which Sir James had died. A common sympathy, though one of which neither was aware, made Paul speak and Eleanor listen with deep interest to the touching memory of a long-past love.

"And he remembered her even then, this Katharine Mayhew--how strange!"

"It is not strange," said Paul, earnestly; "no man ever forgets the woman whom he first loved. The storms of a lifetime may intervene, but that such first true love should pass away--never, never!"

Eleanor's lips trembled, her bosom heaved, and the voice of her soul even more than that of her tongue echoed the "never!" It was as the one amen to the universal love-orison which every young heart breathes at its first awakening. But how rarely does each life's history work out the fulfilment of the prayer! Not fate's mysteries only, but the wilfulness, change, and weakness of humanity itself cast a shadow between it and that blessed "never," which while still believed in is strength and hope. Love is no longer divine to us when we find out, or begin only to suspect, that it is not eternal.

Lynedon watched Eleanor's evident emotion with a thrill of rapture which he could scarcely conceal. He interpreted all as a lover would fain do. Her lightest word, her most passing look, might then have drawn from him the confession of his feelings, and would surely have done so, despite the solemn time and place, had there been in her an answering love involuntarily betrayed. But when Eleanor lifted up her face, the look which met his was so calm, so unconstrained in its maidenly frankness, that the most anxious self-deceiving lover could not have discovered in it the secret which he might desire to see. Paul Lynedon shrank back into himself, and the passionate words which had risen almost to his lips died away in the ordinary expressions of feeling called forth by the occasion. Even these were so cold that Eleanor seemed surprised. She looked in his face, which was pale and agitated, and her womanly sympathy at once supplied the imagined cause.

"How ill you look, Mr. Lynedon!" said she, while her gentle tone and kind eyes expressed more than her words. "We have been thinking so much of ourselves, and have forgotten how much this painful day must have affected you. Sit down, and let me bring you a glass of wine. Nay, I will have no refusal."

Paul had no power to refuse. When Eleanor brought him the wine he took it from her hand, drank it, and then leaned his head against the wall, incapable of uttering one word. Eleanor stood by him with a feeling of deep interest, mingled with compassion. At last he roused himself, and said, with a faint smile,

"You must pardon me."

"There is no need--it was a trying scene; no wonder it affected you. I often think that men can less bear to come within the shadow of death than women can. It is our fate. No matter how regardless a man may be during his life of all female ties, it is from mother, wife, sister, or daughter, that he will seek the last offices of kindness. We leave worldly pleasures to you, but you look to us for comfort at the last."

Eleanor had said all this--a long speech it was too for one of her generally undemonstrative character--with the kindly intention of giving Paul time to recover himself. When she ceased she found his eyes fixed upon her face with an intense, earnest gaze. But the gaze was less that of a lover towards his mistress than the almost adoring look which a Catholic worshipper might turn to his saint.

"Have I talked to you until you are wearied?" said Eleanor, with one of her peculiar smiles. "It is some time since I have said so much on my own account. How much longer would you listen, I wonder?"

"For ever! for ever!" muttered Paul Lynedon.

"What were you saying?" inquired the unconscious Eleanor.

Paul recollected himself at once.

"That you are very kind and thoughtful--just like a woman,--and that I am ashamed to have given you so much trouble."

"Then you feel quite well, now? If so, I will go up to see poor Katharine."

"Not yet, not yet," Lynedon hastily interposed. "You were to tell me if there is anything I can do in London--any business to arrange, or, if not to-day, cannot I ride back here to-morrow and see? You know not what pleasure it would give me to do anything for you--that is, for the family."

"I am sure of it--I know how good you are. But my uncle and Hugh can arrange everything."

"Nay, your brother is out ten miles off in the forest. Shall I ride over to meet him, and inform him of this sad event?"

"Thank you, but we have already sent; indeed, Mr. Lynedon, there is really no need for the exercise of your kindness. And since, to be frank with you, my uncle and aunt will like best to see no one except Hugh and myself I will positively send you away."

"But I may come to-morrow, or the next day, only to inquire after you all, and perhaps see yourself or your brother for a few minutes. It will be a satisfaction to me, and Mrs. Lancaster too will be glad"--

Eleanor's countenance changed a little, a very little: she was so sincere, that even a passing thought ever cast some reflected shadow on her face. Her companion saw it, and hastened to remove the impression.

"You must not judge of me by--that is, I mean to say that a man is not accountable for the faults of his friends, or--or--acquaintances." There was some confusion in his speech, which was not removed by Eleanor's total silence.

"I wish you to think well of me--indeed I do," Lynedon continued. "I know there is much in me wrong; but then I have been left to myself since boyhood,--for years have not had a home, a mother, or a sister; and so I have grown more worldly than I ought to be. For this reason, now, in going away, I feel how much I owe for the pleasant and good influence of this week to you, who"--

Paul was again treading on dangerous ground,--but once more Eleanor's composure saved him.

"I am glad we have made you happy. We wished to do so; and it has been a pleasant week to us all but for its sad ending. And now, Mr. Lynedon, since I am the only one of the household who can take leave of you, let me thank you again on the part of all, and say good-bye."

"Good-bye," repeated Paul, as he lingeringly opened the door for her, and watched her light figure ascend the winding staircase. When she disappeared, his breast relieved itself with a heavy sigh. He rode home fully impressed with the conviction that the star of his life, now and for ever, was Eleanor Ogilvie.

There was a degree of irresolution in the character of Lynedon that caused him often to be swayed against his will. With him the past or the future was always subservient to the influence of the present. So, when he had ridden to Summerwood three times in the first week after Sir James's death, and thereupon borne a considerable number of Mrs. Lancaster's smiles and innuendos, he began to feel that there was some cause for the neglect of which that lady accused her guest. As the charms of Summerwood grew dim in the attraction of successive intellectual dissipations--for it is due to Paul to say that no others could have any influence over his fine mind--it so chanced that for the next fortnight he never went near the Ogilvie family.

The transition from sorrow to joy is easiest in pure minds; as the true diamond when moistened by the breath recovers its lustre sooner than the false. JEAN PAUL.

He stood beside me
The embodied vision of the brightest dream
That like a dawn heralds the day of life:
The shadow of his presence made my world
A paradise. All familiar things he touched,
All common words he spake, became to me
Like forms and sounds of a diviner world.
He was as is the sun in his fierce youth,
As terrible and lovely as the tempest.
He came--and went--and left me what I am.
SHELLEY.

Katharine Ogilvie sat in the room which had so long been her grandfather's. It was now, by her own desire, virtually resigned to herself. None of his own children had loved, and been loved by, Sir James Ogilvie, like this young girl, who had sprung up in the third generation--a late-given flower--to cast sweetness over his old age. So, Katharine seemed to have a right beyond all others to his room and to everything that had belonged to him. When she recovered from the grief and agitation which for some days had amounted to real illness, she took possession of the study without any opposition, except that her mother's anxious tenderness feared lest the scene of waning life and awfully sudden death might have a painful effect on a mind so young.

But Katharine seemed to have arisen from this trance of pain and suffering with a new character. During that week of illness she had merged from the child into the woman. A change had passed over her--the life-change, wherein the heart awakes, as out of sleep, to feel with a terrible vividness the reality of those pulses which had faintly stirred in its dreams.

Katharine knew that the power of which she had read and mused had come upon her own soul. She felt in herself the truth of what she had seen shadowed forth in romance and song; she knew that she loved.

It is with a sensation almost amounting to fear that a young maiden first discovers the real presence of the life-influence in her heart--when she feels that her existence no longer centres in itself alone, but has another added to it, which becomes, and will become more and more, dear as its very soul. Katharine, who in her unconscious simplicity had given herself up so entirely to the pleasant reverie of which Paul Lynedon was the presiding spirit, almost shuddered when the light broke in upon her and told her that dream was her life. With her, love was not that girlish fancy which is born of idleness, nourished by vanity, and dies in a few months of sheer inanition,--to revive again in some new phase, and, so transferred from object to object, live out its scores of petty lives, until it fairly wears itself out, or settles, at the call of duty or of interest, within the calm boundaries of matrimonial necessity. Words cannot too much ridicule or condemn this desecration. But a pure-hearted woman's sincere, true, and lifelong love, awakened by what either is or she deems to be noble and perfect in her ideal,--and as such made the secret religion of her heart, whereon no eye may look, yet which is the hidden spring influencing all her thoughts and actions,--this love is a thing most sacred, too solemn to be lightly spoken of, too exalted to need idle pity, too holy to awaken any feeling save reverence.

And such a love was Katharine's for Paul Lynedon.

She sat in her grandfather's chair, her brow resting against the same cushion where in death had fallen the aged head now hidden away in eternal repose. Katharine turned away from the light and closed her eyes. Her hands lay crossed on her knee, their extreme and almost sickly whiteness contrasting with her black dress. She was no longer an invalid; but a dreaminess and languor still hung over her, giving their own expression to her face and attitude. It was a pleasure to sit still and think--one so great that she often suffered her parents and Hugh to suppose her asleep, rather than be disturbed by conversation.

The room was so quiet, that she might have been alone; but Hugh, who ever since her recovery had followed her like a shadow, sat at the window making his eternal flies--at least that was his excuse for remaining with her in the study,--but he looked oftener at Katharine than at his work. So silent and quiet was he, that she had entirely forgotten his presence, until, waking from her reverie with a half-suppressed sigh, she saw him creep softly to her chair.

"I thought you were asleep, Katharine; are you awake now?" he said, affectionately.

Katharine's answer was a smile. She felt very grateful to Hugh, who had been her chief companion for some days, and had striven in every way to amuse her. He had given up the finest hunt of the season to stay at home with her; and, after in vain trying to interest her in the adventures of every fox killed during the winter, had finally offered to read aloud to her out of any book she liked, provided it was not poetry. But the time was gone by when the lingering childishness of Katharine's nature would sympathise with those purely physical delights of exercise and out-door amusement which constituted Hugh's world. She tried to hide this from him, and attempted to enter into everything as usual; but it would not do. The day lagged very heavily; and though Hugh was too good-natured to allude to the hunt, it recurred sorrowfully to his mind as he saw from the study windows a few moving specks of scarlet sweeping along the distant country. At last, when a horse's feet were heard up the avenue, he could rest quiet no longer.

"It is surely one of the men from the hunt; I will just go and speak to him, and ask him to have some lunch. You will not mind being left alone for a few minutes, dear Katharine?"

"Oh, no!--not at all! You are only too kind to me, cousin Hugh; pray go and enjoy yourself."

The door closed on him, and Katharine leaned back in quiet dreamy solitude. She thought of her grandfather--how soon every memory of him had passed away from the household; how even the long life of eighty years, with all its ties and all its events, had become like a shadow--had crumbled into nothing at the touch of death; so that in the world not even a month's void was left by the human soul now departed. And then Katharine's mind reverted to the closing scene of his life; the old man's vague wandering words, which she felt referred to some memory of his youth that he had strangely connected with her, not knowing that the universal chord thus touched in the shadowy past had found its echo in the present. The same impulse swayed the spirit then passing away, and that just entering upon its world-struggles. Amidst the solemn mournfulness of this death-vision came the remembered face of Paul Lynedon; the gentle sympathy of his look, the touch of his hand, the strange symbolising of their united fate--for so it might prove--who could tell? And Katharine gave herself up to the wild love-reverie of early youth.

In the midst of it the door opened, and Lynedon himself stood by her side.

Katharine had never seen him since the moment when, half insensible, she had felt herself borne in his arms from the chamber of death. Now, he came so suddenly into her presence that at the sight of him her heart seemed to suspend its beatings. Not a word came from her colourless lips, and the hand that Paul took between his own felt like marble.

"Dear Katharine, I fear I have startled you," he said, anxiously; "but I so longed to see you. I never thought of all the past--this room, too--how foolish it was of me!"

Katharine drooped her head and burst into tears.

Paul's kindly feelings were roused. He waited until Katharine's emotion had somewhat exhausted itself; and then laid her head back on the cushion, smoothing her soft black hair with his hand as gently and soothingly as an elder brother or father might have done.

"Poor Katharine, dear Katharine! you have suffered much; but we will not think of it any more now. Let us talk about something else, and I will sit by you until you have quite recovered yourself. Do not grieve so much for him you have lost--think of those you have still. Katharine, dearest--think of all who love you."

A happy smile broke through Katharine's tears, and a faint colour flitted over her cheek. The words were very tender--made still more so by the inexpressible sweetness of the tone. What music there was at times in Paul Lynedon's voice! No wonder it should echo in that poor self-deceiving heart like a celestial melody.

The first tender impulse over, Mr. Lynedon seemed to think he had consoled her sufficiently, and resumed the ordinary tones of common life.

"I have not yet inquired after your father and mother; they are well, I hope? May I not see them to-day?"

"Yes, certainly," said Katharine.

"And your cousin--Miss Eleanor?" Paul's head here turned towards the fire, and his fingers busied themselves in playing with a loose tassel on the arm-chair.

"Eleanor is very well. I had a letter from her to-day."

"A letter!"

"Yes; she was sent for a week since by her old friend, Mrs. Breynton. She told me to say how sorry she was not to bid you adieu;--indeed, we half expected you every day last week."

A slight exclamation of vexed surprise rose to Paul's lips,--but he suppressed it, and only tore the tassel into small bits. No indication of what was in his mind conveyed itself to Katharine's; she sat with her sweet, downcast eyes; and trembling lips, drinking in nothing but deep happiness.

For him, he concealed his disappointment, only saying, in a soft, earnest way,

"How very, very sorry I am! Nothing but the hardest necessity could have made me stay away from Summerwood a whole fortnight. You believe that, Katharine?"

Katharine did not know whether to say yes or no. She was in a rapturous dream, whose light flooded and dazzled all her thoughts and senses.

"But you will forgive me, and ask your cousin to do the same when you write? Will that be soon?"

"Oh, yes; we write very often, Eleanor and I."

"How pleasant!" said Paul Lynedon; while his thoughts flew far away, and the few words with which he tried to keep up the conversation only sufficed to make it more confused and broken. Katharine never noticed how absent his manner grew. She was absorbed in the happiness of sitting near him, hearing him speak, and stealing glances now and then at his face. And, perhaps, had she considered the matter at all, his silence would have only seemed another token of the secret which she fancied she read in the deep tenderness of his words and manner.

To him the time passed rather wearily; it was a duty of kindness and consideration, at first pleasant, then somewhat dull,--possibly it was a relief when fulfilled. To her, the bliss of a year--nay, of a lifetime--was comprised in that one half-hour. At the moment it seemed a dizzy trance of confused joy, formless and vague--but in after-hours it grew distinct; each word, each look, each gesture being written on her heart and brain in letters of golden light; until at last they turned to fire.

Hugh came in, looking not particularly pleased. Though he had a strong suspicion that his sister Eleanor was Paul Lynedon's chief attraction at Summerwood, he never felt altogether free from a vague jealousy on Katharine's account. But the warmth with which his supposed rival met him quite reassured the simple-hearted, good-natured Hugh; and while the two interchanged greetings, Katharine crept away to her own room.

There, when quite alone, the full tide of joy was free to flow. With an emotion of almost child-like rapture she clasped her hands above her head.

"It may come--It may come yet!" she murmured; and then she repeated his words--the words which now ever haunted her like a perpetual music--I almost love Katharine Ogilvie! "It may be true--it must be. Else he never would talk to me thus--look at me thus. For I--how could I hear such words, meet such looks, from any other man but he!--It must be true. He called me 'dearest.' He does love me. How happy am I!"

And as she stood with her clasped hands pressed on her bosom; her head thrown back, the lips parted, the eyes beaming, and her whole form dilated with joy, Katharine caught a sight of her image in the opposite mirror. She was startled to see herself so fair. There is no beautifier like happiness,--especially the happiness of love. It often seems to invest with a halo of radiance the most ordinary face and form. No wonder that under its influence Katharine hardly knew her own likeness.

But, in a moment, a delicious consciousness of beauty stole over her. It was not vanity, but a passionate gladness, that thereby she might be more worthy of him. She drew nearer; she gazed almost lovingly on the bright young face reflected there, not as if it were her own, but as something fair and precious in his sight--which accordingly became the same to hers. She looked into the depths of the dark clear eyes: ah! one day it might be his delight to do the same! She marked the graceful curves of the round white hand--the same hand which had rested in his: perhaps the time might come when it would rest there for ever. "Blessed hand!--oh, dear--dear little hand of mine!" And she kissed it, more than once--till she began blushing at her own folly.

Simple, child-like Katharine--a child in all but love--if thou couldst have died in that dream!

The sudden delirium of joy passed away, and left a still gladness which lighted up her eyes and trembled in her lips, making her whole countenance beautiful. As she went down to dinner, she passed the open door of the study, and entered it for a moment. How changed it seemed!--the memorial altar of Death had become the sanctuary of Love. A little, Katharine's heart smote her; and a few tears fell, awakened by one sudden thought of him who was gone. But how could the dear yet now faint memory of the dead contend with the fresh, glad fount of youth and first love that sprang up in her heart, filling it with sunshine and singing evermore--until the light and the music shut out all sorrowful sights and sounds, or changed them into joy? It could not be: it never is so in this world. And Nature, who makes the greenest grass and the brightest flowers to grow over graves, thus teaches us that in this ever-renewed current of life there is deep wisdom and infinite love.

Paul Lynedon stayed all day. It was a day of quiet pleasure to every one. Mr.--or, as Paul found some difficulty in calling him, Sir Robert--Ogilvie was glad to have a talk about politics, and his lady was delighted that a visitor had at last arrived to break the formal gloom of a household over which death had passed, but scarcely sorrow. Hugh had an engagement elsewhere. This fact, while Sir Robert took his after-dinner nap, cost Lady Ogilvie a long apology, which her guest thought infinitely more wearisome than the circumstance for which it was meant to atone.

"Though casting no reproach on your nephew's agreeable society," said the polite Lynedon, "I assure you, my dear Lady Ogilvie, that I shall be quite content, and indeed gratified, to have your daughter all to myself for a whole evening. Is it not so, Katharine?"--and he took the young girl's hand with the affectionate familiarity which he had established between them. How bright, how joyful, were the answering blush and smile!

Paul Lynedon saw both. He was flattered at having so completely conquered the shyness of this young creature, who, in the intervals of his sudden passion for Eleanor, had at once interested, amused, and puzzled him. He could not but perceive the admiring reverence of himself which her whole manner unconsciously showed; and a proud man likes to be worshipped and looked up to, especially by the other sex. To be sure, Katharine was still a mere child; but there was something even in the devotion of a young girl that gratified his self-esteem and love of approbation--both very strong in Paul Lynedon.

So, his manner towards Katharine took a deeper and tenderer meaning--more so than even he intended it should. Though the other fair image which he fancied so dear still lingered in his heart, and he was haunted all that evening with shadowy visions of Eleanor, still he talked to Katharine as men will idly talk,--never dreaming that every low tone, every tender look, thoughtlessly lavished on an interesting girl, went deep to the most passionate recesses of a woman's heart.

After tea, Paul's eyes wandered to the little recess where harp and piano stood. Perhaps his lover-like fancy conjured up there the sweet calm face and bending figure of Eleanor.

"You feel dull without music. Is not that what you are thinking of?" inquired Katharine, timidly.

A tacit prevarication, by which more tender consciences than Paul's often deem it no wrong to compromise truth, enabled him to answer, "Yes, I was wishing to ask you to sing, but did not like so soon after"--and he stopped.

Katharine looked grave, and her eyes filled with tears.

"Perhaps I ought not.--Yet he always loved to see me happy, and he liked you so much! Mr. Lynedon, I will try to sing if it will give you any pleasure. May I not, mamma?"

But Lady Ogilvie had gone comfortably to sleep in the inner drawing-room.

Katharine sang:--it was wonderful how much she had improved. Paul listened, praised, and made her try over all his favourites which Eleanor had sung to him. Katharine saw his earnest, almost abstracted look; she knew not that he was touched less by the present than by recollections of the happy past and vague plans for the future--a future now all centred in Eleanor Ogilvie.

Under the influence of these thoughts and projects, Paul felt happy. He took leave of the family, of Katharine especially, with a cheerful, tender light in his eyes--those beautiful soft grey eyes, which at times were more eloquent than even his tongue.

"I am going a short journey, but I shall not be away long. A fortnight, at furthest, will see me again at Summerwood."

"We shall be happy to see you, Mr. Lynedon," said Sir Robert, cordially; "you see we make you quite one of the family."

"It is my greatest happiness," answered Paul, with a delighted look, and a tone of deeper earnestness than Katharine had ever heard him use. It made her little heart flutter wildly. Quicker still it throbbed when Lynedon entreated Sir Robert not to stir from the fireside. "Your good-bye and good-speed shall be the last, dear Katharine, if you will come with me to the door."

She did so, trembling all over. When they stood together in the hall, he took both her hands in his, and held them there for a long time, looking down tenderly upon her agitated face.

"You will think of me when I am away?" he whispered.

"Yes," was all she could answer.

"And you will remember me--you will love me--until I come again?"

This time no answer--none. But he saw that her slight frame quivered like a reed, and that the large limpid eyes which she raised to his, for one instant only, were swimming in tears. As he gazed, a thrill of pleased vanity, not unmingled with a deeper, tenderer feeling, came over Paul Lynedon. With a sudden impulse--he was always governed by impulses--he stooped down and kissed the tearful eyes, the trembling lips, which had silently betrayed so much.

"God bless you, Katharine--dearest Katharine!" were his last words. Their echoes rang through her life for years.

Lynedon, as he rode home, felt rather annoyed that he had committed himself in this way. But he could not help it--she looked so pretty. And then, she was a mere child after all, and would be his little cousin soon, he hoped. With this thought, he dismissed the subject, and the image of Katharine glided into that of Eleanor Ogilvie.

But she--the young creature whom he left behind--stood there, absorbed in a trance of delirious rapture. She saw nothing--felt nothing--but the vanished face and the touch that lingered on her lips and eyelids. It seemed as if with that kiss a new soul--his soul--had passed into her own, giving it a second life. She awoke, as if in another world, feeling her whole being changed and sublimated. With her, everything in existence now tended towards one thought, one desire, one passionate and yet solemn prayer--that she might one day be worthy to lay down her life, her love, her very soul, at the feet of Paul Lynedon.

Not wholly in the busy world, nor quite
Beyond it, blooms the garden that I love.
News from the humming city comes to it
In sound of funeral or marriage bells,
And, sitting muffled in dark leaves, you hear
The windy clanging of the minster clock.
TENNYSON.

There is, in one of the counties between Devon and Northumberland, a certain cathedral city, the name of which I do not intend to reveal. It is, or was until very lately, one of the few remaining strongholds of High-Churchism and Conservatism, political and moral. In olden days it almost sacrificed its existence as a city for the cause of King Charles the Martyr; and ever since has kept true to its principles, or at least to that modification of them which the exigencies of modern times required. And the "loyal and ancient" town--which dignifies itself by the name of city, though a twenty minutes' walk would bring you from one extremity to the other--is fully alive to the consciousness of its own deservings. It is a very colony of Levites; who, devoted to the temple-service, shut out from their precincts any unholy thing. But this unholiness is an epithet of their own affixing, not Heaven's. It means not merely what is irreligious, but what is ungenteel, unaristocratic, un-Conservative.

Yet there is much that is good about the place and its inhabitants. The latter may well be proud of their ancient and beautiful city--beautiful not so much in itself as for its situation. It lies in the midst of a fertile and gracefully undulated region, and consists of a cluster of artistically irregular and deliciously old-fashioned streets, of which the nucleus is the cathedral. This rises aloft with its three airy spires, so light, so delicately traced, that they have been christened the Ladies of the Vale. You may see them for miles and miles looking almost like a fairy building against the sky. The city has an air of repose, an old-world look, which becomes it well. No railway has yet disturbed the sacred peace of its antiquity, and here and there you may see grass growing in its quiet streets,--over which you would no more think of thundering in a modern equipage than of driving a coach-and-four across the graves of your ancestors.

The whole atmosphere of the place is that of sleepiness and antique propriety. The people do everything, as Boniface says, "soberly." They have grave dinner-parties, once or twice in the year; a public ball, as solemn as a funeral; a concert now and then, very select and proper;--and so society moves on, in a circle of polite regularities. The resident bishop is the sun of the system; around which deans, sub-deans, choral vicars, and clerical functionaries of all sorts, revolve in successive orbits with their separate satellites. One character, one tone of feeling, pervades everybody. L--is a city of serene old age. Nobody seems young there--not even the little singing-boys.

But the sanctum sanctorum, the penetralia of the city, is a small region surrounding the cathedral, entitled the Close. Here abide relics of ancient sanctity, widows of departed deans, maiden descendants of officials who probably chanted anthems on the accession of George III, or on the downfall of the last Pretender. Here, too, is the residence of many cathedral functionaries who pass their lives within the precincts of the sanctuary. These dwellings have imbibed the clerical and dignified solemnity due to their neighbourhood. It seems always Sunday in the Close; and the child who should venture to bowl a hoop along its still pavement, or play at marbles on its door-steps, would be more daring than ever was infant within the verge of the city of L--.

In this spot was Mrs. Breynton's residence. But it looked down with superior dignity upon its neighbours in the Close, inasmuch as it was a detached mansion, inclosed by high walls, gardens, and massive gates. It had once been the bishop's palace, and was a beautiful relic of the stately magnificence of old. Large and lofty rooms, oak-panelled and supported by pillars,--noble staircases,--recesses where proscribed traitors might have hid,--gloomy bed-chambers with spectral furniture, meet for the visitation of legions of ghosts,--dark passages, where you might shiver at the echo of your own footsteps;--such were the internal appearances of the house. Everything was solemn, still, age-stricken.

But, without, one seemed to pass at once from the frigidity of age, to the light, gladness, and freshness of youth. The lovely garden was redolent of sweet odours, alive with birds, studded with velvety grass plots of the brightest green interwound by shady alleys, with here and there trees which hid their aged boughs in a mantle of leaves and flowers, so that one never thought how they and the grey pile which they neighboured had come into existence together. It was like the contrast between a human mind which the world teaches and builds on its own fading model, and the soul of God's making and nourishing which lives in His sunshine and His dews, fresh and pure, never grows old, and bears flowers to the last.

There, in that still garden, you might sit for hours, and hear no world-sounds to break its quiet except the chimes of the cathedral-clock drowsily ringing out the hours. Now and then, at service-time, there would come a faint murmur of chanting, uniting the visible form of holy service with Nature's eternal praises and prayers, and so blending the spiritual and the tangible, the symbol and the expression, in a pleasant harmony. Dear, beautiful garden! No dream of fiction, but a little Eden of memory--let us rest awhile in thy lovely shades before we people them with the denizens of this our self-created world. Oh, pleasant garden! let us go back in spirit to the past, and lie down on the green sloping bank under the magnificent old tree with its cloud of white blossoms (no poet-sung hawthorn, but only a double-cherry)--let us stroll along the terrace-walk, and lean against the thick low wall, looking down upon what was once the cathedral moat, but is now a sloping dell all trailed over with blackberries--let us watch the sunlit spires of the old cathedral in a quiet dreaminess that almost shuts out thought! And, while resting under the shadow of this dream, its memorial pictures shall be made lifelike to us by the accompaniment of solemn music--such as this:

O earth so full of dreary noises,
O men with wailing in your voices;
O delved gold--the wailer's heap;
O strife--O tears that o'er it fall,
God makes a silence through you all!
And giveth His beloved sleep.

Of what quality was your love, then?
Like a fair house built upon another man's ground, so that I have lost my edifice by mistaking the place where I erected it.
SHAKSPEARE.

How ill doth he deserve a lover's name
Whose pale weak flame
Cannot retain
His heart in spite of absence or disdain;
But does at once, like paper set on fire,
Burn, and expire. CAREW.

It was scarcely possible to imagine a greater contrast than that between Mrs. Breynton and Eleanor Ogilvie. It was not the contrast of youth and age, or beauty and ugliness:--for the lady of the palace was certainly not very old, and might once have been decidedly handsome. But there was a line-and-plummet regularity, an angular preciseness, in Mrs. Breynton's mind and person, that was altogether opposed to Hogarth's curve of "beauty and grace." She was like a correct mathematical figure altogether made up of right lines. A bishop's niece, a canon's daughter, and a dean's widow, she had lived all her life under the shadow of the cathedral walls. It was her world--she could imagine no greater; and in it she had passed a life serene, sedate, unbroken, save by two shocks--the death of the dean--and an event yet more terrible, her only brother's relinquishment of the Church for the Army. The first she recovered in time; the second she atoned for by bringing up that favourite brother's orphan son to restore the credit of the family through the induction of surplice and band.

The elder lady and her companion sat together in the breakfast-room. It was the only apartment in the house that was small enough to be comfortable, and this shadow of domestic coziness was taken away by one half of it being transformed by a glass partition-wall into a conservatory. But this conservatory was unlike most others, inasmuch as it had dead brick walls and high windows through which little light could penetrate, so that it looked as if the room had been made into a vegetable menagerie.

Mrs. Breynton always made a rule of sitting still after breakfast for half-an-hour; during which time she read her letters, decided upon the day's avocations, and knitted one square of an eternal counterpane that seemed likely to enter on its duties for the first time as the shroud of its centenarian fabricator.

"Eleanor, my dear!" said the measured tones of the Dean's widow.

Eleanor had entered the menagerie with the charitable intention of opening the window to give air to its occupants.

"My dear Eleanor!" repeated in a tone higher, made her turn round and answer the call "I merely wished to remind you that we never open the conservatory window until Easter, and it is now only the week before Lent."

Eleanor closed the window; looking compassionately at the poor orange-trees, which could drink in air and light only by rule and measure. She came into the breakfast-room, and sat watching the sunshine that struggled in. It rested on an old picture--the only one in the room--a portrait of a rosy, golden-haired boy. The original was the Canon Francis Wychnor, whose monument stood in the cathedral nave. Could he have ever been a child?

Mrs. Breynton knitted another row in silence, and then observed:

"Eleanor, my reference to this season of Lent has made me remember how near it is to the Ember weeks. I wonder I did not hear from Philip to-day."

Sudden blushes rarely came to Eleanor's cheek; her feelings were too well governed and calm. But now she felt glad that she sat in the shade,--for Mrs. Breynton's thoughts had taken the same direction as her own.

"Perhaps he will write to-morrow," was the very ordinary reply that she found herself able to make.

"I hope so: but he has rarely suffered Tuesday morning to pass by; and it would have been pleasant to me to know that he is quite prepared for taking orders."

"This year--so soon!"

"Certainly, my dear. He was three-and-twenty last month--just in time. I have already spoken to the Bishop about the curacy of Wearmouth; and old Mr. Vernon, the rector of that place, is not likely in course of nature to live more than two or three years. I consider that there are few young men with better prospects than my nephew; and I think I may flatter myself on having been to a certain degree instrumental in his well-being."

"Indeed he owes you much! But I am sure, from what I know of Mr. Wychnor, that your kindness will be requited with interest."

A pleased though very frigid smile bent the thin lips of the Dean's widow. "I am quite satisfied that Philip will do credit to his family. I have no fault to find with him, except perhaps that he is not regular enough in his studies, and has a fancy for always carrying with him a volume or two of idle poetry--not quite the thing for a young clergyman to read. But he will get over that; and if he conducts himself well in his curacy, and marries to please me, as I have little doubt he will" (here Mrs. Breynton glanced approvingly at Eleanor's gracefully-drooped head), "why, then, Philip will have no cause to regret that he is my nephew. But it is already ten o'clock, and I have to speak to the gardener about transplanting some geraniums. Eleanor, will you be kind enough to ring for Davis?"

Long after the old lady had attired herself, and been seen slowly traversing the garden walks, Eleanor sat musing on her latter words--"If Philip marries to please me." It was almost the first time she had ever heard the word marriage on Mrs. Breynton's lips. The palace had always seemed a quiet, innocent paradise, wherein there was no mention of the one feeling which in society is often diluted into a meaningless and contemptible jest, or else made the cause of all strife, evil, and sorrow. Eleanor and Philip, shut up together like two young birds in this peaceful Eden, had glided into love, without any one's taking apparent notice of the fact, and almost without knowing it themselves. The flower had sprung up in their hearts, and grown leaf by leaf, bud by bud, neither could tell how. No doubts and jealousies from the world outside had ever come between them. Their perfect love was perfect trust--the deep faith between two beings who feel that they are formed for one another, and are united to the heart's core. They never talked about their love. Philip made no declarations--Eleanor asked no vows; and when they parted for the short visit at Summerwood, there was no formal farewell. Only, as they stood at the hall-door Philip pressed her hand, and said:

"Take care of yourself, Eleanor--my Eleanor!--remember you are mine--dearest to me of all the world."

Eleanor believed it, and felt from that moment that she was betrothed to him in heart and soul. She rested in the knowledge; full of trust in him,--in his true, earnest, noble nature. She had not thought much of the future until Mrs. Breynton's words awakened a restlessness and an anxious looking forward. Eleanor knew Philip's heart better than any one, and she foreboded that all these projects for his future advantage were little likely to be seconded by him. She sat pondering for nearly an hour, when she was summoned into the drawing-room by the arrival of a visitor.

It was the last person in the world whom she expected.

"Mr. Lynedon!--this is, indeed, a surprise," cried Eleanor.

There was a slight confusion in his manner; which was very soon reflected in hers, for just at that moment Mrs. Breynton entered. The extreme frigidity of her reception was enough to produce an uncomfortable feeling in any maiden of nineteen who has to introduce a strange gentleman--arrived, apparently, without any object but that of seeing herself.

"Mrs. Breynton, this is Mr. Lynedon, a friend of my uncle Ogilvie's, who was staying at Summerwood. I believe I spoke of him."

"I have not the slightest recollection of the fact, my dear; but any friend of yours or of Sir Robert Ogilvie's is welcome to my house. Pray be seated, Mr.--. Excuse me, Eleanor, but I did not catch the gentleman's name."

"Lynedon," answered Paul, somewhat disconcerted by the cold penetrating gaze of Mrs. Breynton. However, he made an effort and recovered his self-command. "I bear credentials from Summerwood which I hope will atone for this intrusion,--a few books which Miss Ogilvie was sending to her cousin. Happening to propose a journey which would lead me through your city, I volunteered to deliver them. Perhaps this offer was hardly disinterested, as I was glad of any excuse to stay and see your beautiful cathedral."

Mrs. Breynton began to thaw. To praise "our cathedral," and manifest interest therein, was a certain road to her favour. From the few words which she answered, Paul Lynedon was sharp-sighted enough to discover this, and he followed up his game with great patience and ingenuity. While Eleanor examined the books he had brought, he talked the Dean's lady into the best of humours. She took him to the window which looked on the cathedral-yard,--explained its architecture from top to bottom,--and finally, delighted with the interest that he evinced and with his evident antiquarian lore--Paul was the cleverest of tacticians in displaying every whit of his knowledge--she invited her unexpected guest to stay to luncheon.

"Then, Eleanor, my dear, we can afterwards show the cathedral to Mr. Lynedon, since he seems to admire it so much. I mention this, Mr. Lynedon, because under my escort you will be able to see the Ladye Chapel, the vaults, and other interesting parts, where visitors are not admitted in general; but I, as connected with the cathedral"--

"Of course, my dear madam; how fortunate that I have the pleasure of an introduction from one so important as yourself," said Paul Lynedon, trying not to smile at the clerical pride of this relative of so many departed dignitaries. His tendency for delicately polite satire became almost irrepressible, until in the midst of his pretended deference he caught Eleanor's eyes fixed on him. The reproach thus given he felt,--and stopped immediately.

Excited by her presence, Paul's longing to unfold his love and receive its requital grew stronger than ever. He tried every expedient that courtesy could either sanction or conceal in order to get the old lady out of the room. But Mrs. Breynton had been brought up in the old-world school of proprieties, and had no idea of leaving a young lady and gentleman alone together for five minutes unless they were plighted lovers. So, during two interminable hours, Paul had not an opportunity of exchanging one word with Eleanor except on the most trivial subjects,--and even then Mrs. Breynton's quick black eyes followed him with a hawk-like pertinacity that was anything but pleasant.

Paul grew quite nervous. "It will come to a letter after all, and I hate the idea of a proposal in ink. Confound that stupid old woman!" thought he, while the impetuosity of his character foamed and boiled under the check he was forced to put upon it.

At last Mrs. Breynton proposed to visit the cathedral.

"Pray, do not let me encroach upon you too much," said Paul, "the verger will show me,--or if Miss Ogilvie would favour me so far."

His eyes turned towards Eleanor,--so did Mrs. Breynton's but there was not the shadow of a love-mystery suggested in that calm, mild face.

"Indeed, Mr. Lynedon, I should be very glad to act as your guide, only Mrs. Breynton knows so much more than I do about these curious old monuments. However, we will both go with you."

"Certainly, Eleanor," acquiesced Mrs. Breynton, with an air of complete reassurance; while Paul forced his hand so precipitately into his glove that he tore it completely in two. But, as if the favouring stars looked with pity on the vexed lover, it so chanced that the Bishop's lady drove up to the gates just as the three were setting out. Mrs. Breynton was forced to return,--and Paul at last found himself alone with Eleanor.

Who ever wooed
As in his boyish hope he would have done?

asks the poet,--and poets are in nine cases out of ten the only truth-speakers. Paul Lynedon suddenly discovered that he had not a word to say. Eleanor--quiet, composed, unconscious Eleanor--had all the talk to herself. She exerted her memory to the utmost in order to explain everything. Paul listened assentingly--walked beside her--looked where she directed--but whether she were showing him Newgate or Westminster Abbey, it would have been quite impossible for him to tell. When they came out, a sudden fear urged him to make the most of the time.

"Do not let us go in yet. I should like to see the view from the terrace you spoke of," he said hurriedly.

They walked to the garden terrace.

"I really am much obliged to you for being Katharine's messenger; it was so kind and thoughtful of her to make me this present,--and to choose such nice books, too," observed Eleanor.

Paul felt that he must "do or die." He stood still in his walk, took her hand, and said in a deep, low whisper:

"Miss Ogilvie, you are mistaken; Katharine never sent those books,--it was but my excuse for seeing you. I cannot live any longer without saying 'Eleanor, I love you!' Why do you start--why do you turn away? Eleanor, you must hear me--you must answer me."

She could not: indeed, he hardly allowed her time--but went on rapidly,

"You were so kind, so gentle, when we were at Summerwood--I thought you might love me, or would let me teach you to do so in time. Eleanor, is it so? tell me:--or, have I deceived myself?"

Her reply was the one word--"Yes!"

Paul Lynedon did not answer. He leaned against the wall, and covered his face. Eleanor, startled and pained, was also silent. They stood thus for some minutes. At last she said, with some agitation, "Indeed, indeed I had no idea of this. Mr. Lynedon, you do not think I deceived you?"

"No, no--it was my own madness," muttered Paul; "the fool I was, to think that I had read a woman's heart! Well!--it will be a lesson to me. Miss Ogilvie, I trust you will pardon me," he said, in a tone that savoured more of wounded pride than of heart-broken love.

"Pardon you! I owe you pardon, if by any means I have made you unhappy. But I do not think I shall--at least not for long. Forgive me. I like and esteem you very much. I do indeed."

That soft voice touched Paul's heart, even amidst the angry bitterness that was rising there.

"For heaven's sake, Miss Ogilvie, tell me why you reject me! Is it simply because I have been so hasty that I have not given you time to love me?--or, do you love another?"

A deep crimson rose to Eleanor's very brow. Paul saw the blush,--and understood it. His pride took arms against his lingering love, and drove it from the field.

"You need not speak--I am answered. Believe me, I wish to intrude on no man's privileges. Let me hope that you will forget this unfortunate betrayal of feelings which you do not return; and accept my best wishes for your happiness. Look! I see Mrs. Breynton at the window; shall we retrace our steps?--I wish to heaven it could be done in more ways than one," added the rejected lover in a bitter "aside," which Eleanor's agitation prevented her from hearing. If she had, it might have saved her gentle heart from many a painful thrill of womanly pity; and shown her how rootless and how easily extinguished is the love that springs up suddenly in the breast of a proud and impetuous man, and with the thwarting of its own selfish impulse as quickly dies away. No man who loves worthily, however hopelessly, will mingle bitterness and anger with his sorrow, or say to the sunbeams under whose brightness he has walked for a time--"I would ye had never shone!"

Eleanor and Lynedon re-entered the house in silence. Mrs. Breynton looked at them with a politely-qualified curiosity; but the answer to her penetrating inquiry appeared sufficiently satisfactory, for she took no notice of the discovery. And the reverend and reverenced shadow of the Bishopess still rested on the good lady, who felt herself bound to reflect upon all around the high dignity and honour of this visit, shutting out every minor consideration.

"I shall be always happy to see you, Mr. Lynedon," she said, replying to her guest's hurried adieu with a stately politeness; "I regret that my nephew, Mr. Wychnor, is not here, but we expect him shortly."

Paul glanced at Eleanor. In the drooped head--in the bright rosy dye which suffused the very throat--he read the secret of his rejection. He turned hastily away, and his hurried strides resounded heavily down the pavement of the Close. There was a little child playing in his path--he drove the frightened boy aside with a fiery glance and a command that sounded almost like an execration.

"Well! he is the strangest young man I ever knew, this Mr. Paul Lynedon," was Mrs. Breynton's comment as she watched him from the window of the palace. "Really, Eleanor"--

But Eleanor had left the room, to relieve her troubled heart with a gush of pent-up tears. This sudden knowledge of another's love had unveiled to her more completely the depths of her own, and shown her how her whole soul was bound up in Philip Wychnor. And no matter in how happy and hopeful a light this consciousness may come, there is always something solemn--almost fearful--to a woman who thus stands, as it were, on the brink of a life-destiny; feeling that in the future nothing can be perfectly sure or clear but the faithful love in her own heart. Yet that love is her fairest omen--her safest anchor--her chiefest strength, except in Heaven!

And while Eleanor lingered alone, in thoughtful musings that were almost prayers, and while Paul Lynedon dashed forward on his way in angry sorrow, determined to travel abroad, and so crush out of his heart every memory of his slighted love, Mrs. Breynton, good, easy soul, sat dozing over her netting, and thinking how very condescending was the new Bishop's lady,--when the first invitation to dinner would arrive,--and whether she should wear the black velvet or the Irish poplin.

O youth! with thy fiery heart--which, after all, is nearest to Heaven in the nobleness that thrills through its wildest beatings--canst thou ever freeze into such a dead, dull calm as this?

I ask no vengeance from the powers above:
All I implore is, never more to love:--
Let me this fondness from my bosom tear,
Let me forget that e'er I thought her fair.
LYTTLETON.

Passions are likened best to floods and streames,
The shallow murmur, but the deeps are dumb;
So, when affections yield discourse, it seems
The bottom is but shallow whence they come.
RALEIGH.

Lynedon strode through the quiet grass-grown streets of L--, his feet winged by the impetuous anger of a thwarted will. Despite the impulse of this sudden passion, it had cost him considerable effort before the gay and courted man of the world could resolve to give up his liberty, and immolate himself on the matrimonial shrine for any woman soever. And now the heroic resolution was wholly vain--the momentous sacrifice was rejected as an unvalued offering. The first absolute proposal of marriage with which Paul Lynedon had ever honoured the sex had been refused! And by whom! By a simple country girl, who had, he now thought, neither beauty nor fascinations of manner, nor--fortune.

He remembered that last circumstance now; though, to do Paul justice, he had not considered it before--for he was not a mercenary man. Even while it stung his pride, it brought a faint consolation to his sense of worldly wisdom. It had certainly saved him from perpetrating a most improvident marriage. He "laid the flattering unction to his soul," but it proved only a temporary balm; the sting still remained--wounded pride--selfish, angry sorrow, like that of a child over a lost toy--and perhaps a deeper, purer feeling, which regretted the vanished spell of that gentle woman's nature, under which every better impulse of his own had been re-awakened. That which he had felt was not the real love, the one sole love of life; but no man could have entered even within the shadow of Eleanor Ogilvie's influence without some true, deep chords being sounded in his heart,--and from their silence came the pain, the only sincere and virtuous pain, which Paul Lynedon experienced. To lull it, he walked for miles across the country, striving by physical exercise to deaden the excitement of his mind.

It was a lovely region through which he passed--all woodland or pasture-grounds--but the young man saw nothing. Nature, pure, unalloyed nature, was rarely his delight: his perceptions, though refined, were not simple enough to relish such pleasures. Now, he only felt that the roads were insufferably muddy and the fields hatefully quiet. He did not marvel at the taste of a woman brought up in such scenes; he only cursed his own folly for ever having seen any charm in rural innocence. He would eschew such sentimentality in future; he would go back to the gay, care-drowning world--plunge in London life--or, what seemed far better, travel abroad once more.

Under this impulse he sprang on a coach that was then passing; caring little whither it bore him, so that it was far away from L--.

Lynedon entrenched himself in proud reserve beside the coachman; and scarcely answered, even in monosyllables, when this individual--a character in his way--civilly pointed out many a lovely pastoral view,--amongst which, from every point, the "Ladies of the Vale" could be seen airily towering in the clear sky. With melancholy emphasis did the foreboding hero of the whip point out the line where the threatened railway was to traverse this beautiful champaign, and bring at last the evil spirit of reform and progress into the time-honoured sanctity of the cathedral town. But Lynedon hated the very name of the place. All that he noticed in his neighbour's conversation was the atrocious S--shire accent; and he came to the conclusion that the English peasantry were the rudest in the world.

At last, Paul's mind began to settle into a few straightforward resolves with regard to his future proceedings. The coach was bearing him towards London;--but could he go there, within reach of the sneers of the already suspecting Mrs. Lancaster? No, he would pretend urgent affairs, and rush abroad:--and to do this, he must first go home.

Home! It was a rare word in Paul Lynedon's vocabulary. Very few of his friends knew of its existence at all; and he never sought to enlighten their ignorance,--for, in fact, he was considerably ashamed of the place.

The penultimate descendant of the time-honoured Lynedon race had sought to redeem his fortunes by trade. Paul's father had been a cotton-manufacturer. The moderate fortune which now enabled the son to take his stand in that sphere to which his birth entitled him, had sprung from the red-brick mill, with its black windows, its ever-dinning wheels. This grim phantom had been the horror of Paul Lynedon's youth: it haunted him even yet. Perhaps, had his better self gained free play, he would not have so wholly sought to stifle the remembrance of the spot where, years before, the aristocratic father, equally proud but yet noble in his pride, had put his hand to the work, and never once looked back until he had replaced ancestral wealth by the wealth of industry. Paul's conscience, and his appreciative reverence for virtue, acknowledged all this,--but he had not strength of mind to brave the world and say so.

Therefore, while he would not part with the simple dwelling where his grey-haired father and his fair young mother had both died, and where his sister and himself had spent their orphaned childhood--still, Lynedon rarely alluded to his "home," and scarcely ever visited it. The distant sound of the horrible cotton-mill, now long since passed into other hands, almost drove him wild yet. No head with brains could endure the din. On his rare visits, he usually made a circuit of half-a-mile to avoid it. He did so now, notwithstanding the weariness caused by his long night journey. At last, in the sunshine of early morning, he stood by his own door.

It had originally been a straight-staring, plain-fronted house, of the eternal red brick peculiar to the manufacturing districts. But the builder's want of taste was concealed by the late owner's possession of that graceful quality. Over the staring front were trained ivy, clematis, and vine,--converting it into a very bower of greenery; and amidst the formal garden had been planted quick-growing lime-trees, that now formed "pleached alleys" wherein even poets or lovers--the true honey-bees of all life's pleasure-flowers--might delight to walk.

As Paul Lynedon passed hastily through these, he thought for a moment how, when the trees were growing, he and his little sister had used to play at hide-and-seek among them. He wished that the bright, curly-tressed head had been peeping out from among the branches, and smiling a womanly, sisterly welcome from the barred and lonely doorway. The first time for many months, he remembered a little green mound beside the stately burying-place of the Lynedons--far away. Paul sighed, and thought that he might have been a better and a happier man if poor little Alice had lived to be a woman.

He roused his old housekeeper; but when she came, at the first look of her sour, grumbling face, he hastily dismissed her. In the long-deserted house was neither chamber nor bed prepared; so he stretched himself on a sofa, and tried to forget past, present, and future in a most welcome slumber.

This deep sleep lasted for several hours. Lynedon awoke with the afternoon sun staring right into his face, together with a couple of human optics belonging to a young man who sat near him and maintained an equally pertinacious gaze. This individual held, likewise, his evidently medical fingers on the sleeper's wrist, while from his other hand dangled the orthodox M.D.'s watch. It fell to the ground when Paul started up with an energy very unlike a patient's.

"My good friend--my dear Lynedon--well, I thought there could be nothing much the matter with you."

"Who imagined there was?"

"Why, that good old soul your housekeeper, who said you slept so heavily at first, and then began to talk so wildly, she was sure you were mad, or had taken poison,--and so fetched me."

"Pshaw--well, I am very glad to see you, Doctor," said Paul, rousing himself, and trying to shake off the rush of painful and mortifying thoughts that came with his awaking. He could not do this altogether; and it was with considerable effort that he forced his features into a polite smile while he listened to the talk of his old college chum, who, on giving up the sermon for the recipe, had been considerably indebted to Lynedon's kindness for a start in life.

"I am sure I hope you are coming to settle among us, or at least to stay a long time," said Dr. Saville.

Paul's face darkened. "No; I shall be off in a day or two for the Continent. I don't care when I come back. I hate England."

"Really--how very odd! what can be the reason?" was the simple remark of the most commonplace of country doctors.

"Never mind, my good fellow," said Paul rather sharply. "Don't talk about myself; I am sick of the subject. Speak about any other affairs--your own for instance; doubtless far more interesting to both parties."

"Thank you, Lynedon, you are very kind:"--and the chattering, weak-minded, but good-natured physician held forth for a long time on the inane topics current in the neighbourhood. At last he glided on to his own peculiar affairs; and, after a while, gathered courage to convey to his old friend and patron the important information that he was about to marry.

"If you do you are a confounded fool," cried Lynedon, with an energy that made the little doctor tremble on his chair. "I beg your pardon, Saville," he added, trying to laugh off the matter; "you don't know what women are--not so well as friend Maro. Remember,

Varium et mutabile semper

Fœmina.

The old fellow was not far wrong, eh? They are all alike."

"Except my Lizzie! oh, no! I'm quite sure of Lizzie;"--and he began to dilate contentedly on a future rendered certain by its humble hopes and limited desires. Paul was touched; it formed such a contrast to his selfish sorrow and mortified pride. He listened with a feeling very like envy to the bridegroom-expectant's account of his already furnished house, his neat garden--Lizzie liked flowers--his little gig wherein he could go his professional rounds and drive Lizzie to see her mother on a Sunday. In the midst of this quiet, monotonous stream of talk, the worthy Doctor was startled by Paul's suddenly springing up with the cry--

"Upon my soul, Charles Saville, you are a happy man, and I am a most miserable one! I wish to Heaven that I were dead!"

Lovers, and especially rejected lovers, are generally slow to communicate to any male friend the story of their sufferings. They will do so sometimes--nay, often--to a friend of the opposite sex. A woman makes the best confidante, after all; and perhaps in such cases womanly sympathy is the surest cure for a heart-wound. It is hard to account for the impulse that made Lynedon betray his feelings to his old friend, except from the fact that the sympathy of the worthy simple-minded Doctor was most like that of a woman. Perhaps, too, the contrast in their prospects invited sympathy,--and Lynedon, having been the Doctor's patron, was disposed to like him, and to be more than usually communicative. But however it chanced, most certainly Dr. Saville contrived to glean a great deal of information; and by putting together names, incidents, and exclamations, to form a tolerable guess at a great deal more. In fact, if he did not arrive at the whole truth, he came very near it, and his prolific imagination easily supplied the rest. But he took care by a respectful reserve to avoid startling the sensitiveness of his patron; and the promise of secrecy with which he bade Lynedon adieu he long and faithfully kept--except with regard to his "Lizzie."

Paul, left to himself, saw night close upon him in the lonely house. He felt more and more its desolation and his own. It was not so much the lost love, as the need of loving, which came upon him with such intense pain. He thought of the poor village doctor, poor in mind as in person, who yet could look forward to a bright hearth made happy by a mother's blessing and a wife's clinging arms. While he--the admired of many a circle--accustomed to the honeyed flatteries of many a fair lip which he knew to be false as his own--he, Paul Lynedon, stood alone, with not a single creature in the whole wide world to love him.

"Not one--not one!" As he despondently repeated the words, Lynedon's eye fell upon a slip of paper which he had carelessly tossed out of his pocket-book. It was merely a few verses--copied by his request--written out in a girlish hand, evidently trained into the most anxious neatness. It bore the date "Summerwood," and the signature "Katharine Ogilvie."

As Paul unfolded the paper, his face brightened, and softened into tenderness. There came before him a vision of the dark eyes lifted, for one moment only, in sorrowing, yearning love--of the fair lips which had trembled beneath his own.

"Dear little girl--sweet little Katharine! I think she does care for me--God bless her!" He felt almost inclined to kiss the paper, but stopped; reflecting with a half smile that she was such a child! But even a child's love was precious to him then.

"I should almost like to see her again before I leave England," thought Paul. "But no--it would not do! What excuse could I make for my sudden flight? However, I will write."

He did write, as the impulse of the moment dictated.

It was a letter which spoke, as his idle words had before done, everything except the positive declaration of love. Its deep tenderness--its half ambiguous. expressions--its broken and altered sentences--were such as to thrill with happiness any young impassioned heart, that, once deceived into a fixed belief, judges everything by its utter simplicity, and sees in all forms and shows of love the reflection of its own. Poor Katharine! These outpourings of a momentary feeling, forgotten by the writer ere they met the reader's eye,--what would they be to her!

Paul Lynedon knew not--thought not--cared not. A few weeks after he was mingling in the gayest salons of Paris; the pleasure and pain of the last three months having alike passed from his memory as though they had never been.

I have a more than friend
Across the mountains dim;
No other voice to me is sweet
Unless it nameth him!
We broke no gold--a pledge
Of stronger faith to be,
But I wear his last look in my soul
Which said, "I love but thee!"

I was betrothed that day:
I wore a troth-kiss on my lips I could not give away.
E. B. BROWNING.

There is hardly a man in the world who does not feel his pulse beat quicker when, even after a short absence, he finds himself nearing home. A commonplace this--often said, often written; but there are commonplaces, delicious, ever fresh truths, which seem the daisies on the world's highway: it is hard not to stop and gather them sometimes. So, beginning with this trite saying, we may go on to remark that Philip Wychnor's heart experienced a slight additional thrill when, riding through the grass-grown streets of L--, he saw the evening sun emblazoning the palace-windows, and felt that he was really "coming home."

It is a rule with novelists--and a sterling one, in general--that you should never unveil your characters by elaborate descriptions of mind and person, but suffer them to develop themselves in the progress of the story; shining down upon them until they unfold beneath the sun-burst of your artistic skill, instead of pulling them open leaf by leaf with your fingers, and thus presenting to the reader your well-dissected bouquet of human-heart flowers. But in the present case we will waive the aforesaid excellent rule,--for no reader could ever find out the inner character of Philip Wychnor from its outward manifestations in the routine of daily life. Not that he was deficient in exterior qualities to win regard. Most people liked him--or at least that half of his character which was most apparent--and said, as Hugh Ogilvie once did, that he was "a good fellow enough." There was but one in the world who thoroughly understood him, who had looked into the depths of his soul. What need is there to say who was that one--precious, loving, and beloved--on whom he rested, and from whom he drew comfort, strength, and peace?

Philip Wychnor would never have made a hero, either in body or in mind:--at least not one of your grand world-heroes who will overthrow an army or perform some act of self-devotion with which the heart of history throbs for a century after. But there is many a lauded martyr whose funeral pile is only a huge altar to self-glory, which the man's own dying hands have reared. The true heroes are those whose names the world never hears, and never will hear--the blessed household martyrs who offer unto God the sacrifice, not of death's one pang, but of life's long patient endurance--the holy ones, who, through

Love's divine self-abnegation,

attain the white robes and the ever-blooming palms of those who have "passed through much tribulation."

Philip Wychnor might have been one of these.

But, wearying of our "was nots" and "might have beens," you may ask, dear reader, what he was. A poet? No; he had scarcely ever strung together six consecutive rhymes. But his whole life was a poem: so pure, so rich in all those dear charities and holy influences which create the poetry of this world. Some of earth's truest poets are outwardly dumb; but their singing is like the music of the stars; the angels hear it up in heaven. How glorious such unheard melody must be!--Was he handsome? It might be; for genius rarely exists without casting over the outward frame a certain spiritual loveliness,--and oftentimes soul and body grow linked together in an exquisite perfection, so that neither materialist nor spiritualist would think of dissevering the one from the other. But the beauty of Philip Wychnor's face was too refined--almost too feminine--to attract general notice. Features regularly chiselled and delicately small, shadowed by hair of a pale clear brown, in which somewhat rare tint no one could detect either the admired gold or the widely condemned red--a stature very reed-like, both as to height and slenderness--and that personal sign which in a man so often accompanies exquisite refinement of mind, a beautiful hand--comprise the external semblance of him whom we have hitherto seen only through the reflection of Eleanor Ogilvie's love.

Let him now stand alone in his real likeness, ungilded by even this love-sunshine; a son of Adam, not perfect but still nearer--ay, ten thousand times--to that grand image of true manhood than the many poor clay deities, the work of the tailor and the fencing-master, which draw silly maidens' eyes in drawing-room or street. Stand forth, Philip Wychnor! Raise thy face, sublime in its gentleness--with the pure lips through which the foul impieties of boasting youth never yet passed--with the eyes that have not scorned at times to let their lashes droop over a tear of sympathy or of sorrow. Lift up thy hand, which never used its strength against a fellow-creature,--and was not the less heroic for that. Stand forth, Philip Wychnor, and show the world the likeness of a man!

He passed the iron gateway, sprang up the palace-steps with a speed worthy of an agile youth--and a lover; in a minute the pleasant fire-lit room where Mrs. Breynton and Eleanor held their after-dinner chat, was brightened by a presence welcome to both. How doubly so to one! A good and kind, if not an affectionate aunt, was Mrs. Breynton; and perhaps now as much warmth as her nature owned was expressed in the solemn salutation which Philip's forehead received. And then came the dear, close, lingering hand-pressure of meeting and welcome--so silent, yet so full of all faithful assurance--between two who to their inmost hearts knew, loved, and trusted one another.

After even a few months of separation, it always takes a space of desultory talk before the dearest friends settle down into the quiet satisfaction of meeting. So the conversation around that dear fireside at the palace was rather restless and wandering, both as to the topics discussed and as to the way in which they were sustained. Philip found himself listening to, or at least hearing with his outward ears, the full, true, and particular account of the new Bishop's first sermon, and his lady's first call. It showed either surprising forgetfulness or true womanly tact in Mrs. Breynton, that in her lengthened recital of that day's events she made no allusion to Mr. Paul Lynedon.

"By-the-by, my dear Philip, as you did not write, I scarcely expected you home quite so soon."

"I myself hardly looked for such a pleasure until yesterday, when I found I could leave. And you know, Aunt Breynton, that I never lose any time in coming to see you," answered the young man, affectionately.

A pleased, though rather a sedate smile marked the acknowledgments of Aunt Breynton; and then her mind turned suddenly to the melancholy fact that no household preparation was made for the visitor.

"This, you see, my dear nephew, is the result of not doing things regularly. Had you written the day before, we should have had your room ready; but now I fear you will have to sleep without curtains. And I dare say you have not dined, and the cook is gone to bed most likely."

Philip protested against the accusation of hunger, though he was quite unable to recollect whether he had dined or not. Thereupon, he was obliged to listen to a few arguments concerning the necessity of taking care of his health and the evil of long fasting. At last Mrs. Breynton's domestic anxiety could no longer restrain itself, and she rose to quit the room. As she passed the door, she unfortunately spied on a chair the hat and gloves which her nephew had thrown down on his entry. She could not resist the opportunity.

"Philip!"

Philip started from an earnest gaze at the drooping profile which was reflected against the fire-light, and opened the door for the old lady. The act of politeness disarmed her; she liked the grave courtesies of old, and the long lecture resolved itself into--

"Thank you, Philip. Now oblige me by ringing for the footman to take away these." She pointed to the offending intruders on the neatness of her drawing-room; and sailed majestically away, the very genius of tidiness.

Dear Eleanor and Philip! young, simple-hearted lovers! such as the wide world's heart has ever yearned over in song or story--ay, and ever will--how did they look at, how speak to each other? They did neither. They stood by the fire--for she had risen too--stood quite silent, until Philip took first one hand, then both, in his.

"Eleanor, are you glad to see me?"

"Glad, Philip!" was the low reply--only an echo, after all; but the clear, pure eyes were raised to his with a fulness of love that gave all the answer his own sought. He lifted her hands--he drew them, not unwilling to be thus guided, around his neck, and folded to his bosom his betrothed. It was the silent marriage-vow between two hearts, each of which felt for the first time the other's pure beatings; a vow not less sacred than the after one, with joined hands before the altar; a solemn troth-plight, which, once given and received in sincerity and true love, no earthly power ought ever to disannul.

And surely the angels who sang the marriage-hymn of the first lovers in Eden cast down on these their holy eyes--ay, and felt that holiness unstained by the look. For can there be in this world aught more sacred than two beings who stand together, man and woman--heart-betrothed, ready to go forth hand in hand, in glad yet solemn union, on the same journey, towards the one eternal home?

O God, look down upon them! O God, bless them, and fill them with love, first towards Thee and then towards one another! Make them strong to bear gladly and nobly the dear burden which all must take who, in loving, receive unto themselves another soul with its errors and its weaknesses. Such--in their silent hearts--ay, even amid the joy of their betrothal--was the prayer that Eleanor and Philip prayed.

* * * * *

When Mrs. Breynton returned, she found the hat and gloves lying precisely where she had left them; and through the half-opened inner door she caught a glimpse of Eleanor's black dress gliding up the staircase, while Philip stood with his face to the fire, trying with all his might to commit the enormity of whistling in a drawing-room. How all these conflicting elements were finally reconciled is not on record; but the fact is certain that, in honour probably of her nephew's return, the good old lady sat up talking with him until past eleven o'clock, and, for the first time in her life, quite forgot to call the servants to family devotions. Moreover, as she passed Eleanor's room, she entered, kissed her on both cheeks, and went away without a word save a fervent "God bless you!" Perhaps the one heartfelt blessing rose nearer to heaven than leaden-winged formal prayers would ever have climbed.

Has it never occurred to us when surrounded by sorrows, that they may be sent to us only for our instruction, as we darken the cages of birds when we wish to teach them to sing?--JEAN PAUL.

Ah! fleeter far than fleetest storm or steed,
Or the death they bear,
The heart which tender thought clothes like a dove,
With the wings of care.
In the battle, in the darkness, in the need,
Shall mine cling to thee,
Nor claim one smile for all the comfort, love,
It may bring to thee.
SHELLEY.

"And now, my dear children, let us talk of your prospects in the world," said Mrs. Breynton, gravely, when, after a long day, happy indeed, but somewhat restlessly spent by all three, they sat once more in the pleasant fire-light, as they had done the evening before. The only difference was that Philip now ventured to sit on the same side of the fire as Eleanor: and in the shadowy flicker of the blaze it would have been impossible to tell precisely what had become of her hand. Still, the right, true, and worthy owner of that little hand probably knew, and no one else had any business to inquire.

Mrs. Breynton found it necessary to repeat her observation, slightly varied: "I wish, my dear nephew, and niece that will be, to talk seriously about your plans for the future. When do you propose to marry? and what do you propose to marry upon?"

These point-blank questions rather startled Philip and his affianced. Few lovers, especially young lovers, amidst the first burst of deep happiness, stay to think at all of those commonplace things, house-furnishing, house-keeping, yearly income, and such like. A little Eleanor had mused, perhaps more than most young girls, on the future time, when--the enthusiastic devotion of the lover merged in the still affection of the husband--it would be her part less to be ministered unto than to minister, surrounding him with all comfort and love in the dear, quiet, blessed home--their home. But Philip the dreamer, still unacquainted with the realities of life, had never thought of these things at all. They came upon him almost bewilderingly; and all the answer he could make to his aunt's question was the very unsatisfactory one--"I really do not know!"

Mrs. Breynton looked from one to the other in dignified reproof. "This, I must say, is the evil of young people's arranging their matrimonial affairs for themselves. Nobody ever did so in my day. Your excellent uncle, the Dean, furnished his house down to the very stair-carpets before he even asked me to marry him. And you, Philip, I dare say, have not even thought in what county of England you intend to settle?"

Philip acknowledged he had not.--Oh, blessed Present, that with its golden light can so dim and dazzle the eyes as to make them scarcely desire to look farther, even into a happy future!

Mrs. Breynton tried to lecture gravely upon improvident and hasty marriages; it was her way. And yet she had lain awake since seven o'clock that morning, calculating how much income the curacy of Wearmouth would bring in yearly, and what it would take to furnish that pretty cottage next to the rectory; nay, she had even settled the colour of the drawing-room curtains, and was doubtful only whether the carpet should be Axminster or Brussels. But she loved to dictate and reprove, and then sweep gracefully round laden with advice and assistance.

Thus, after a due delay, she unfolded all her kindly purposes; dilating with an earnestness and clerical appreciation worthy of the Dean's lady on the promised curacy, and the living in prospectu with its great advantages,--viz. the easy duty, large Easter offerings, plenty of glebe-land, and a nobleman's seat close by, the owner of which was devoted to the Church, and always gave practical marks of his respect by dinners and game.

"I think, Philip," continued she, "that nothing could be more fortunate. I have the Bishop's word for your succeeding to the curacy immediately on your taking orders; and--though I mean no disrespect to good Mr. Vernon--if he should die in a year or two, as in course of nature he must, you will meanwhile have an opportunity of showing his Grace what an agreeable neighbour he might secure by presenting you with the living."

Had the worthy dame been able to read her nephew's face, as well as those gentle eyes which were now lifted to it with anxious tenderness, she would have seen in the grave, almost sad expression which came over it, how little the young earnest nature sympathised with the worldly-minded one. Philip's honest foot would never have entered the tainted Paradise she drew. Respect restrained his tongue, as it had done many a time before; but Eleanor read in his silence what his thoughts were. Honour be to the unselfish and truly womanly impulse which prompted her to press fondly and encouragingly the hand wherein her own lay--as if to say, "Stand fast, my beloved; do that which is right; I am with you through all" It was the first taking upon herself of that blessed burden of love which through life's journey they were to bear for one another. Philip leaned in spirit upon the helpmate God had given him. He grew strong, and was comforted.

"Dear aunt," he said, gently, "you are very good to think of all these things, but I feel by no means sure that I shall ever take orders."

"Not take orders! when you have all your life been studying for the Church?" cried Mrs. Breynton, lifting up her eyes with the most intense astonishment. "Philip Wychnor! what can you mean?"

"I mean," said Philip, slowly and firmly, though in a tone low and humble as a child's, "that for the last year I have thought much and deeply of the life apparently before me. I have seen how the sanctity of the Church is profaned by those servants who, at its very threshold, take either an utterly false vow or one only half understood and wholly disregarded. I dare not lay upon my soul this sin."

Mrs. Breynton's temperament was too frigid to be often disturbed by violent passion; but it was easy to see from the restless movements of her fingers and the sudden twitching of her thin, compressed lips, how keenly she was agitated by her nephew's words.

"Then, sir," she said, after a pause, "you are about to inform me that you have followed the example of other wild, misguided young men, and dissented from the Establishment; in short, that you no longer believe in our Holy Church."

"I do believe in it," cried Philip, earnestly. "I believe it to be the purest on earth; but no human form of worship can be wholly pure. I have never quitted, and never shall quit, the Church in which I was born--but I will not bind myself to believe--or say I believe--all her dogmas; and I dare not in the sight of God declare that I feel called by His Spirit to be a minister at the altar when I do not sincerely think I am."

"And may I ask what right you have to think anything at all about the matter? This is merely a form of ordination, which men much wiser and more pious than yourself--excuse me, Philip--have appointed, and which every clergyman passes through without any scruple. The words mean only that the candidate is a good man, and will not disgrace the cloth he wears. Your uncle explained it all to me once.--Philip," continued Mrs. Breynton, losing the cold scorn of her manner in the real earnestness of her feelings, "you would not, surely, give up your prospects in life for such a trifle as this?"

"A trifle!" echoed Philip, sadly, as he saw how vain it would be to explain his motives further, and felt keenly the bitterness his determination would give to his aunt's mind. She, fancying that in his silence she had gained an advantage, pursued it with all the skill of which she was capable.

"My dear nephew, do you know what you are doing? Have you forgotten that your whole education has been bent towards this end; that your own small fortune--perhaps a little more, to which I will not allude--has gone in college expenses for the same purpose; that if you follow your present wild scheme, you must begin life anew, with nothing in this world to trust to?"

"Except an honest heart and a clear conscience."

How tender and holy was the light in those sweet eyes that looked up in his--how warm the pressure of the other hand, not the clasped one, which of its own accord twined round his arm in fond encouragement! He needed the strength thus imparted, for his own was sorely shaken by Mrs. Breynton's next words--uttered in a tone where anger and disappointment triumphed over all assumed composure.

"Listen to me, Philip Wychnor. You are about to act like a madman, and I feel it my duty to restrain you if I can. I do not ask you to remember how I have brought you up with this purpose in view, treating you less like my brother's child than my own; nor do I speak of my disappointment--for I know your great heroes for conscience' sake think little of these things," she added, with a sarcastic meaning that cut Philip to the heart. He sprang up to speak.

"Nay--sit down again; I am not accustomed to scenes," said the old lady, coldly. "I knew a young man once--he was not unlike you, Philip,"--and Mrs. Breynton regarded her nephew with a smile half bitter, half mournful--"he, too, for a whim--a boyish whim--gave up the Church, and his father turned him out into the wide world--to starve. His mother broke her heart; and the girl he was about to marry--still, like you--she grieved until her friends persuaded her to wed another lover; but they could not give back her withered youth--her poor broken heart. Will you hearken, Philip, now?--for the man was your father, and that gentle creature whom he basely forsook was the dearest friend I ever had--ay, and the mother of your Eleanor!"

Struck with surprise, and deeply moved, the two young lovers impulsively started from each other's side--but only for a moment. Closer they drew together, in that painful time of agitation unrestrained by outward form; and Philip murmured, as he wound his arm round her,

"Mine--mine still--for all the past. She will trust me: my Eleanor--my own!"

Mrs. Breynton went on. "Now, Philip Wychnor, you may follow your father's steps if you like; but I solemnly declare that if you persist in this, and disgrace the family as he did, I will give up my purpose of making you my heir; and, that you may not bring poverty on that dear child whom I have loved all her life for her mother's sake, with my consent you shall never marry Eleanor Ogilvie."

Too angry to trust herself with another word, Mrs. Breynton swept out of the room.

Philip had started up to detain her, but she was gone. He paced the room in violent agitation, never looking towards Eleanor; then he threw himself beside a table in the farthest and darkest corner, and laid his head upon his folded arms as if quite oblivious even of her presence.

For this a proud woman would have treated her lover with silent indignation,--a selfish one would have let loose her wounded vanity in a burst of reproaches;--but Eleanor was neither selfish nor proud. A single pang shot through her heart as she sat alone and unnoticed by the fire; two or three tears fell; and then the true woman's nature triumphed. She had not bestowed her love for the poor requital of outward attentions such as wooers pay; she had not meted it out, share for share, as if love were a thing to be weighed and measured. She had given it freely, knitting her soul unto his, until she felt and lived, suffered and rejoiced, not in herself or for herself, but in him and for him.

Eleanor rose and glided noiselessly across the room until she stood beside her lover. In truth, he hardly felt that she was near him. A few faint beatings were there in the young maiden heart at the new and solemn office that became hers; one passing flush,--and then all earthly feelings were stilled by the mute prayer which spoke in the lifted eyes. She stooped down, laid her arms round Philip's neck, and kissed him on the forehead.

He started--almost shivered beneath the touch of her lips.

"O my God! how shall I bear this? Don't speak to me, Eleanor; don't touch me, or I shall have no strength at all. Go away!"

But the next moment the harsh accents melted into tears--such a burning flood as rarely bursts even from man's pent-up suffering. Eleanor, terrified, almost heartbroken, was yet the stronger now. A woman who loves always is. She knelt beside him: it was on her bosom that his tears fell, and he did not turn away. How could he? A child does not cling to its mother with more utter helplessness than did Philip to his betrothed in that hour of suffering.

And she,--as she bent over him, her heart lifted itself up in silent breathings of the prayer that she might grow strong, to strengthen him, and trustful, to comfort him.

"O God!" was that inward prayer, "if it must be, take all the sunshine out of my life and give it to his! Oh! would that I could die for thee, my heart's dearest--my pride--my husband!"

And as she breathed over him the name, as yet unclaimed, it seemed an omen that this cloud would pass away, and the time surely come when her lips should have a right to echo the heart's voice.

"You see how weak I am, Eleanor," Philip said, with a mournful attempt at a smile,--"I, who yesterday told you how I would brave the world; and now I cling helplessly to you. But it must not be--she was right--I should only bring trouble on you. I must stand alone. Eleanor, take your arm away, it weighs me down like lead. Oh! would that we were only friends--that yesterday had never been!"

He spoke in the bitterness of his soul, without thinking of her. Eleanor cast one glance upon him, and knew this. Blessings on that unselfish nature which, knowing at once, forgave!

"Eleanor," he said, after a pause, speaking quickly and abruptly, "have you thought what will be the end of this? Do you know that I cannot marry you--at least, not for many, many years; that I have nothing to live upon, because I was too proud to be entirely dependent on Aunt Breynton, and, as she truly says, I spent my little all at college, intending to enter the Church? Even after my mind was changed, I went dreaming on, never thinking of the future,--fool that I was! And yet most people would say I am a greater fool now"--he added, with a bitter smile--"ay, and something of a villain to boot. Eleanor, after all, I think I will take the curacy. I shall not be a greater hypocrite than many of those in gown and band; and I shall keep my vow to you, if I break it to Heaven."

"Never! Do you think I would let you sell your conscience for me? Do you think I would ever be your wife then? No--for I should not love,--I should despise you! Nay, I did not mean that, Philip"--and her voice softened almost into weeping--"only it would break my heart if you did this wickedness. You must not--shall not--nay, you will not. My own Philip, tell me that you will not."

And kneeling before him, Eleanor made her lover solemnly utter the promise which would for years doom them both to the heart-sickness of hope deferred. Then she sat down beside him, and took his hand.

"Now, let us consider what is best to be done. Do not think of yesterday at all, if it pains you. Forget that we were betrothed--talk to me as to a friend only--a dear friend--who regards your honour and happiness above everything in this world. Shall it be so, Philip?"

"God bless my Eleanor--my strength--my comfort!" was his answer. The words were more precious to her than the wildest outburst of lover-like adoration could ever have been.

They talked together long and seriously--like old friends. And this was no pretence, for none are true lovers who have not also for one another the still thoughtful affection of friends. Her calmness gave him strength,--her clear, penetrating mind aided his; and, the first shock over, Philip seemed to pass at once from the dreaminess of aimless boyhood to the self-reliance and courage of a man

And still beside him, in all his plans, hopes, and fears, was the faithful woman-heart, as brave, as self-denying, never looking back, but going forward with him into the dim future, and half-dispersing its mists with the light of love.

"And you will forgive me, my dearest," said Philip, when they had decided how and where he was to begin the hard battle with the world--"you will forgive me for bringing this trouble upon you; and in spite of these erring words of mine, you will"--

He hesitated, but Eleanor went on for him.

"I will wait--for years if it must he--until Philip makes for me a home--happier and dearer for the long waiting. And who knows how rich it may be, too?--a great deal richer than that tiny cottage at Wearmouth." She tried to speak gaily, though the smile which her lips assumed could not reach her eyes, and soon melted into seriousness as she continued: "Besides, dear Philip, there is one thought which lies deep--almost painfully--in my heart, though your generous lips have never breathed it. I cannot forget that half your cares would have been lightened had the girl whom you chose possessed ever so little fortune, instead of being left dependent on a brother's kindness. How I have wished to be rich for your sake."

"Foolish girl! why, you are my riches, my comfort, my joy!" cried Philip, drawing closely into his very heart his affianced wife. She clung there closer in sorrow than she had ever done in joy. "If this day's trial had never been, and we could be again as we were last night--would you wish it, Eleanor?"

"No!" she answered. "No! for even then I knew not fully, as I do now, how true, how worthy, how noble was my Philip."

At this precise moment Mrs. Breynton's voice was heard without. With her entered an old sub-dean who lived in the Close, and who had come in nearly every evening for some six years, during which he and Mrs. Breynton had played an infinity of games at backgammon. Mr. Sedley did not know what a relief his presence was this evening,--by casting the veil of outward formality over the conflicting emotions of the trio at the palace. So, the worthy old clergyman talked with Philip about Oxford,--paid his laboured, old-fashioned, but, withal, affectionate compliments to his particular favourite, Miss Ogilvie,--and then engaged Mrs. Breynton in their beloved game. During its progress Eleanor gladly retired for the night.

At the foot of the staircase she met Philip, who had followed unperceived. He looked very pale, and his voice trembled, though he tried to speak as usual.

"Eleanor, say good night to me; not formally, as just now, but as we did that happy yesterday."

She took both his hands, and looked up lovingly in his face.

"Good night, then, dear Philip!"

He folded her in his arms and kissed her many times. She spoke to him hopeful words; and they were uttered in sincerity,--for her own spirit was so full of love and faith, both in God and man, that she had little doubt of the future.

"To-morrow, Philip!--all will seem brighter to us to-morrow," was her adieu.

He watched her glide up the staircase,--turning once round to cast on him that quiet, love-beaming smile peculiar to herself. Then he leaned against the wall with a heavy sigh.

"The bitterness is past!" murmured Philip. "Now, I can go forth alone!"

Look not mournfully into the past,--it returns no more. Wisely improve the present; and go forth into the shadowy future without fear and with a manly heart.--LONGFELLOW.

Eleanor arose next morning composed--almost cheerful. True, there had been, on her first waking, a feeling of oppression as though some vague sorrow had chanced, under the shadow of which she still lay; and a few tears had stolen through the yet closed eyes, chasing away sleep and making the faint daylight a welcome visitant. But when she had arisen and looked out on the bright spring morning, all this waking pain changed into a quiet hopefulness. One creeps so soon out of the gloom into the light--at least, when one is young! The early swallows were flying merrily in and out of the eaves; the morning sun glistened cheerfully on the three spires of the cathedral, though its walls still lay in heavy shadow. But the girl's eyes looked upward only,--and therefore it was the sunshine she saw, not the shade.

She thought of Philip's dear, precious love--now all her own--and of his noble nature; both of which had been tried and come out with a brightness that made her forget the refining fire. Her soul was so unworldly, so filled with trusting affection, that she had no fear. She was ready to let her lover go forth into the world,--believing entirely in him, and confiding so much in the world itself, that she felt sure its storms would subside and its evils be removed before him. Simple girl! And yet perhaps there was more in her theory than many imagine. It is the faithful, the holy-hearted ones, who walk calmly and safely on the troubled waters of the world.

Eleanor was still musing, more thoughtfully than sadly, and considering whether or not she should descend to tell Philip the fruit of her hopeful meditations, when Davis brought a letter.

"Mr. Wychnor told me to give you this, ma'am, as soon as I heard you stirring."

Eleanor changed colour, and her fingers trembled over the seal.

"I hope, Miss Ogilvie, that nothing is amiss with Master Philip. He looked so ill this morning!--and I could not persuade him to have any breakfast before he went away."

"Went away!"

"Yes, indeed, Miss; he set off before it was quite light, by the early London coach."

Eleanor's fingers tightened over the unopened letter, and her very lips grew white; yet she had self-control enough to speak calmly.

"Indeed, Davis, you need not be uneasy. Mr. Wychnor has probably taken his journey a day or two sooner than he intended,--that is all."

"I'd stake my life it's not all," muttered the good woman, as she curtseyed herself out. "I only hope there is nothing wrong between him and Miss Eleanor--bless their dear hearts! They was born for one another sure-ly!"

Eleanor threw herself on the bed with a passionate burst of weeping, that for many minutes would not be restrained.

"O Philip, Philip, why did you go?" she said; and it was long before her grief found any solace, save in the utterance of this despairing cry. She was but a girl--with all the weakness of a deep first love--but she had also its strength. So, after a time her sobs grew calmer; and while with still-dimmed eyes she read Philip's letter, its peaceful influence passed into her spirit. Even then it was so blessed to read this first letter, and to see there written down the love which she had before heard his lips declare. The words "My own Eleanor," smiling at her from the top of the page, almost took away the pain of that sad hour

And as she read on, tracing in every earnest line the brave, true heart of him who wrote, she became comforted more and more.

"Eleanor!" ran this dear record--(Reader, do not be alarmed lest we should transcribe an ordinary love-letter,--for, though full of affection, Philip had in him something of reserve and far too much of good sense ever to indulge in the fantastic rhapsodies which have passed into a proverb)--"Eleanor, you must not think this departure of mine hasty or ill-advised; unkind you will not--for you love me, and know that I love you better than anything on earth, therefore there can be no thought of unkindness between us. I have gone away because, knowing my aunt as well as I do, I see no prospect, had I remained, of aught but added bitterness and pain for us all. And though I cannot--dare not--suffer myself unworthily to enter upon that course which she has laid out for me, God forbid that I should in word or deed return evil for many kindnesses which she has shown me all my life through. O Eleanor! when I sit here in the quiet night-time, and think of those boyish days, I almost doubt whether I am really right in thwarting her desire so much. But yet I could not--you, with your pure right-mindedness, you yourself said I ought not to do this thing. And have I not also given up you? Surely it must be a holy and a worthy sacrifice!

"Dearest! if in this I have done my aunt wrong--and I feel my heart melt towards her, in spite of all the harsh words, ay, and the bitter taunts which she gave me this night when you were not by--if I have done her wrong you will atone it. She reproached me with casting you off--you, my heart's treasure! She said that her hearth and home should at least be open to you. Let it be so! Stay with her, Eleanor; give her the dutiful care that I ought to have shown:--it will comfort me to know this. You see how I trust you, as if you were a part of myself,--feeling that her harsh condemnations of me will never alter your love. And if her mind should change--if she should learn to see with our eyes many things whereon she differs from us now, and should find out why it was I acted thus, how will the influence of my own gentle girl prove a blessing to us all! In this I think not of worldly fortune. I will fight my own way, and be indebted to no one on earth, save for the help of affection.

"And now, beloved, I set out for the path on which we decided. Thank Heaven that I can write we!--that I carry with me your precious love--that we are one in heart and mind--and look forward to one future, which I will work out. Send me away with a blessing! Yet you have done so already. Eleanor, that one smile of yours--you did not know it was the last, but I did--will rest in my heart and be its strength until I see you again. Forgive me that I could not trust myself to say 'Good-bye.' Yet it is hardly a farewell between those whose hearts and thoughts are ever united! God grant it may be even so until our lives' end--and after!"

More did Philip write concerning his worldly plans and the arrangement of their future correspondence. All that he said was calm; breathing perhaps more of steadfast patience than of hope--but still without a shade of fear either for himself or for her. When Eleanor laid down the letter of her lover there was not a tear in her eye--not a sigh on her lip.

"God be with thee, my beloved!" she said fervently; put the letter in her bosom, and went down-stairs.

In the hall she met the old waiting-woman, Davis, coming out of the breakfast-room, with tears in her eyes.

"Oh, Miss Ogilvie!" cried the poor soul, "I can't tell what has come over my mistress. Sixteen years have I been in this house and never saw her look so before. She did not speak a word all the while I was dressing her, until Master Philip's little dog whined at the door, and then she grew very angry, and ordered me to go and tell James to shoot it or hang it, for she did not want to be troubled with it any more. I could hardly believe my ears, Miss Eleanor--I couldn't, indeed--so good as she used to be to poor little Flo. And when I only stood staring, instead of going off, she stamped her foot and ordered me out of the room. To think that my lady should have served me so!"

"She did not mean it, good Davis; she is very fond of you," said Eleanor, soothingly. There was room enough in her heart for every one's sorrows--great and small.

"I hope so, Miss; indeed, I should not care so much, except that I fear something has gone wrong between her and Master Philip. I happened to let fall a word about his being gone; but she seemed to know it herself beforehand. She turned round so sharply, and desired me never to mention his name, but to go and lock up his room just as it was, for he would not want it again. Ay, dear! how sorry I shall be not to see the young master here any more!"

Eleanor felt her own eyes growing dim, and a choking in her throat prevented any reply. The good woman went on in her voluble grief--"Well, well ! servants have no business with their masters' or mistresses' affairs; but I do feel sorry about poor Master Philip. And there is another thing that troubles me; he left me this letter for my mistress, and for the life of me I daren't give it to her myself. If it were not making too free, Miss Ogilvie, I wish you would."

Eleanor stretched out her hand for the letter. "Where is Mrs. Breynton?" she asked.

"At the breakfast-table, Miss--sitting bolt upright, like--I don't know what!--Bless us all--but she's off already. Poor young lady! something is the matter with her too; for I saw the tears in her pretty eyes. Well, I don't think she's quarrelled with Master Philip, or she would not have looked at his letter so tenderly--just as I used to do at poor Samuel's. Ah, lack-a-day! it's a troublesome world!"

And the starched old maid went away up-stairs, rubbing with a corner of her apron each of her dull grey eyes. They might have been young and bright once--who knows?

Mrs. Breynton sat, a very statue of rigidity, in her usual place at the head of the table; her face as smooth and unwrinkled as her dress. She said, "Good morning, Eleanor, my dear," in the usual tone--neither warmer nor colder than the salutation had been for years; and the hand with which she poured out the coffee was as steady as ever. Eleanor almost began to think that the painful events of the night and morning were only a dream,--so perfectly astounded was she by the manner of the old lady.

She had come with a swelling heart to throw herself at the knees of Philip's aunt, and beg her to forgive him--or at least to receive from herself all the loving care that was in the heart of the nephew whom she had discarded. But at the sight of that frigid, composed face--so indifferent, so unmarked by any sign of suffering, regret, or even anger--Eleanor felt all her own warm impulses completely frozen. She could as easily have poured out her feelings before the grim old figures sitting in their niches on the cathedral wall. Philip's letter was still in her hand,--almost unconsciously she thrust it out of sight: and the voice which replied to the morning salutation, though tremulous, was almost as cold as Mrs. Breynton's own. Eleanor took her place at the breakfast-table, just as though she had never passed through these sudden phases of love, joy, sorrow--events which would govern a lifetime.

Mechanically her eyes wandered over the familiar objects about the room:--the boy's portrait that hung on the wall--the orange-trees and the flowers in the conservatory, now brightened by a week's more sunshine. It was one week only since the morning when Philip and Philip's fortunes had been talked of, sending such a pleasant thrill to her heart:--how much one little week, nay, one day, had brought forth!

Mrs. Breynton began, apparently without an effort, her usual morning conversation. This never rambled far beyond what might literally be considered table-talk; the dryness of toast, and the over or under boiling of eggs, seemed always subjects sufficiently engrossing at that early hour of the day. Thus she succeeded in passing away the half-hour which to Eleanor seemed insupportable. The latter many times was on the point of giving way to her pent-up feelings, when a word or tone sent them all back again to the depth of her heart. How would she ever find courage to deliver Philip's letter?

The breakfast equipage was already removed, and still nothing had been uttered between them except those ordinary commonplaces which froze Eleanor's very heart.

"If you please, ma'am," said the retreating James, "the gardener told me to ask if you would have the auriculas planted out, as the weather is so warm now, and he has always done this about Easter."

There was the faintest possible trembling of Mrs. Breynton's mouth,--and she dropped a few stitches in her knitting. Then, walking to the window to take them up, she answered, rather angrily:

"Tell Morris I shall judge myself about the matter, and will speak to him to-morrow."

Eleanor watched all with intense anxiety. She marked how the reference to Easter had startled Mrs. Breynton from her indifference--showing how much of it was assumed. Tremulously she advanced to the window.

"Shall I make the knitting right for you?" she asked.

"Thank you, my dear; I really cannot see so well as I used to do."

Eleanor gave back the work, and with it Philip's letter.

"What is this?" said Mrs. Breynton, sharply.

"Oh, dear friend! read it,--pray read it; and then you will forgive him--forgive me. Indeed, you do not know how unhappy we are!"

Mrs. Breynton walked across the room to the fire. It had gone out in the sunshine. She laid the letter on the table, and rang the bell. Eleanor rose up as the man entered.

"James," said his mistress, "bring me a lighted taper."

When it came, she deliberately unsealed the letter, tore it into long strips, and burned each of them separately. Eleanor stood and dared not utter a word. There was such iron sternness--such implacable, calm determination--in that rigid face, that she was terrified into silence. She saw the words which Philip's dear hand had traced consumed to ashes, and offered no opposition. Then, Mrs. Breynton advanced, and touched the girl's forehead with her cold, aged lips.

"Eleanor Ogilvie, you shall be my daughter if you will. In you I have nothing to forgive,--much to pity. I take you as my child,--my only one. But as respects this"--she pointed to the little heap of burnt paper--"or its writer, the subject must never more be revived between us."

She walked out of the room with her own firm stately steps; her silks rustling on the staircase, as she ascended slowly--but not more slowly than usual--to her chamber: and then Eleanor heard the door shut. Upon what struggles it closed--or, if there were any conflict at all--no one knew. That day, and for a day or two after, there was a greyer shade on the cheek already pallid with age; and once or twice in reading the evening prayers the cold, steady voice changed for a moment. But in a week the Dean's widow was the same as she had ever been,--and all went on at the palace as though Philip's name had never been heard.

Authorship is, according to the spirit in which it is pursued,--an infamy, a pastime, a day-labour, a handicraft, an art, a science, a virtue.--SHLEGEL.

Take away the self-conceited, and there will be elbow-room in the world.--WHICHCOTE.

Mr. Pierce Pennythorne was what the world respectfully terms a "very clever man." The world understands "cleverness" thoroughly, and venerates it accordingly, though it often scoffs at genius. Perhaps on the same principle the Cockney who gazes in admiration on the stone-built fabric of St. Paul's turns away contemptuously from some grand lonely mountain of nature's making, and thinks it is not so very fine after all. He cannot measure its inches; he does not understand it. He had rather by half look up from his city dwelling at the gilt cross and ball.

Now Mr. Pennythorne was exactly the man to attract and keep this sort of admiration. In whatever sphere he moved--and he had moved in many and various ones during his sixty years of life--he was always sure to get the pre-eminence. His acute, decisive character impressed ordinary people with reverence, and his tact and quickness of judgment had enabled him to compel from the small modicum of talent which he possessed the reputation of being a literary star of considerable magnitude.

For, after passing through various phases of life, Mr. Pennythorne had finally subsided into literature. He took to writing as another man would take to bricklaying--considering that

The worth of anything
Is just as much as it will bring.

And as literature brought him in some hundreds a year, and maintained respectably the house in Blank-square, Kensington, together with Mrs. Pennythorne and two young Pennythornes, he regarded it as a useful instrument of labour, and valued it accordingly. His was a most convenient pen, too,--a pen of all-work. It would write for anybody, on any subject, in any style,--always excepting that of imaginative literature, in which road it had never been known to travel But this, as its owner doubtless believed, was only because it did not choose, as such writing was all trash, and never paid.

Such was Mr. Pennythorne abroad; at home he carried out the same character, slightly varied. He was, so to speak, the most excellent of tyrants; his sway was absolute, but he used it well. No one could say that he was not as good a husband and father as ever lived; that is, as far as outward treatment went. Throughout some thirty years of matrimony, he and his quiet, good-natured, meek-spirited wife had never had a quarrel; and he had brought up his children to be creditable members of society. His system was that of blind obedience. Nevertheless, both wife and children were affectionately inclined towards him,--for some people are happiest in being thus ruled;--it takes away so much moral responsibility. Sympathy in feeling or in intellect was unknown in the Pennythorne family; they did not believe there was such a thing, and so they lived a comfortable humdrum life, conscious of no higher existence. Doubtless they were quite happy--and so are oysters! Still, the most world-tossed, world-riven spirit that ever passed through its fire-ordeal of love, genius, and suffering, would hardly wish to change with these human molluscs.

Mr. Pennythorne, after dinner, in his little study, with the blazing fire shining on its well-peopled book-shelves and convenient old-fashioned desk, was the very picture of a man of letters comfortably off in the world. He had ensconced in the only arm-chair which the room possessed his small wiry frame:--for Mr. Pennythorne shared with Alexander, Napoleon, and other great minds, the glory of a diminutive person. As he sat reading the newspaper, with his back to the lamp, the light cast into strong relief his sharp, well-marked features. It was not an intellectual head,--still less a benevolent one; but there were wonderful cleverness and shrewdness in its every line. The firm, closed mouth could sometimes relax into a very good-natured smile; and a great deal of dry satirical humour lay perdu among the wrinkles--politely termed crow's feet--that surrounded the small bright grey eyes.

The postman's sharp knock made the little man start; for with all his mental self-possession he had much physical nervousness. At the same time his quick movement revealed the presence of Mrs. Pennythorne, who sat in the shadow, with a half-knitted stocking on her lap. Her husband always liked her to be near him after his daily occupation was over. Not that he wanted conversation,--for to that Mr. Pennythorne thought no woman equal, and perhaps the secret of his regard for his wife was her abstinence from all intellectual rivalship. Good Mrs. Pennythorne, indeed, had never been burdened with that ambition. But the sight of her quiet, gentle, and still pretty face, was composing to him; and she let him talk as much or as little as he liked,--said "Yes," or "No," or "Certainly, my dear,"--and when he had done, went to sleep. They were exactly suited for each other, Mr. and Mrs. Pennythorne.

She received the letter at the door--it annoyed him to see any one but herself in his study--and while he read it she took the opportunity of being thoroughly awakened, to go through the serious operation which stocking-knitters denominate "turning down the heel." Once or twice she lifted up her eyes at a few exclamations from her husband--"Bless me!" "How very odd!" etc. But she had been too well trained to inquire of him about anything which he did not in due form communicate. So she waited until he delivered himself thus:

"Cillie, my dear,"--Mrs. Pennythorne's Christian name was Cecilia; which by a humorous ingenuity he had converted into this odd diminutive, a somewhat doubtful compliment,--"Cillie, my dear, this is a very curious circumstance."

"Is it indeed," said Mrs. Pennythorne; not interrogatively, but assentingly. Her husband always expected to be understood at once, without any explanation,--so she never dreamed of inquiring to what circumstance he alluded.

"You remember my old college friend, Edwin Wychnor--Captain Wychnor he was then--who dined with us at Sittingbourne, ten--let me see--fifteen years ago?"

"Oh yes!" Mrs. Pennythorne made a point of remembering everything, as nothing vexed her spouse so much as the confession of ignorance on any point to which his own retentive memory chose to turn.

"There was another Oxford man with us that day, you know--Bourne--Dr. Bourne now--who dropped into the living that Wychnor gave up--like a foolish fellow as he was! Well, this letter comes from him, not from Wychnor, or it would, be a dead letter." (Pennythorne's conversation was usually studded with execrable jokes, made comical by the solemnity with which they were put forward.) "It is from Bourne, introducing to me the defunct captain's only son, who has gone and played the same madcap trick as his father. He wants me to get the lad that very easy thing now-a-days, 'employment in London.'"

"Well, my dear, surely nobody can do that so well as you," meekly observed his wife.

"Pooh! you are only a woman; you don't know anything at all about it. Pretty fellows to deal with are these college youths, with heads more full of pride than of brains;--can't do this because they haven't been brought up to it--and won't do the other because it isn't gentlemanly. I suppose this young Peter, or Paul, or Jeremiah--he has got that sort of a name--will turn out just such another upon my hands. But that is always the way; everybody brings stray sheep to me: very black sheep they are, too, sometimes."

Mrs. Pennythorne laughed,--thinking from her husband's look that he had said something funny: she always did so, like a dutiful wife, whether she understood it or not. "And I am sure, Pierce, you have helped a great many young men on in the world. There was young Philips, and O'Mahony the Irishman, and Edward Jones."

"And a nice ungrateful set they all turned out!" said Mr. Pennythorne, though a self-complacent smile rather contradicted his words. There was nothing in the world that he liked so well as patronising. Not that he confined himself to the show of benevolence, for he was a good-natured man, and had done many kindly acts in his time,--but they had all been done with due importance. His protegés--and he had always a long train of them--were required implicitly to trust to him, to follow his bidding, and to receive his advice. He never asked for gratitude, but yet he always contrived to rail at the world because he did not receive it. Still, with all his peculiarities, Mr. Pennythorne did a great deal of good in his way,--and rather liked the doing of it too, though he said he didn't.

"Cillie," he observed, just as the summons came to tea, "I suppose this young Wychnor must dine here next Sunday. Take care that Fred is not out of the way, and that that foolish fellow Leigh is not keeping his bed, as he is so often. What's the good of sons if you don't make use of them? And an old fellow like me can't be bothered to entertain a young Oxford scamp for a whole afternoon."

The same sharp postman's knock--oh, what a volume of life-experiences might that sound suggest could we follow it from door to door!--brought to Philip Wychnor, in his dull second-floor lodging the following letter:

"MY DEAR YOUNG FRIEND,--
"I had a great regard for your late father, and shall have the same for you if you deserve it, of which I have little doubt. I will also do my best to help you on in the world. To begin our acquaintance, perhaps you will dine at my house next Sunday--at six.
"Faithfully yours,
"PIERCE PENNYTHORNE."

It was an odd, abrupt letter, but Philip had already heard that the writer was not without his eccentricities. He was growing so desolate and cheerless in his London home, that the least ray of kindness came upon him like a flood of light. He drank his cup of weak cold tea with almost the zest of those remembered days when Eleanor's dear sunny face had shone from behind the urn in the happy palace drawing-room. Then he went out, and walked up and down the gloomy squares in the neighbourhood of which his lodgings lay. And surely the dreariest place in all London is the region between Brunswick-square and Tottenham-court-road! There solemn wealth sets up its abode, and struggling respectability tries to creep under its shadow, in many a dull, melancholy street; while squalid poverty grovels in between, with its miserable courts and alleys, that make the sick and weary heart to doubt even the existence of good.

Philip sauntered along; but, viewed in the light of this new hope of his, the squares did not seem so desolate as they had done the evening before. Through the misty night the lamps glimmered faintly; after a while the moon rose--and the moon looks pleasant to young eyes, especially the eyes of lovers, even in the desert of Russell-square. Moreover, as Philip walked along the inner side, there was a freshness almost like perfume in the budding trees, over which an April shower had just passed. It came upon his senses like the breathing of hope. He stopped under the nearest lamp, took out Mr. Pennythorne's letter and read it over again.

"Well, it does seem kind--and may be the beginning of good. Who knows but I have put my first step on Fortune's ladder to-night?"

Ah, Philip! that ladder is of all others the hardest to climb! But you have a steady foot and a strong heart--all the stronger for having that precious love-amulet in its inmost folds. In spite of all the grey-headed reasoners, there never was a young man yet who did not work his way in the world the better for having some one to work for besides himself.

Wives seem created to be butts. Many a man now, like Pan, plays upon that which was formerly the object of his fond pursuit.--EDWARD WEST.

Man alone,
The recreant spirit of the universe,
Contemns the operations of the light;
Loves surface-knowledge,--calls the crimes of crowds
Virtue--adores the useful vices.
Therefore
I will commit my brain to none of them.
PHILIP BAILEY.

"Very glad to see you; exceedingly glad to see you, my young friend," was the greeting that marked Philip's first entrance into the drawing-room at Blank-square--we prefer that rather doubtful way of designating the Pennythorne abode. "Punctuality is a virtue, especially on a wet Sunday; I like to see young people keep time well, and then as they grow older time always keeps them--eh, sir?"

Philip smiled; he was really amused by the oddities of the little man. He could do no more than smile silently, for it was impossible to get in a word.

"Cecilia, my dear," and Mr. Pennythorne, with a sort of hop-skip-and-jump movement--his usual method of progress in the house--arrived at the sofa where his lady sat in all the unruffled serenities of a Sunday silk, a Sunday cap, and a Sunday face. She had a ponderous-looking volume beside her, of Sermons,--or Fox's Martyrs; for though the Pennythornes so far conformed to the world as to have company on a Sunday, they were a "religious family,"--and if the cook was beguiled out of her sole day of rest by having to prepare a first-rate dinner, it was atoned for by the mistress's always reading good books up in the drawing-room.

"Mr. Philip Wychnor, let me introduce you to Mrs. Pennythorne,--my wife, sir; an ugly old woman, isn't she? but then she's so clever,--there is not a cleverer woman in all London than Mrs. Pennythorne."

Philip looked at the pretty but simple face of the lady, and then at her husband, who spoke with such gravity that it was almost impossible to distinguish jest from earnest. Fairly puzzled between them, the young man uttered some ordinary politeness, and accepted the offered seat beside his hostess.

"There, you can begin your acquaintance with that excellent woman," said Mr. Pennythorne; "but take care of her, you don't know how sharp her tongue is--real arrows, sir,--regular darts of wit: mind they don't hit you!"

Philip thought it rather unseemly that a man should make game of his wife in public, and began to feel somewhat uncomfortable. But Mrs. Pennythorne herself seemed quite unmoved--smiling on in placid contentment. She had got used to this sort of banter,--or else, which was most likely, she did not feel it at all Some people are very feather-beds of stolidity, impenetrable to the sharpest tongue-weapons that sarcasm ever forged. Philip soon grew quite reassured on the subject. He tried to engage Mrs. Pennythorne in conversation; but did not succeed in getting beyond the wetness of the day and the unpleasantness of the Kensington omnibuses. She was as shy and nervous as a girl of sixteen; constantly looking to her husband, as if she had hardly a thought of her own. Still there was a degree of quiet womanliness about her. She had a low voice, and her brown eyes were of the same colour as Eleanor's. Philip felt rather a liking to Mrs. Pennythorne.

"Where can the boys be?" said the old gentleman, becoming fidgety, and rushing to the foot of the stairs. "Fred! Leigh!"

The next minute the "boys" appeared. Mr. Frederick Pennythorne was about twenty-five; a specimen of that stereotyped class of young men with which London birth and London breeding indulge the world. Slight, dapper, active: not ill-looking, and carefully dressed; always ready for polkas, small-talk, and cigars; too respectable for a gent (odious word!), too ordinary and vulgar-minded for a gentleman, and far--oh! far--too mean in heart and soul for the noble title of a man!

This individual scanned Philip all over, and nodded his head with a careless "How-d'ye-do?" Then, catching his father's eye, Mr. Frederick composed his features into an aspect of grave deference.

"My son, this--my eldest son. Excellent fellow to show you all the wickedness of London, Mr. Wychnor. I don't suppose there's a greater scamp anywhere than Fred Pennythorne."

The old gentleman did not know how nearly he hit the truth--but somehow or other the person alluded to winced slightly under the unintentional application.

"Really, father!--But you'll find out his ways soon, Mr. Wychnor," said Fred, apologetically.

"Where's Leigh?" continued that indefatigable parent; who seemed to have as much difficulty in hunting up his family as a mechanist has in winding up his automata and setting them fairly going.

A tall thin youth of about seventeen crept languidly from behind the folding-doors. Philip looked rather earnestly at the sallow, long-drawn-out face, and meaningless, half-closed eyes. Perhaps in the look there was somewhat of interest and compassion, for the boy involuntarily put out his hand and just touched Philip's with his cold moist fingers. The heavy eyes lifted themselves up for a moment. They were brown, like his mother's,--but far deeper and softer; and as they met Philip's, one passing gleam of expression lighted them up. It drew the young man's heart towards the sickly, awkward-looking Leigh.

"I hope we shall be very good friends in time," said Philip Wychnor, shaking the boy's hand warmly.

"That is more than any one else ever was with our cross-grained Leigh! Long, lazy Leigh, as I call him,--the greatest dunce in the universe, except for a little Greek, Latin, and Hebrew which I contrive to knock into him,"--interposed the father, who seemed to take delight in sketching, en passant, these complimentary family portraits.

Philip turned round uneasily to Leigh, but the youth sat in his old corner quite impassive. The dull melancholy of his face was as unimpressible as his mother's vacant and perpetual smile.

"Well, they are the oddest family I ever knew," thought Philip Wychnor. "Perhaps your son is not strong enough for much study?" he said aloud.

"Quite a mistake, my good sir," answered Mr. Pennythorne, sharply. "All my family enjoy excellent health. I can't bear to have sick people about me. That fellow there looks yellow because he lies in bed sadly too much; and besides it is his temperament, his natural complexion. Pray do not put such notions into the lad's head, Mr. Wychnor."

The guest felt that he had unconsciously trodden on dangerous ground; and it was really a relief when the apparition of a very tall maid-servant at the door gave the signal for dinner.

Mr. Pennythorne was the best person in the world for the head of a table--his own especially; for he had an unfailing flow of talk and abundance of small witticisms. To use a simile on the originality of which we have some doubt,--but which, not knowing the right owner, we shall appropriate,--he kept the ball of conversation constantly in motion. However, to attain this desirable end he rarely let it go out of his own hands. Perhaps this was as well, for the rest of his family seemed incapable of a throw. So he very wisely never gave them the opportunity.

Once or twice Fred Pennythorne hazarded a remark--or, as he would have expressed it, "put out a feeler,"--thereby to discover the habits, manners, and character of the "fellow from the country;" but he was soon extinguished by a few paternal sneers. Mrs. Pennythorne also, venturing to reply in more than monosyllables to some observation of Philip's, was regarded with such mock-deferential attention by her lord and master that she relapsed into alarmed and inviolable silence. As for Leigh, he never tried to speak at all. When, soon after the introduction of wine and walnuts, Mrs. Pennythorne disappeared, he quickly followed his mother, and was seen no more.

Then Mr. Pennythorne edified Philip for the space of half-an-hour on many and various subjects, chiefly political. Fortunately, Wychnor was no great talker, and of a quiet, yielding temper,--so that the dictatorial tone of his host did not annoy him in the least. Perhaps he only listened with his outward ears, while his thoughts, like riches--and Philip's thoughts were riches to him--made to themselves wings and flew far away.

"Fred! you stupid fellow," called out Mr. Pennythorne, at last.

"Yes, sir," answered the individual addressed, waking from a doze by the fire.

"Your conversation is so remarkably amusing and instructive that it is quite too overpowering for such addle-pates as this gentleman and myself. We will therefore indulge ourselves in a tête-à-tête dull enough for our limited capabilities. You may go and tell your mother to make the tea: I dare say cook will lend you the toasting-fork, that you may make yourself useful in the kitchen at least."

The young dandy muttered a grumbling remonstrance,--but finished his wine, and walked off. It was really curious, the complete ascendancy which this eccentric father of a family had gained and preserved over all its members.

"Excellent boy that," said Mr. Pennythorne when the door closed: and Philip noticed how entirely his sarcastic manner was changed; "Fred is a rising young man, sir; no profession like that of a lawyer for making a fortune--at least in these railway times. That lad will ride in his carriage yet."

"Indeed, I hope so," Philip observed, seeing that an observation was expected.

"Certainly. The Pennythornes, sir, always make their way in the world. Now there's Leigh--quiet boy--very quiet, but thinks the more for that. His knowledge of classics is wonderful. I shall make him a first-rate man for Oxford. By-the-by, you, who have just left Alma Mater, might give him a help now and then when I am too busy myself."

"I shall be most happy."

"Of course--of course. Thank you, Mr. Wychnor. And now, tell me in what way I can be of service to you?"

The little man leaned over the table, and confronted Philip with his peering grey eyes. All his jesting manner was gone; and there was a straightforward, business-like earnestness, which his guest liked much better and felt infinitely more disposed to trust. Philip briefly stated that, having suddenly relinquished the Church, he was without resources, and wished to earn a livelihood in any respectable way for which his education might fit him.

"Now, my young friend, what do you call a 'respectable way'?" said Mr. Pennythorne.

Philip was rather confused--but answered, "Any honest way, of which a gentleman's son need not feel ashamed. Surely the world is wide enough for one more to get his bread--if not by his hands, at least by his brains--of which I hope I have a share."

"No doubt--no doubt," returned Mr. Pennythorne, "but let us see how you are to use them. Authorship is not a bad profession. Suppose you take to that?"

Philip looked somewhat astonished. "My dear sir, I never wrote anything in my life. I have no genius!"

"Genius--my excellent young friend, between ourselves, has nothing to do with the matter. It is a commodity rather unpleasant than otherwise. A man's genius generally ends in making a fool of him--or a beggar, which comes to the same thing. The best authors, and those who have made most money, have had no genius at all. With plenty of diligence and a good connection, a clever author may get a very good living; while the poor devils called men of genius--a term for unusual flightiness and conceit--lie down and starve."

Philip listened to this speech, first in surprise, then in pain. He had spoken truly--at least as he then believed--when he said he had no genius; but genius itself he worshipped with all the enthusiasm of youth. So utterly confounded was he by this argument of Mr. Pennythorne's, that he did not reply by a single word; and the old gentleman continued:

"You see, Mr. Philip Wychnor, that I have spoken plainly to you, as I would not to every one; but I like your face, and moreover you are your father's son. If you choose to try your hand at authorship, I will endeavour to procure you work. It shall be easy at first, and you can get on by degrees."

But Philip shook his head. "No, Mr. Pennythorne; I feel too certain of my own incapacity; and literature has always seemed to me so high and holy a calling."

At this moment the young man met the upturned face of his host--the cold, cautious eyes watching him with a look something between wonder and curiosity, and the sarcastic mouth bent into the most contemptuous of polite sneers. Now, it was one of Philip's weaknesses that his sensitive and reserved disposition was ever painfully alive to ridicule. As before said, he was by no means one of your model heroes, who are ever ready to "stand fire," either physically or morally. And so it happened that this look of Mr. Pennythorne's just sufficed to drive back all his warm impulses. He forgot what he was about to say, stopped, and his delicate cheek changed colour like a girl's.

"Pray go on," said the host.

"I have nothing more to say, sir," he replied, "except that I feel obliged for your kindness; but, not thinking myself competent to do credit to authorship, I had rather not attempt it." Thereby he lost an excellent chance of "testifying to the truth," and will doubtless sink very much in the estimation of all who would have virtue and genius continually appear in the character of public lecturers. But Philip Wychnor was so reserved and humble-minded, that as yet he was unaware of half the treasures of his intellect.

Yet though he could not fathom the depths of his own mind, he could see a good way into Mr. Pennythorne's; and the sight was both painful and discouraging. The conversation went on, and Philip listened with the deference that his companion's age and character demanded; but there was a disagreeable sense of uncongeniality, almost amounting to distrust, in the young man's mind.

Mr. Pennythorne did not notice this in the least; for his perception, though acute, was by no means delicate. He talked fast and freely, not to say ostentatiously, of his influence in other quarters--discussed the various duties and advantages of employment as banker's clerk, merchant's clerk, railway clerk, and Philip's capacity for the same, until his young auditor grew half bewildered and wholly disconsolate. At last, it was agreed that as Wychnor had a little money for the present, he should stay in lodgings, and enter on the weary life of "waiting for a situation." This interregnum would not last long, Mr. Pennythorne was certain:--and indeed, from his conversation, he seemed able to scatter appointments abroad as thick as leaves in autumn.

"Now, my young friend,"--Mr. Pennythorne had such a host of young friends on his list,--"excuse my making you one of the family, and sending you up-stairs while I take a nap. Old people must be humoured, you know. You will find the boys in the drawing-room."

Philip was not sorry to receive this somewhat unceremonious congé. As he stood alone on the stairs he tried to collect his thoughts, and to struggle with a vague feeling of discomfort.

"This is very foolish of me!" he said to himself; "I shall not get every one in the world to think and feel exactly as I do--how could I expect it? Mr. Pennythorne seems a very good sort of man--kind too, in his own way: he will most likely do something for me; and then, once getting a start in life, I have my fortune in my own hands--that is, with Heaven's blessing." And the one reverent aspiration of that young pious spirit calmed its jarring doubts into patient hope.

"Still," thought Philip, when, after a prosy evening and a walk of three miles, he laid his tired head on his rather hard pillow just as St. Pancras' clock was striking twelve--"still, I am rather glad that Mr. Pennythorne did not ask my reasons for giving up the Church: he would not have understood them any more than Aunt Breynton. I don't think anybody does quite understand me, except Eleanor."

And with that dear name on his lips and in his heart, Philip Wychnor fell asleep.

What is there that I should turn to, lighting upon days like these?
Every door is barred with gold, and opens but to golden keys.
Every gate is thronged with suitors; all the markets overflow.
I have but an angry fancy: what is that which I should do?
TENNYSON.

Keep the spirit pure
From worldly taint by the repellent strength
Of virtue * * *
Walk
Boldly and wisely in the light thou hast:
There is a Hand above will help thee on.
PHILIP BAILEY.

It is impossible to imagine a life more utterly dull and dreary than that of a young man living alone in London, with few friends, with no pursuit to occupy his time, and with no money to allure him into agreeable or vicious ways of killing it. Philip Wychnor thought that each week, each day, grew longer and longer. He had read through and through all the books he had brought with him, and was unable to buy or borrow more. Then he tried to "rub up" his old studies at Oxford; but working without an aim is a thankless occupation. His whole course of life had been disturbed, and he could not settle down again.

He grew tired of his dingy little parlour, where the sun just peeped in at early morning--after which, as though disgusted with the place, it departed for the day with the breakfast-things. So he took to strolling about London, and philosophising on human nature in its citizen aspect. This soon made him more heart-weary still. He then sought after all the places of amusement that were open free. Fortunately among this class London now numbers some of its highest and most intellectual feasts. Philip spent many an hour at the British Museum, amid the quiet gloom of the Elgin-room--until he knew by sight all the student votaries of Art who seek to re-create a Theseus or an Ilyssus on their drawing-boards. Many a long morning, too, did he loiter in the National Gallery; a place that looks always fresh and pleasant and sunshiny--for is there not perpetual sunshine with Guido, and Titian, and Claude? Often and often Philip entered with his spirit so broken and desponding, that the May brightness and cheerfulness of the streets seemed only to insult his lonely poverty. He knew nothing of Art save through the spell by which its glory and beauty must ever influence minds like his own. But the spirit of Guido spoke peace to him through the mournful-eyed Magdalene, or the Child Jesus with its face of pale purity gazed on by reverent John; while, grand and solemn, loomed out of the darkness the figure of Piombo's Lazarus,--and in Da Vinci's Ecce Homo the suffering God-man looked in sublime compassion on the Virgin's mother-woe. Pictures such as these Philip loved best; for in this season of anxiety their sorrowful and holy beauty touched and soothed his spirit.

And turning for a moment from our story to the individual memories which its progress brings, let us linger in the place whither we have led Philip Wychnor; a place so full of old associations that even while thinking of it we lay down our pen and sigh. Good, careless reader--mayhap you never knew what it was to lead a life in which sorrow formed the only change from monotony, a life so solitary that dream-companions alone peopled it, nor how, looking back on that dull desert of time, one remembers lovingly the pleasant spots that brightened it here and there--how in traversing the old haunts our feet linger, even while we contrast gladly and thankfully the present with the past. Else you would not wonder that we stay for a moment with our Philip Wychnor; walking in fancy from room to room; gazing at every well-known picture, whose beautiful and benign influence was so blessed to us of old; and seeing also, living faces that were once beside us there--some, most dear of all on earth--others on whom we shall never more look until we behold them in heaven.

The theme grows too solemn. Readers--whom at times every author takes strangely enough into his heart's depths, as he takes not even those who sit at his board and drink of his cup--if you can understand this digression you will forgive it--if not, pass it by!

Philip Wychnor had no acquaintance in London except the Pennythornes. He went to Blank-square--sometimes by invitation, and now and then without. But he had a great belief in that verse of the Proverbs--"Refrain thy foot from thy neighbour's house, lest he be weary of thee and so hate thee:"--therefore his visits always kept within due limits. Still it was undeniable that he took pleasure in being received with friendliness into this always hospitable house--for hospitality was one of Mr. Pennythorne's virtues. True, the family circle was somewhat dull if its head chanced to be absent; but then, in Philip's present state of isolation, any family fireside was a welcome change from the solitary dreariness of his own. So he grew to take pleasure in Mrs. Pennythorne's meaningless but good-tempered smile, and Mr. Pennythorne's unfailing talk--the very ostentatiousness of which was amusing. With the younger members of the household Philip's acquaintance advanced little; for Frederick was rarely at home in the evening, and Leigh maintained the same dull--almost sullen--silence. Now and then, when Philip chanced to talk a little more earnestly than usual, he detected the large brown eyes watching him with curious intentness; but if he returned the look, they fell at once, and Leigh's countenance relapsed into its customary stolidity. Still, when Philip's thoughts wanted occupation, they sometimes turned to speculate on this rather singular boy.

Alas for Philip--he had only too much time for thinking! and as month after month rolled on, and he had still no occupation, his thoughts became mournful indeed. Each week Eleanor sent him one of her long cheering letters--no young-lady epistles nor romantic love-breathings--but a sensible woman's letters; thoughtful, sincere, and full of that truest affection which expresses itself less in words than in deeds. She knew not that but for these letters, her lover's mind would have sunk from its healthy tone and manly strength into the morbid apathy of delayed hope or the misanthropy and bitterness of despair.

It was not the sting of actual poverty that Philip felt so keenly. True, it requires a degree of moral courage to brave the summer sunshine of London streets in a threadbare coat--and it is rather a trial of patience to sit down to a fragment of homely ill-cooked dinner; but these are after all only externalities, and very endurable. When the mind has its own food of present content, and a certainty, if ever so little, for the future, a well-earned dish of potatoes is by no means such a miserable repast; and a man with a pure conscience, and hope in his bosom, can button over it his shabby garment, and walk the street with a brow as clear--ay, and as lofty--as any of his brethren in the purple and fine linen of the world.

Therefore, as Philip Wychnor had always held his body much less precious than his soul, we shall not pity him for any of these endurances. He would have scorned it. But deepest pity indeed he needed, during that weary summer, when the agony of uncertainty, the tortures of "sitting still and doing nothing," gnawed into his very soul. Poor fellow! many a time he envied the stonebreaker in the street, who at least had the comfort of working all day and was certain of his future. At last he went to Mr. Pennythorne, and spoke openly, earnestly,--almost despairingly.

"My good fellow!"--exclaimed, with some surprise, that excellent individual--he had seen the young man come to his house now and then, to dinner or tea, with a composed countenance and decent dress, so felt his conscience quite at ease respecting his protégé--"I had no idea that you were in such a plight as this: you never complained."

"Is it likely I should, sir?" said Philip, proudly. "Nor do I now; I am very thankful for all the efforts which I believe you have made on my behalf but I begin to think there is no occupation to be had,--at least, none that I can do. The misfortune lies in my being brought up that very useless thing--a gentleman." And Philip laughed bitterly. "However, I can remedy this; I will leave London, change my name, and get work as a farmer's labourer. A mechanic's place is above me, unfortunately, as I had not even the blessing of learning a trade. But work I must have, or I shall go mad."

"I begin to think you are so already," muttered Mr. Pennythorne, as with some touch of compassion he regarded the young man's wild eyes and haggard face. A faint whisper of conscience, too, hinted that he himself had not used Philip quite well: not but that he had tried to serve him--writing to two or three friends, and speaking to two or three more, about "a young man who wanted employment." But Mr. Pennythorne had erred where most ostentatious patronising men err: and woeful is the misery which they bring on their dependants by the same!--promising far too much, and boasting of imaginary influence, to gratify a petty love of power.

There never yet was human heart so naturally cold, or so frozen over by outward formalities, that you could not find in one corner or other some fountain of goodness bubbling up. No matter how soon it disappears--it has been, and therefore may be again. Now, just such a spring as this began to irrigate that very dry and dusty portion of Mr. Pennythorne's anatomy which lay under his left waistcoat pocket; and, by a curious sympathy between external and internal things, he remembered that there was in this said pocket a five-pound note. His fingers even advanced nearer to it--they touched it--but just at this moment a loud, fashionable knock came to the hall-door, and the tiny fountain in Mr. Pennythorne's heart sank suddenly down. Still, it had watered a little the arid soil around.

"Come and dine with me to-morrow, my dear boy," he said, cordially; "and cheer up. I'll think of something for you by that time."

"To-morrow--to-morrow--to-morrow," sighed Philip, mechanically repeating that word of mournful beguiling. As he descended, he passed in the hall a stylish little lady, who had just stepped from her carriage, and was busy impressing on the servant "Mrs. Lancaster's wish for only five minutes' speech of Mr. Pennythorne." Philip stood aside to let the visitor pass by, and then departed. He crept wearily along the sunny side of the square, all glare, and dust, and burning heat; and there came idly jingling through his brain, in that season of care so dull, heavy, and numbing as to shut out all consecutive thought, the fragment of olden rhyme--

Why, let the stricken deer go weep,
The hart ungalled play;
For some must watch, whilst some must sleep
Thus runs the world away.

It so chanced that Mr. Pennythorne, working hard all that day at a review of a book which he had had no time to read, and in the evening busily engaged dispensing his bons mots and amusing sneers in Mrs. Lancaster's gay drawing-room, never thought again of Philip Wychnor until his wife asked him the next morning what he would have for dinner. Mr. Pennythorne's sway, be it known, extended even to the comestibles of his household.

"Dear me--that reminds me that I asked young Wychnor to dine here, and I promised to think of something for him. Really, how tiresome are these fellows in want of employment!" And the old gentleman cogitated for at least five minutes with his chin on his hand. At last, a brilliant thought struck him.

"Cillie, my dear."

"Yes, Pierce."

"How much did that young Johnson--the fellow that came yesterday, you know, to ask if I wanted a tutor for Leigh--how much did he charge by the lesson?"

"Half-a-guinea for two hours; only he wanted his lunch as well, and you said that would"--

"Tut--tut! how women's tongues do run! Mrs. Pennythorne, will you be so obliging as to go down stairs?--and when I need your advice and conversation I will ring the bell" And Mr. Pennythorne politely opened the door for his wife, shut her out, and returned to his easy-chair.

"That will just do--a capital plan!" said he, rubbing his hands with an air of benevolent satisfaction. "How thankful the poor fellow will be! Of course, one could not give him so much as a professed tutor. Let me see--say four hours at half-a-guinea, and that twice a week: a very good thing for him--very good indeed. He ought to be quite satisfied, and very thankful. It will save me time and trouble, too,--for that young Leigh is getting confoundedly stupid; so I shall kill two birds with one stone. Really, what a deal of good one can do in the world if one tries!"

With a pleasing conviction of his own generosity, Mr. Pennythorne leaned back in his chair, and summoned his wife, to give orders for a turbot and lamb with a dish of game to follow.

"Young Wychnor is coming here to-day," he added, benevolently. "I dare say he does not get such a dinner every day."

He certainly did not--but Mr. Pennythorne did--very often. Therefore he was obliged, alas! to pay his son's tutor only two shillings and sevenpence halfpenny for each hour's instruction in Latin, Greek, and Mathematics.

Should the Body sue the Mind before a court of judicature for the damages, it would be found that the Mind would prove to have been a ruinous tenant to its landlord. PLUTARCH.

Can I love thee, my beloved--can I love thee?
And is this like love, to stand
With no help in my hand,
When strong as death I fain would watch above thee?
May God love thee, my beloved, may God love thee!
E. B. BROWNING.

The five-pound note found its way into Philip's pocket after all. To be sure, it came diluted into guinea-drops, at not very regular intervals, but still it did come, and Mr. Pennythorne had done a benevolent action. He felt sure of this himself, and so did Mrs. Pennythorne. Moreover, the latter often added to the benevolence by giving Philip a glass of wine and a sandwich when he came in, hot and exhausted, after his three-mile walk. These were not "nominated in the bond," and Philip took them gratefully. The trifling kindness was better than the gold.

He had at first little pleasure in teaching Leigh Pennythorne. He gave his instruction carefully, patiently, kindly; but it never seemed to penetrate beyond the outward layer of the boy's dull, overworked brain. The soil had been ploughed and sown over and over again, until there was no vestige of fertility left in it. Philip tried to interest his young pupil--to make a friend of him--but the heart seemed as dead as the brain. Now and then there would come a gleam of speculation into the heavy eyes; but it was only a passing light, and the youth's face sank again into its vacant dreariness.

"Leigh has got plenty of brains--only they require a great deal of hammering to knock out the laziness," said the father.

"Leigh has grown the sulkiest fellow that ever lived, over those stupid books. By Jove! I'm glad nobody ever put it into father's head that I was clever," laughed Mr. Frederick.

"Poor Leigh! I wonder why he will make himself ill with sitting over the fire and never going out," Mrs. Pennythorne would sometimes lament; but she never dared to say more--hardly to think.

So the boy grew paler and duller every day, but still he must work--work--for the time was going by, and Mr. Pennythorne was determined to have a man of learning in the family. His credit was at stake, for he had vaunted everywhere his son's classic acquirements, and the boast should be made good in spite of "that lazy Leigh." Morning and night the father attacked him. "Study--study!" was for ever dinned into his ears; so, at last, the boy rarely stirred out of his own little den. There he sat, with his books heaped up around him:--they helped to build the altar-pile on which the deluded father was offering up his victim.

Philip Wychnor saw very little of all this, or his truthful tongue could not have kept silence. He was sorry for the boy, and tried to make the few hours during which he himself guided his studies as little like labour as possible; and if ever Leigh's countenance brightened into interest or intelligence it was during the time that he was alone with his gentle teacher. That teacher was, himself fast yielding to the effects of the desolate and anxious summer through which he had passed. It had prostrated all his bodily energies, and his mind sank with them. He felt as though he were gradually drawing nearer and nearer into the shadow of some terrible illness which he could not avert. Every day he rose up with the thought, "Well, I wonder what will become of me before night!"--and every night, when he lay down on his bed, it was under a vague impression that he might not rise from it again.

At last, one morning when he left the Pennythornes, he felt so ill that he ventured to expend sixpence in a ride home--almost his last coin, poor fellow! for it wanted some days of the month's end, and Mr. Pennythorne was never beforehand in his disbursements. As he sat in the corner of the omnibus with his hat drawn over his aching eyes, he felt conscious of nothing save the dull rolling of the vehicle which carried him somewhere--he hardly knew where. There was a crying child near him,--and a lady with a sharp-toned voice who drew her silk robes from the babe's greasy fingers, and glared angrily at its shabbily-clad mother, muttering not inaudibly, "What very disagreeable people one meets in omnibuses!" About King William-street there was a stoppage in the street, and a consequent pushing of passengers' heads out of the window, with a general murmur about a woman having been run over. All these things Philip's eye and ear perceived as through a dense confused mist:--he sat in his corner and never stirred.

"What unfeelingness!" muttered the lady-passenger with the silk dress, who seemed to find her own self such very dull company that she spent her whole time in watching and commenting on other people.

"Totten'-co't-road," bawled out the conductor; and Philip was just conscious of making a movement to alight, and being assisted out by a little old man who sat by the door.

"Money, sir!" the omnibus man shouted indignantly, as Philip turned away. He took out a shilling and hastily went on.

"Gen'lemen drunk never wants no change," said the conductor, with a broad grin that made all the passengers laugh except the odd-looking old man. As he stood on the step, in the act of descending, he threw back on the conductor the most frowning glance of which his mild, good-natured eyes were capable.

Philip walked on a little way into a quiet street, and there leaned against a railing, utterly unable to stand. A touch at his elbow startled him: it was the queer old man in the omnibus.

"Afraid you're ill, sir," said the most deprecating and yet kindly voice in the world.

"No--yes--perhaps so--the day is so hot," murmured Philip, and then he fainted in the street.

Luckily, he had upon him a card. Oppressed with the presentiment of sudden illness, he always took this precaution. The little old man called a cab and took him home. That night Philip Wychnor lay smitten with fever on his poor pallet-bed in the close back attic of--street.

At the same hour Eleanor was passing up and down under the lime-tree shadow of the palace-garden--thinking of her betrothed. She pictured him in busy London, at work bravely, steadily, hopefully. Perchance she almost envied his lot of active employment, while she herself had to bear many home trials--to walk in the old paths and see Philip's face there no more--to have one constant thought of Philip in her heart, and yet fear to utter his name. Faithful Eleanor, could she have seen him now!

Oh, why is love so powerless--so vain?--infinite in will, yet how bounded in power! We would fain spread world-extended wings of shelter and comfort over our beloved; and yet in our helplessness we may let them sink, suffer, die, alone! Strange and sad it is, that we, who would brave alike life's toil and death's agony--ay, lay down body and soul at the feet of our dearest ones--cannot bring ease to the lightest pain which their humanity may endure.

Yet, there is a wondrous might in loving,--a might almost divine. May it not be, that there are Those around us whose whole spiritual being, transfused with love, delights to aid where our human affection fails, unable to fulfil its longings--who stand in our stead, and give to our vain blessings, our almost weeping prayers, our solitary outpouring of fondest words, a strength so omnipotent that our beloved may feel in their souls the mysterious influence--and draw thence comfort and joy?

And if so, when, as poor sick Philip watched the creeping sunshine along the dusky wall--the blessed, thoughtful sunshine which in London always visits most the poverty-stricken attic,--or when, during his long restless nights, the pure moonlight came in like a flood, and in his half-delirious mood he thought it was the waving of an angel's wing,--who knows but that the faithful love which rose up to heaven in an unceasing prayer for him, may have fallen down again on his spirit in a holy dew of blessing and of peace?

Rejoice, O thou who lovest! if thine be that pure love which dares stand in the sight of God with its shining face unveiled--so holy that thou tremblest not to breathe it in thy prayers--so free from earth's taint that it can look on the divider, Death, without fear or sorrow, feeling that then its highest life begins! Be strong and faint not--be faithful and doubt not-whatever clouds and thick darkness of human fate may stand between thee and thy heart's desire. How knowest thou but that the sunburst of thy strong love may pierce through all, and rest on thy beloved--a glory and a blessing,--though whence it cometh, or how, may never be revealed?

He had grown dusty with groping all his life in the graves of dead languages.--CHARLES DICKENS.

Much more is said of knowledge than 'tis worth;
A man may gain all knowledge here, and yet
Be after death as much i' the dark as I.
PHILIP BAILEY.

Philip was ill many days--how many he never counted, and there was no tender nurse to count them for him. He struggled through his illness like numberless others to whom sickness and poverty come together. One wonders how such poor desolate sufferers survive. And yet Death often passes the penury-stricken, misery-haunted chamber, to stand at the foot of the well-tended couch around which gathers an army of doctors and nurses. Amidst all, in spite of all, sounds in the rich man's ear the low awful whisper, "Thou must come away."

Life is to the young an ever-renewed fountain of hope; and Philip Wychnor, when he arose from his sickness, was by no means so disconsolate as might have been expected. Under the hardest circumstances there is always a vague happiness in the first dawn of returning health. As the poor invalid managed to walk to the window, and sat watching as much of a glorious autumn sunset as that fortunate elevation permitted, there was a patient content on his pale face which made the cross-grained old landlady say quite tenderly when she brought him his tea and toast, "Dear heart alive !--how nice and well you are a-looking to-day, sir!"

In truth there were a sweetness and a beauty in Philip's face that would have softened any heart wherein lingered one drop of kindly womanhood: and, thank Heaven! there are few utterly without.

The young man finished his poor repast almost with an appetite; and then leaned back in the twilight, too weak for consecutive thought, but still giving way to a quiet, pleasant dreaminess. He was conscious only of a vague craving to have the dear soft eyes that he knew, looking peace upon him--to rest like a weary child with his head on her shoulder, his hand in hers, without speaking or moving. And as he lay still, with closed eyes, the strong fantasy seemed to grow into a reality.

As Philip reclined in this dreamy state, the door opened softly, and through it appeared, to his great astonishment, the long thin face of Leigh Pennythorne. The boy looked round the room, and started back when he saw Philip, who turned and held out his hand.

"How good of you to come and see me!" he said, feebly. Leigh sprang forward, wrung the poor wan hand two or three times, and tried to speak, but in vain. At last he took out his old cotton pocket-handkerchief and began to cry like a child.

Philip, quite amazed at this display of feeling, could only lay his hand on the boy's shoulder, and then leaned back too exhausted for speech. Leigh began to be alarmed.

"I hope I shan't do you any harm; I don't mean to," he said, between his sobs. "I am downright ashamed of myself that I am--a great boy like me--but I did not expect you were out of bed; and I was so glad to see you better, Mr. Wychnor."

"Thank you--thank you, Leigh," was the faint answer.

"There now, don't talk; I shan't. I've got all my books here:"--and he hauled after him a great blue bag. "Just go to sleep again, and call me when you want anything, will you?" said the boy, insensibly relapsing into his languid drawl. He seated himself on the other side the window, and leaned his gaunt elbows on the sill, with the eternal book between them. But how far this was a kindly pretence, the quick glances which the brown eyes were ever stealing at Philip easily revealed.

"Leigh!" said the invalid, after a pause.

"Yes, sir," answered the old schoolboy voice--so different from the impassioned tone of a few minutes before.

"Don't call me sir--you cannot think how glad I am to see you, my dear boy!" And Philip clasped the cold spider-like hand affectionately, for his heart was touched.

"Glad--are you, Mr. Wychnor? Well, you're the first who ever was glad to see me--or who told me so." There was a tone half bitter, half despondent, piercing through the boy's apathy,--but Philip took no notice of it.

"How did you know I was ill?" he asked.

"Oh, I could easily see that the last day you came. I watched you down our square, and into the omnibus--I hope you'll not be offended at that, Mr. Wychnor?"--and the sallow cheek of the shy boy reddened visibly. Philip pressed his hand,--and Leigh brightened up more and more.

"I said to myself that you must be ill, as you never rode home before; so the next day, when the governor dined out, I came over here to see."

"How kind!--you who never care to stir from home."

"Oh, it was a change--I rather liked it; and as for being tired, that don't signify--I always am tired;" and Leigh smiled languidly. "I have been here very often since then; only you were light-headed, and did not know me."

"But they told me I had a fever. Oh, Leigh, if you should take it!" said Philip, hurriedly.

"Don't mind that; I heard the doctor say it wasn't catching,--and if it were, I should not be afraid. It would be rather pleasant to have a fever, and then I should not work. But there's no danger; so don't make yourself uncomfortable."

"But your father?"

"Oh, he knows nothing about it; I managed all so cleverly. Guess how! I wrote a letter in your name, saying you had fallen down and sprained your foot, so that you would be glad if father would let me take the lessons here, and you'd give an extra one each week. I knew that would catch the old governor!"--and an expression in which the glee of childhood and the sarcasm of manhood were conjoined passed over the boy's face. "The writing looked just like yours, and I put it in the post-office at Southampton-row. He never found out the cheat. How should he? So I used to come over regularly with my books--and then I took care of you."

Philip was struck dumb by the strange mixture of affection and duplicity, generosity and utter neglect of truth or duty, which the boy's conduct exhibited. But the good was Leigh's own nature--the evil, the result of his education. Philip, weak and ill as he was, had no power to argue the right and wrong of the case. He only felt the influence of this sudden upspringing of affection towards himself; it came to him like waters in a dry land--he could not thrust it from him, though much that was evil mingled in the fountain's source.

Leigh went on talking as fast as though he had a twelve-month's arrears of silence to make up at once. "I told the landlady I was your cousin--she and I got very good friends--I used to pay her every week."

"Pay her?" echoed Philip, as a thought of his empty purse flashed across his mind.

"Oh, yes--of course, father sent the money for the lessons just as usual--it did very nicely--or I really don't know how I could have got you what you wanted during your illness. But I shall talk too much for you. Hadn't you better lie down again?" The advice did not come too soon, for Philip, bewildered and exhausted, had sunk back in his chair.

In a moment the dull, stupid Leigh Pennythorne became changed into the most active and skilful of nurses--gentle and thoughtful as a woman. His apathetic manner, his lazy drawl, seemed to vanish at once. He tended Philip, and even wept over him with a remorseful affection that was touching to witness.

O ye hard parents, who look upon your offspring as your mere property, to be brought up for your pleasure or pride,--never remembering that each child will live, through eternity, an independent, self-existing being,--that the Bestower of these young spirits gives them not, but lends--

"Take this child and nurse it for Me,"--think what a fearful thing it is to have upon your heads the destruction of a human soul!

Philip, left to himself, thought much and anxiously of the best course to pursue; and by the best Philip Wychnor always meant the right--he never turned aside to expediencies. Once, his upright, truthful mind prompted him to write the whole story to Mr. Pennythorne; but then he soon saw how terrible would be the result to Leigh. He would not give up the poor boy whose fragile life seemed to owe its sole brightness to his own affection. So, as the young teacher himself gathered strength, he set about the cure of this poor diseased mind; trying to bend it straight, as he would a tree which wrong culture had warped aside, not with a sudden wrench, but by a gradual influence;--so that, ere long, he made Leigh see and acknowledge his errors. And all this he did so gently, that while the boy's spirit opened to the light, he loved more than ever the hand which brought it, even though the brightness of truth revealed in his heart much evil that oppressed him with shame.

"And now," said Philip, one day, as Leigh sat beside him listening to his gentle arguments, "what are we to do to amend all this?"

"I don't know. Do you decide," answered Leigh humbly.

"Go and tell your father, what is indeed the truth, that I have been too ill to give you your lessons; but that you had not courage to say this, and continued coming here still. Surely he cannot be angry, since this was from kindness to me."

Leigh shook his head. "I'll do it, however, if you say so. You must be right, Mr. Wychnor, and I don't care what happens to myself."

"And tell your father, too, from me," continued Philip, "that I will make up all the missed lessons as soon as ever I recover. I could not rest with this load on my mind." There was a look of surprise and tenderness in the large wistful eyes which now seemed ever reading Philip's face.

"You must be a very good man, Mr. Wychnor. You do and say the sort of things that I used to read of long ago when I had books I liked--I don't mean these!" and he kicked the blue bag disdainfully. "I fancied I should meet in real life the same sort of goodness, but I never did; and so, at last, I thought it was only found in poetry and novels. I don't now, though."

Philip made no answer to this simple child-like confession, but it went to his heart. He vowed within himself that while the boy lived he would not part from him, but would strive through all difficulties to guide this frail struggling spirit to the light.

Mr. Pennythorne was rather indignant at having been deceived, but his parental dignity grew mollified by the humble behaviour of his son.

"Leigh is not half so sulky as he used to be, and he gets on very well with young Wychnor," he observed to Mrs. Pennythorne. "It is not worth while breaking up the lessons, when the lad came himself and told of his own error. However, he must apologise properly, for I cannot have my authority set at nought."

The mother deferentially suggested that it did poor Leigh so much good to go out every day; and so the end of the matter was, that Mr. Pennythorne graciously acceded to the lessons being given at Philip's home,--the extra one being still continued.

"And about the money already received?" said Philip, anxiously, when his young pupil brought the message. "Will your father wait until I can return it?" Leigh blushed crimson, and turned to the window.

"Oh, he is quite satisfied on that account; you are not to think about it any more."

"How kind!" And in Philip's first uneasiness and quick-springing gratitude he never noticed Leigh's confusion. The boy had sold his watch--his pet plaything and companion--to pay his father the money.

Marriage is a desperate thing. The frogs in Æsop were extremely wise: they had a great mind to some water, but they would not leap into a well because they could not get out again.--SELDEN.

A coxcomb is ugly all over with the affectation of a fine gentleman.--STEELE.

In the bay-window of a somewhat tawdry London drawing-room stood a lady alone. She was looking towards the street more through idleness than curiosity, for she kept restlessly beating time with her riding-whip on her gloved hand. You could not see her face, except the outline of the cheek and graceful little ear,--but these wore all the beautiful roundness of early youth; and her tall figure, which the dark riding-habit so well displayed, had an almost statue-like perfection in its curves.

By degrees the impatient little hand grew still, the fair head drooped, and with her brow leaning against the windowpane the girl stood for some minutes in thought. The fact itself showed how young she was. After twenty one's ponderings usually grow too deep and earnest to be expended in light and sudden reveries. A voice outside and an opened door broke in upon these musings, and caused the young girl to turn round. It was Katharine Ogilvie.

"Dear me, Katharine, how you are altered!" exclaimed the lady who entered the room,--also an old acquaintance of ours, whom we have left so long to pursue the sole aim of her life, matrimony, that we feel almost ashamed to reintroduce her as still Miss Isabella Worsley.

"I never saw such a change!" continued she, in genuine astonishment, which really was not at all surprising. Eleanor had proved right in her conjecture; one could hardly see anywhere a more graceful and beautiful young creature than Katharine Ogilvie at nineteen. "Why, what has made such a difference in you?" continued Isabella, "eyeing her over" from head to foot.

Katharine smiled, and a faint colour rose into her cheek: a lovely cheek it was too--no longer sallow, but of a clear pale brown, under which the rich blood wandered, at times suffusing it with a peach-like glow. "You know it is nearly three years since you saw me, Isabella;" and as she spoke a deeper and more womanly thrill might have been traced in her silvery voice.

"Three years! nay, I am sure it is not nearly so much," said Isabella, with some little acerbity. She began to find it rather irksome to count years.

"Indeed it is, all but two months. It will be three years next February--I mean January;" and Katharine's colour grew a shade deeper as she continued more quickly, "Yes, it was in January that you came, Isabella,--you, and Lizzie, and George,--and we had besides, Eleanor and Hugh. What a merry time it was!"

"You seem to remember it exceedingly well," said Isabella pointedly, and not altogether without ill-nature.

"Certainly I do;" and the beautiful head was lifted a little, with an air of dignity not unmixed with pride. It showed Isabella at once that where she had left the child she had found the woman. She turned the conversation immediately.

"We have been looking for you all the morning, Katharine. It is so horridly dull to be up in town when everybody else is out of it; living in lodgings too, with nobody but mamma. I wish this disagreeable law business were over. But come, my dear girl, take off your hat and let us talk. How long have you to stay with me this morning?"

"My father will come for me in an hour or two, if he can get away from the House. Otherwise he will be sure to send Hugh."

"Hugh! Really I shall be quite delighted to see cousin Hugh? Is he altered?" and the sharp eyes fixed themselves observantly on Katharine's face.

"Oh no! Hugh is just the same as ever," answered the young girl with a merry laugh, as she stood braiding back the thick black hair which had fallen in taking off her hat. The attitude was so unconstrained--so perfectly graceful--that Isabella's envious heart acknowledged perforce the exceeding beauty of her cousin.

"And Hugh stays at Summerwood as much as he used to do?" she pursued, keeping up the same scrutiny.

"Oh yes! I don't know what papa would do without him, now he is himself in Parliament. Hugh manages everything at the Park; takes care of the farming and the shooting--of mamma, of Brown Bess, and of myself."

"So I suppose."

"Besides, he can hardly feel settled anywhere else, now that Eleanor lives with Mrs. Breynton."

"Ah! tell me all about that. How odd it was of Eleanor to go and live entirely with a stupid old woman! But perhaps she had plenty of money to leave?"

Katharine's proud lip curled. "Eleanor is not a legacy-hunter, I imagine," she answered coldly.

"I really did not intend to vex you, my dear," said Miss Worsley. "Of course, Hugh's sister is all perfection--to you."

"What did you say, Isabella?" asked the quiet and rather haughty voice.

"Oh, nothing, nothing. You see, Eleanor and I never took to one another much though we are cousins, and so we never correspond: therefore, all I know of her proceedings is from hearsay. Pray enlighten me, Katharine; I do love a nice little bit of mystery."

"There is really no mystery about the matter," answered Katharine, smiling. "I have not seen my cousin much of late,--and her letters are rather short than otherwise, and contain very little about herself. I know no more than every one else does--that, being an orphan and sisterless, she likes to live with an old lady who was her mother's friend and is very fond of herself. There is nothing very mysterious in this--is there?"

"Oh no! only I was rather curious about the matter,--for Eleanor's sake, of course," said the young lady. We call her so par excellence--as Isabella was essentially one of those carefully manufactured articles which the boarding-school creates and "society" finishes. There is a German fairy fable of the Ellewomen, who are all fair in front, but if you walk round them hollow as a piece of stamped leather. Perhaps this is a myth of young-lady-hood.

Our young lady, then, finding it impossible to pump from Katharine anything that administered to her vanity or her love of gossip, began to feel the conversation growing rather tiresome: so she took out a piece of fancy-work, and having tried to engage her visitor's admiration of it, set her to wind some Berlin wool: doubtless thinking within herself how stupid it was to talk to girls, and wishing for the arrival of any two-legged animal in coat and hat to relieve the tedium of this morning call. And--as if at that auspicious moment Fortunatus's wishing-cap had adorned her head, instead of the pretty little nondescript fabric of wool which she wore, partly for warmth, partly because any sort of matronly coil sets off a passé face advantageously--lo! there was a terrific thundering at the hall-door, and the servant appeared with a card.

"Mr. Frederick Pennythorne," read Isabella. "Show him up immediately." And with an air of satisfaction she glanced at the mirror, and went through one or two small ceremonies of dress-arranging with which fair damsels of her stamp always honour the approach of an individual in broadcloth.

"A matter of business, I conclude?" observed Katharine, "as you said you had no friends in town now. Shall I be in the way?"

"Oh no; not in the least. The fact is, that Mr. Pennythorne is the solicitor in our suit--quite a rising young man; not disagreeable either. He calls often--rather oftener than is quite necessary for the law business "--(here Isabella cast her eyes down with an affected smile, and tittered exceedingly)--"so, Katharine, it is perhaps as well for you to be here, as mamma is so very particular. But I suppose you have not got to these things yet, my dear; and, indeed"--

Open sesame!--videlicet the drawing-room door--and enter Mr. Frederick Pennythorne! Then came due greeting and introduction, and the small rattle of conversation began. It was just such as might have been expected from the two principal interlocutors, for Katharine took little part in it. With instinctive, but in this case quite superfluous delicacy, she soon retired to the window; and if once or twice her eyes wandered towards Isabella and the new visitor, her gaze was induced by a far deeper feeling than idle curiosity. To her, all lovers and all love were sacred; and she felt for the first time a sympathy with her cousin. The young unsuspicious heart saw in all others but the likeness of its own: the true could not even divine the false.

Yet a little, a very little, did Katharine marvel, when the light laugh and unconcerned chatter of her cousin struck her ear. Love seemed to her such a deep, earnest thing,--and there was Isabella all carelessness and merriment, even in the presence of her lover. Lover! As Katharine glanced at the easy self-complacent rattler of small compliments, a feeling came over her very like self-scorn for having so misapplied the word. And turning away from the mean prettiness of the well-arranged smirking visage, with its small lappets of whisker meeting under the chin, and its unmistakable air of "Don't you see what a good-looking fellow I am?"--there rose up before her the shadowy likeness of another and very different face. Then Katharine, smiling to herself a proud joyous smile, did not even think again of Mr. Frederick Pennythorne. That gentleman, on his part, was inclined to return the somewhat negative compliment. People like himself feel an extreme aversion to being looked down upon, either corporeally or mentally. Katharine Ogilvie unfortunately did both; and the manner in which she received his first compliment effectually prevented his hazarding a second. He found his small mind quite out of its depths, and floundered back as quickly as possible to the protecting shallows of Miss Worsley's easy talk. When Katharine was startled out of her pleasant silence by the announcement of the visitor's departure, all that passed between them was a valedictory bow, which Miss Ogilvie tried to make as courteous as possible to the supposed lover of her cousin.

"Dear me! how tiresome these men are! What trouble I have with them, to be sure!" exclaimed Miss Worsley, throwing herself languidly into an arm-chair, while a gratified simper rather contradicted her assertions. Katharine looked a good deal surprised. "Why, Bella, I thought you were delighted to see this gentleman; that he was a particular friend of yours--in short, a"--

"Beau, you mean," interrupted Isabella, with a laugh, "or admirer, or sweetheart, as the maid-servants say."

"And Shakspeare,--who makes the word so pretty, as indeed it is--sweet heart," said Katharine; who scarcely knew whether or not to echo her cousin's laugh, and in truth could hardly tell what to make of her. At last she inquired earnestly:

"My dear Bella, do you and this young man really love one another?" Isabella laughed more heartily than ever.

"Well, that is good! 'Love one another!'--it sounds just like a text out of the Bible. You little simplicity! nobody ever talks in that way now-a-days, except in novels. Where did you learn your pretty lesson, my dear, and who taught you?" Again the proud cheek's sudden crimson warned Miss Worsley that the childish days wherein she used to make sport of her young cousin were over. She changed her tactics immediately, seriously adding, "Well, well, I know what you mean, Katharine; the mere form of words does not much signify. Whether I like Fred Pennythorne or not, 'tis quite clear he likes me,--as indeed he managed to tell me about ten minutes ago."

"And you will marry him--that is, if you do not, and never did, love any one else?"

"My dear girl, how unsophisticated you are! What difference could that last fact make in my becoming Mrs. Pennythorne? Why, I have had affairs of this sort, off and on, ever since I was sixteen. It is very hard; but if men will fall in love, what can one do? However, you will be finding out these things for yourself one day, if what I hear people say about you be true."

"What do people say about me?" And there was a trembling at the girl's heart, as the thought passed through it, that--but no, it was impossible! She smiled calmly. "Pray tell me this interesting rumour, Isabella."

"Only that when Miss Katharine Ogilvie marries she will not need to change her surname,--and that our excellent cousin Hugh bids fair to inherit title, estates, heiress, and all. So thinks the world."

Katharine drew herself up. "I do not see that the world has any business to think about the matter; but whether it does or not, can be of little consequence to me, or to Hugh either. We are too good friends to mind an idle report."

"Yes, yes; it is all quite proper for you to talk so now, my dear,--but we shall see. I guessed how it would end long ago; and so, I dare say, did some older heads than either yours or mine. Of course, your father and mother both know what a good match it would be for you."

"A good match!" repeated Katharine, while her beautiful lip curled, and her whole mien expressed ineffable scorn. "Is that all that people marry for?"

Isabella, at this moment, jumped up from her seat by the window. "Talk of the--I beg your pardon and that of Mr. Hugh Ogilvie, for there he is riding down the street. And oh!--doesn't he look up at the window, Miss Katharine! Well, he is a fine-looking fellow,--so I congratulate you, my dear." If the flashes of indignant womanly pride that shot from Katharine's eyes had been lightning-gleams, they would have consumed Isabella to ashes.

Oh! I see thee old and formal, fitted to thy petty part,
With a little hoard of maxims preaching down a daughter's heart.
TENNYS0N.

Well! nature makes some wise provisions! We might be envious of others' happiness if in nine cases out of ten we did not despise it.--L. E. L.

Katharine rode home with her father and Hugh, more silent and thoughtful than was her wont. Two or three times her horse started at some restless, almost angry motions of its young rider; and when Hugh came anxiously to her assistance she rejected his aid a little sharply.

"How wonderfully independent you are this morning, Katharine!"

"Of course I am, and always will be," was the quick answer.

Hugh looked surprised and somewhat hurt--and Katharine instantly reproached herself. "How foolish I am--how wrong!" she thought. "It might have been all nonsense--the mere gossip of Isabella. I will not think any more about it." So she called Hugh to her side with some trivial observation, in which the gentle tone made all the concession needed. But as she noticed how hastily he spurred his horse forward at her summons, and how his whole countenance beamed with delight, Katharine again became troubled.

In these frequent rides the two young people were in the habit of lingering behind Sir Robert, to look at the country around and talk. But this time Katharine kept her horse close beside her father's the whole way; and when they reached Summerwood she leaped off without waiting for Hugh's customary assistance.

"Still independent, Katharine," said the young man,--too little sensitive, or else feeling too sure of his prize, to notice the change in his cousin's manner. She laughed--but the laugh was forced; and springing up the hall-steps, with an excuse about being late for dinner, she went at once to her own room--her young heart oppressed with a new care.

The possibility of Hugh's wishing to make her his wife had never crossed Katharine's mind before. She had no girlish vanity; and the one great love which absorbed every thought, aim, and desire of her heart, shut out from it entirely all lesser fancies, or even the suspicion of their existence in others. Besides, all her life, she had looked upon Hugh as a brother, and treated him as such. His quiet nature was satisfied with this frank and affectionate intercourse; and, believing that in their secluded life she had no chance of forming any other attachment, he waited until his uncle gave him leave to say "Katharine, will you marry me?"--fully persuaded she would at once answer, "Thank you, Hugh, I will." As he really loved her very dearly, he would then most probably tell her so:--and so they would settle down into placid matrimonial felicity, such as was in fashion at Summerwood.--And was the passionate dream of almost idolatrous love to subside into this? Was Katharine, with her intense yearning after all that is great and glorious--with a soul so high that it sought a yet loftier for its worship--thus to sink from her ideal of marriage? There, husband and wife stood hand-in-hand in their fair and beloved home--genius, worth, and world-wide goodness shedding dignity and happiness around them. Could she barter this glorious future for a life with one who had no higher interests than the kennel, the stable, and the chase?

Katharine almost maddened at the thought. But immediately she reproached herself for the intense scorn which she felt embittering her against Hugh--poor easy Hugh! How could he help it if he were not endowed with brains? Katharine began to ponder on the possibility of his loving her; and her memory, roving over past years, found many a little circumstance that confirmed this vague suspicion. She grew very sad. The love that filled her own heart taught her compassion towards Hugh. She thought of her parents, and of the motives which Isabella had imputed to them. The detested words "a good match," rang in her ears, goading her proud nature to resistance.

"They shall never buy and sell me! me to whom he gave his loving words, his parting kiss. O Paul, Paul! no man living save you shall ever have this hand. I will keep it for you unto my life's end!" And again she kissed with wild passion her own delicate hand--the hand which had once been made for ever sacred by the clasp of Paul Lynedon's.

Then, she went to the little desk where she kept all her treasures. There, with many a girlish memento--token-flowers, idly given but so fondly kept--lay the only letter she had ever received from him--the one he had written after his rejection by Eleanor. At first, how rapturous had been the joy it brought to her! And with succeeding weeks and months came a happiness calmer indeed, but not less deep. In all her longing regrets for him, in all her light home-troubles, how it comforted her to fly to her little treasure-house, lay her cheek upon the paper, and feel that its very touch changed all tears to smiles! How blessed it was to read over and over again her name written in his own hand,--linked too with tenderest words, "My dear Katharine, my true Katharine!"

And she was true--fatally true--to the love which she deemed she read in this letter. The thoughtless outburst of wounded feeling, idly penned and soon forgotten, became to her deceived heart a treasure which gave it its hope--its strength--its life. She never doubted him for one moment--not even when his absence grew from months into years, and no tidings either of him or from him ever reached her loneliness. Some strange necessity detained him; but that he would come back to claim the love which he had won, she felt as sure as that the sun was in the heavens. Once only the terrible, withering thought struck her, that he was dead! But no--for in death he would have remembered her. She did not conjure up that horror again--she could not have done so, and lived! So she waited calmly,--all her care being to make herself worthy of him, and of that blessed time when he should claim her. She strove to lift herself nearer to him, in intellect, heart, and soul; she cherished her beauty, and rejoiced as she saw herself grow fairer day by day; she practised every graceful accomplishment that might make her more winning in his sight; and when at last the world's praises were lavished at the feet of Sir Robert Ogilvie's heiress, Katharine gloried in her resistless charms, her talents, and her beauty, since they were all for him!

There was in her but one thing wanting--the deep holy faith which sees in love itself but the reflection of that pure ideal after which all should strive, and which in the heart's wildest devotion never suffers the Human to shut out the Divine.

Katharine took the letter and read it for the thousandth time. Its tender words seemed breathed in her ear by Paul's own voice, giving her comfort and strength. Then she placed before her the likeness, which, no longer hung up in her chamber, was now hidden carefully from sight. She gazed upon it fondly--yearningly; but she thought not of the young poet's face--she only felt as though she were looking into Paul Lynedon's eyes.

"They shall never tear me from you, my own, own love--my noble Paul!" she cried; "I will stand firm against father--mother--the whole world. I will die rather than wed any man living, save you!"

But she felt rather ashamed of these heroic resolutions against unjust parents, etc. etc., when she found no change in the behaviour of any of the party. Her good-natured father, her kind mother, and her quiet, easy-tempered Hugh, seemed by no means characters fitted to enact a stern tragedy of blighted love and innocence oppressed. In the course of a week, Katharine's suspicions died away, and she smiled at the easy credence she had given to an idle rumour. But, nevertheless, the thoughts which it awakened were not without their influence, but rooted deeper and deeper in her heart its intense and engrossing love.

One day Lady Ogilvie entered her daughter's little study--it was still the old beloved room--with an air of mysterious importance, and a letter in her hand.

"My dear Katharine, I have some news for you. Here is a letter from your aunt Worsley: but read it yourself, it will save me the trouble of talking." And Lady Ogilvie--now grown a little older, a little stouter, and a good deal less active--sat down in the arm-chair--the very arm-chair in which Sir James had died--and began to stroke a great black cat, of which Katharine took affectionate care, because in its kitten-days it had been a plaything of her grandfather's second childhood. Once or twice Lady Ogilvie glanced towards her daughter's face, and wondered that Katharine manifested scarcely any surprise, but returned the letter, merely observing,

"Well, mamma, I am sure you are very glad, and so am I."

"Really, my dear, how quietly you take it! A wedding in the family does not come every day. I feel quite excited about it myself."

"But, mamma, it is not exactly news to me. I met Mr. Pennythorne the day I was at aunt Worsley's."

"And you never said a word about it!"

"It would not have been right, as Isabella begged me not."

"Young people should never keep anything from their parents," was the mild reproof of Lady Ogilvie.

"Indeed, dear mamma, to tell the truth, I have scarcely thought of the matter a second time, as I did not take much interest in the gentleman. But I am glad Isabella is to be married, since I think she wished it very much." And the slight satirical tendency which lay dormant in Katharine peeped out in a rather comically repressed smile.

"It is very natural that young persons should wish to be settled," answered the impassive Lady Ogilvie,--"especially when they are, like your cousin, the eldest of a large family. The only thing requisite is a suitable match."--Katharine started a little, and her brow contracted for a moment at the disagreeable reminiscences which her mother's last words recalled. But Lady Ogilvie went on quite unconsciously:

"In Isabella's case everything seems satisfactory. With your father, Mrs. Worsley is, of course, more explicit than with me; and her letter to him states that the gentleman has a good income and excellent prospects. The family are respectable, too. Indeed, from what Sir Robert tells me, I should consider Isabella most fortunate, as she has little or no fortune, and may not have a better offer."

During this speech, delivered rather prosily and oracularly, Katharine had listened in perfect silence. Once or twice she bit her beautiful under lip until its curves grew of a deeper rose, and tapped her little foot restlessly upon the cushion, so as materially to disturb the peace of mind of the great black cat who usually claimed it. When Lady Ogilvie ceased, expecting a reply, the only one she gained was--"Well, mamma?"

"Well, my dear, you seem to take very little interest about the matter."

"Not a great deal, I confess."

"What an odd girl you are, Katharine! I imagined all young ladies of your age must be interested in love and matrimony."

"I don't think the two are united in this case, and therefore I care less about it."

"But, my dear child, you should care. You are coming to an age when it is necessary to have right ideas on these points. Most probably, some time or other, you yourself"--

"Mamma, you do not want to send Katharine away from you?" said the girl, rising suddenly, and putting her arms round her mother's neck, so that her face was hid from Lady Ogilvie's observation.

"By no means, love; but"--

"Then we will not talk about it."

"Not if you do not like it, my darling," said the mother, fondly; and at the moment a sudden and natural impulse of maternal jealousy made her feel that it would be hard to give up her only child to any husband whomsoever. She drew Katharine to the stool at her feet.

"Sit down here, love, and let us go on talking about Isabella. You know she wishes to have you for bridesmaid--shall you like it?"

"Yes, certainly, if you are willing."

"Oh, to be sure; and moreover, as the marriage is to be so soon, before Mrs. Worsley leaves London, your papa intends proposing that it shall take place at Summerwood. It will cause a good deal of trouble, but then Isabella is his only sister's child, and has no father living. Sir Robert thinks this plan would be more creditable to the family than having her married from lodgings; and I quite agree with him, especially as it will please your aunt so much."

"What a good, kind, thoughtful mamma you are!" murmured Katharine, with a sudden twinge of conscience as she remembered all the conflicting feelings of the last ten minutes.

"And now, my dear, as there is no time to be lost, I have ordered the carriage, that we may go at once to your aunt's and arrange about the dresses and other matters. She will make a pretty bridesmaid, will my little Katharine! I shall quite like to see her," added the mother, affectionately passing her hand down the smooth braided hair. Katharine laughed as merrily as a child.

"And when she comes to be a bride herself," continued Lady Ogilvie, in tones, the formality of which had sunk to an almost perceptible tremulousness, "she will make a good choice, and marry so as to please her papa and me?"

"I will never marry without consulting your will and my father's," said Katharine, softly, but firmly,--"and you must leave me equally free in mine."

"Of course we shall, my child! But there is time enough to think about that. Now let us go together and congratulate Isabella."

'Tis a morn for a bridal--the merry bride bell
Rings clear through the greenwood that skirts the chapelle.
* * * * *
The rite-book is closed, and the rite being done,
They who knelt down together arise up as one;
Fair riseth the bride--oh, a fair bride is she!
But for all (think the maidens),
No saint at her praying.

E. B. BROWNING.

"How beautiful you look in your bridal dress, Katharine!" cried Hugh, as he met her upon the staircase on the wedding-morning. He could not forbear taking hold of both her hands and gazing admiringly in her bright young face. "I declare you only want the orange-blossoms to look like a bride yourself--and a great deal prettier than Miss Bella, too, as I always said you were."

"Thank you, Hugh," returned his cousin, with a laugh and a low curtsey. "Only it is as well that the bride does not hear you; for you know," she added, giving way to a light-hearted girlish jest, "you know that once upon a time you thought her very handsome, and people said that Isabella need not go out of the family in search of a husband."

"Pooh! nonsense! I hope you never thought so. Indeed, Katharine, I should be very much vexed if you did," said Hugh earnestly.--Katharine's colour rose, and she drew her hand away.

"Really, I never thought about the matter at all. I was too young to consider such things."

Hugh looked disappointed and confused. At last he stammered out hastily, "I wish you would come into the garden with me, and let me gather your bouquet and Isabella's from the greenhouse. And--and--I've two such pretty little puppies in the stable to show you," he added, evidently ransacking his brain for various excellent excuses. "Do come, Katharine!"

"Not now," answered Katharine, striving to get away, for the apprehension which Isabella had first suggested had never been entirely eradicated, but sprang up again painfully at the least cause. And though the foolish vanity which construes every little attention into declared admiration was as far from Katharine's nature as darkness from light, yet it sometimes struck her that Hugh was growing less of a cousin and more of a lover every day.

"You are not kind to me, Katharine," said the young man, almost sulkily. "I don't care a bit for either the flowers or the puppies, or anything else, except on your account; and that you must know pretty well by this time."

"I do not understand you, cousin Hugh."

"There, now, don't be angry with me," said Hugh, humbled in a moment. "O Katharine, I'd give the best hunter in the stables--and that's saying a great deal, considering it's Brown Bess--I'd give the mare herself, or anything else in the world, if you only cared for me half as much as I do for you."--Katharine was touched. She had known him many years, and had never seen him so agitated before.

"Indeed, I do like you very much as my cousin--my kind, good-natured cousin Hugh!"

"And is that all?"

"Yes," said Katharine, seriously and earnestly. "And now good-bye, dear Hugh, for there is Isabella calling." She broke away, and Hugh saw the glimmer of her white dress passing not to the bride's chamber but to her own.

"She turned pale--she trembled," he said to himself, "and I'm sure she called me 'dear Hugh!' Girls often don't mean half they say, so I'll count her yes as nothing. Heigho! I wish it were my wedding-day instead of Bella's. How tiresome it is of my uncle to tie my tongue in this way! I'll ask him again this very day when he means to let me marry Katharine." So the young man descended the stairs, and went out at the hall-door, tapping his boots with his riding whip, and whistling his usual comment on the fact of his "love" being "but a lassie yet" in very doleful style.

Katharine, who, pale and agitated, stood at her window trying to compose herself, both saw and heard him. Then she pressed her hand on her swelling heart, and the deep sadness which Hugh's words had caused changed to pride.

"He thinks to have me against my will, does he? And here have I been so foolish as to weep because I must give him pain! I will not care for that. What signifies it whether he loves me or not? But my father will ask me the reason that I refuse Hugh; and I dare not tell--I could not. O Paul! why do you not come and take all this sorrow from me?" And her pride melted, her grief was charmed away at the whisper of that beloved name.

The wedding took place, as outwardly gay and inwardly gloomy as most weddings are. There were the parents of the "happy couple" all pride and satisfaction--Mr. Pennythorne sending forth his bons mots in a perfect shower of scintillations, so that his conversation became quite a pyrotechnic display. Mrs. Pennythorne kept close to her husband, and was rather uncomfortable at seeing so many strange faces. Yet her maternal gaze continually wandered from those to the bridegroom's--and a tear or two would rise silently to the soft brown eyes. Once, when they were setting out for the church, Lady Ogilvie noticed this.

"I dare say you feel sorry to part with your son," she whispered kindly: "I understand he has always lived at home. But you have another child, Isabella says, who was prevented coming to-day."

"Yes, thank you, ma'am--Lady Ogilvie, I mean," stammered the timid Mrs. Pennythorne, with a glance towards her husband, who was at the other end of the room.

"I believe he is much younger than Mr. Frederick?" pursued the considerate hostess. "I am really sorry we did not see him to-day."

"Leigh cannot go out this winter-time,--he is not very strong," answered the guest. And then--a sort of maternal freemasonry being established between them--Mrs. Pennythorne went on more courageously. "I was thinking about Leigh just then; I shall have only him to think about when his brother is married."

"Until Leigh--is not that his name?--grows up, and is married himself," said the other matron, with a smile.

"Ah, yes!" returned Mrs. Pennythorne eagerly; "he will be a man soon--tall and strong; they say these delicate boys always make the stoutest men."

"You will go to his wedding next, I prophesy."

"Shall I?--oh yes, of course I shall I but not just yet, for I don't think I could--no, it would break my heart to part with Leigh! He must bring his wife home,--ay, that shall be it," added she suddenly, as if to explain even to herself that the words, "I could not part with Leigh," related solely to his marrying. The poor mother!

Isabella was quite in her glory. She had attained the great aim of her life--the being married--it did not much signify to whom. So that she reached the honour of matronhood she was almost indifferent as to who conferred it--she cared little what surname was on her cards if the Mrs. were the prefix. Perhaps once or twice, when Hugh Ogilvie and Frederick Pennythorne stood talking together, she remembered the time when she had fancied herself very much in love with the former. She laughed at the notion now. If Hugh were the taller and handsome; her Frederick had such lively London manners and dressed so much better. Isabella was quite satisfied; only she took care to show her cousin how much he had lost by exhibiting great pride and fondness towards her bridegroom, and deporting herself towards Hugh with a reserved and matronly dignity.

Katharine alone,--for the first time in her life present at a wedding,--was grave and silent. She trembled as she walked up the aisle; she listened to the solemn words of the service with a beating heart. "To have and to hold from this day forward, for better for worse, for richer for poorer, in sickness and in health, to love, cherish, and obey, until death us do part." And this vow of almost fearful import, comprehending so much, and in its wide compass involving life, soul, and worldly estate, either as a joyful offering or as a dread immolation,--this awful vow was taken lightly by two young creatures, who carelessly rattled it over during the short pause of jests and compliments, amidst lace and satin flutterings, thinking more of the fall of a robe or the fold of a cravat than of the oath, or of each other!

Katharine divined not this, for her fancy idealised all. The marriage scene touched her pure young heart in its deepest chords. She saw not the smirking bridegroom--the affected bride; her thoughts, travelling into the future, peopled with other forms the dim grey shadows of the old church where she had worshipped every Sunday from a child. She beheld at her side the face of her dreams; she heard the deep low voice uttering the troth-plight, "I, Paul, take thee, Katharine;" and bowing her face upon the altar-rails, she suffered her tears to flow freely.

"Yes!" she murmured to herself, "I would not fear to kneel in the sight of Heaven and take that vow towards him--and I will take it here one day to him, and none but him!"

Why was it that in this very moment the bright dream of the future was crossed by a strange shadow from the past? Even while she yet thought thus, there flashed across the young bridesmaid's memory that olden scene in the library. And, above the benediction of the priest, the amen of the congregation--even above the beloved voice which her fancy had conjured up--there rang in Katharine's ears the words of her dying grandfather: "Earth to earth, ashes to ashes, dust to dust!"

The ceremony was over, and Isabella had the satisfaction of hearing herself greeted as Mrs. Frederick Pennythorne. A thought did once cross her mind that according to the received etiquette it was necessary for a bride to indulge in a slight faint, or a gush of hysterical tears, on reaching the vestry. But the former would spoil her bonnet, and the latter her eyes; so she resolved to do neither, but resort to the outward calmness of suppressed emotion.

"How well she bears it, poor dear child!" observed Mrs. Worsley. This lady being one of those nobodies who wherever they go always contrive to make themselves invisible,--we have not hitherto drawn her into the light; nor, to tell the truth, have we any intention of doing so. After the space of ten minutes, Isabella quietly emerged from her fit of repressed feeling, and burst into full splendour as "the beautiful and accomplished bride." In which character she may whirl away with her chosen to the Lakes, or in any direction she pleases; for we care too little about the happy couple to chronicle their honeymoon.

The Pennythornes were borne homewards in Sir Robert's carriage; a circumstance which made Mr. Pennythorne exult in the good training which had caused his eldest son to marry into so high a family.

"My Frederick is an excellent boy; he knows how to choose a wife, God bless him!" said the old gentleman, with somewhat of maudlin sentimentality, for which the excellent cellar at Summerwood was alone to blame. "Cillie, my dear! now you see how right I was, five years ago, in putting an end to that foolish affair with Mason's daughter. No, no! a girl who worked as a daily governess was not a fit match for my son."

"Poor Bessie! Fred was not so wild then," murmured Mrs. Pennythorne. "Well, I hope his new wife will make him comfortable."

"Comfortable!" echoed the husband, her last word falling on his dulled ear: "of course she will. I said to him soon after Mrs. Lancaster recommended the Worsleys to put their Chancery suit into his hands, 'Fred, my lad, that's the very wife for you. Good family--style--fashion--and money coming.' Fred took my advice, and you see the result. Mrs. P., I only hope that stupid Leigh will turn out as well on my hands."

Mrs. Pennythorne sighed: "I wonder how Leigh has been all day! I hardly liked leaving him; but young Wychnor promised to stay with him until we came home from the Ogilvies'."

"Don't mention that fellow in the same breath with the Ogilvies," sharply said the husband.

"Indeed, Pierce, I will not, if you don't like it," replied Mrs. Pennythorne, humbly; "but the young man has been so attentive to poor Leigh, and has really seemed quite interested in this marriage."

"Mrs. Pennythorne, I am sleepy; will you be so obliging as to hold your tongue?" said the old gentleman, with a slow and somnolent emphasis: and immediately as this sentence ended, his doze began.

The mother leaned her head back on the carriage-cushions, having previously taken the feminine precaution of laying the wedding bonnet on her lap. She did not go to sleep; but her thoughts wandered dreamily, first after her eldest-born, and then flying back some thirty years they travelled over her own wedding-trip. Finally, they settled in the little back parlour in Blank Square, and by the sofa whereon Leigh was accustomed to rest, hour after hour, with Philip Wychnor by his side.

"Poor boy! well, I can do better without Fred than without him. He will get well in the summer, and grow up a man; but he will not think of marrying for many years. No, no; we must keep Leigh with us--we will keep him always."

Oh! if with this wild "I will" of our despairing human love, we could stand between the Destroyer and the Doomed!

We think of Genius, how glorious it is to let the spirit go forth winning a throne in men's hearts; sending our thoughts, like ships of Tyre, laden with rich merchandise, over the ocean of human opinion, and bringing back a still richer cargo of praise and good-will.--L. E. L.

There could hardly be a greater contrast than that between the gay bridal-party at Summerwood and the little dark parlour in Blank-square where Philip Wychnor sat with his young friend. They had indeed grown to be friends, the man and the boy--for one counts time more by the heart than by the head. According to that reckoning poor Leigh was far older than his years,--while Philip in the freshness and simplicity of his character had a boy's heart still, and would probably keep it for ever.

Nevertheless, he did not look by any means so much of a boy as in those days when Eleanor first introduced him to the reader's notice by this appellation--nor, indeed, as when we last saw him just emerging from his weary, wasting sickness. As he sat reading aloud to Leigh, the lamp-light showed how the delicate outlines of his face had sharpened into the features of manhood; the brow had grown broader and fuller, the lips firmer, and there were a new strength and a new character about the whole head.

Philip had been tossed about on the world's stormy currents until at last he had learned to breast them. His powers of mind, the thews and sinews of the inner man, had matured accordingly; and the more he used them the stronger they grew. The dreamer had become the worker.

We may say with Malvolio, that "some are born to greatness, some achieve greatness, and some have greatness thrust upon them." Philip Wychnor was of the latter class. His intellect seemed to work itself out by the force of necessity, and not by inspiration. He was perfectly sincere when he told Mr. Pennythorne that he had no genius; but the linnet reared in a hedge-sparrow's nest never knows that it can sing until it tries.

So it happened that the same individual who had once declined attempting authorship on the ground of his entire unworthiness, was now fairly embarked in literature, with a moderate chance of success. All this had come gradually. In his deep straits of poverty, Philip had tried to while away the hours that hung so heavily, and perhaps to gain a little money, by turning to account his knowledge of foreign languages. He mounted the ladder of fame by its lowest step; becoming a translator of small articles for newspapers and magazines--a sort of literary hodman, carrying the mortar with which more skilful workmen might build. But while searching into and reproducing other people's thoughts, he unconsciously began to think for himself. It was in a very small way at first,--for his genius was not yet fledged, and its feathers took a long time in growing. He thought, and with the thought came almost unconsciously the power of expression. He wrote at first not by impulse or inspiration, but merely for daily bread. Yet though in his humility he never hoped to rise higher than a common labourer in the highways of literature, he always strove to do his small task-work well and worthily, and suffered neither carelessness nor hope of gain to allure his pen into what was false or vicious. All he wrote, he wrote earnestly; gradually more and more so, as the high cause in which he had engaged unfolded itself to his perception. But he made no outward display; never put forth his name from its anonymous shelter; and told no person of his pursuits, except Leigh,--and one more, who had the dear right of a betrothed to know all concerning him. He had never seen her again, but they had kept up a regular correspondence; and still the joy, the strength, the very pulse of the young man's heart, was the remembrance of Eleanor Ogilvie.

We have taken this passing glance at the outward and inward changes in Philip Wychnor while he sat reading his last story, sketch, or essay. This he did more for the sake of amusing Leigh than from an author's vanity; since, as before explained, Philip's work was still very mechanical--the raw material woven with care and difficulty into a coarse web that gave him little pleasure and in which he took no pride. Yet, as he went on, it was some satisfaction to see the evident interest that brightened Leigh's pale face, over which illness seemed to have cast a strange, even an intellectual beauty. Every now and then the boy clapped his poor thin wasted hands, applauding with child-like eagerness. When Philip paused, he discussed the article in all its bearings with an acuteness and judgment that much enhanced the value of his laudations, and brought a smile to the young author's cheek.

"Why, Leigh, you are quite a critic!"

"If I am, I know who made me so," answered the boy, affectionately. "I know who took the dulness out of my head, and put there--what is still little enough--all the sense it has."

"It has a great deal. I am bound to say so, my boy, since it is exercised for my own benefit; though, of course, I ought not to believe a word of your praise," said Philip, laughing.

"Don't say so," Leigh replied, earnestly. "Indeed, you will be a celebrated author some of these days--I know you will. And when you are become a great man, remember this prophecy of mine."

The serious tone and look at once banished the light manner which Philip had assumed, partly to divert the sick boy. "I hardly think so--I wish I could!" he said, almost sadly. "No; it takes far more talent than I have to make a just and deserved fame. I don't look for that at all."

Leigh answered with an ingenious evasion. "Do you remember when I was first taken ill--so ill as to be obliged to give up study; and you brought one day some of your German books, and read to me 'Undine' and 'Sintram'? Ah! what a delicious time that was, after all the dry, musty Cicero and Xenophon!" And Leigh rubbed his feeble hands together with intense pleasure at the recollection.

Philip watched him affectionately. "My dear boy, how glad I am that I thought of the books!"

"So am I, because otherwise you might never have done what you then did through kindness to me--I mean that translation from Rückert, which I longed to have, so that I might read it over and over again. How good you were to me, dear Mr. Wychnor!"

"But my goodness was requited to myself," said Philip, laughing; "for you remember the three golden guineas I had from the '--Magazine,' to which you persuaded me to send the tale?"

"That's just what I mean. Now, if in one little year you have gone on from making a translation just for good-nature, to writing beautiful stories such as this--for it is most beautiful!" cried Leigh, energetically--"why should you not rise to be a well-known author, like my--no, I don't mean that," and the boy's face grew troubled--"but like one of those great writers who do the world so much good; who can make the best and wisest of people better and wiser still, and yet can bring comfort to a poor sick boy like me. Would not this be something great to try for?" And Leigh's tones warmed into eloquence, and his large soft eyes were positively floating in their own light.

Before Philip could answer, they were interrupted by the arrival of Mr. and Mrs. Pennythorne. The mother's quick footstep was scarcely heard before she entered. It had often touched Philip of late to see what a new and intense expression came into the once unmeaning face and voice of Mrs. Pennythorne whenever she looked at or spoke to her son Leigh. This day the young man noticed it more than ever. Even the presence of her redoubtable lord, which usually restrained every display of feeling, failed to prevent her from leaning over her boy and kissing him fervently.

"How has my dear Leigh been all day?" she asked.

"Oh, so well, so content, mother!" said Leigh, cheerfully. "Ask Mr. Wychnor, there."

"Mr. Wychnor is very kind." And a look of deep gratitude said more than the words.

"Everything went off well? Fred is really married, then?" inquired Leigh.

"Yes, my dear. To-morrow you shall hear about it, and about Summerwood; it is such a pretty place!"

"Is it?" said the boy, languidly. "I think I heard Miss Worsley say so the day she called, but I did not take much interest in what she said; she tired me. You can't think, Mr. Wychnor, how fast she talks!"

"I know she does--that is, I think you said so," answered Philip, correcting himself and rising to depart.

"Don't go yet; stay and hear a little about the wedding. We were talking so much of it this morning, you know."--Philip sat down again, not unwillingly. He had a vague pleasure in hearing the sound of the familiar names,--assured that no one knew how familiar they were to him.

"Now go on, mother; tell us about the Ogilvies."

"I did not see much of Sir Robert; your father talked to him; and besides, he was so stately. But Lady Ogilvie was very kind. And there was Mr. Hugh, a fine handsome young man--so polite to Fred!--and that sweet, beautiful creature, Miss Ogilvie."

Here Philip dropped his gloves, and, stooping hastily, made several unavailing attempts to recover them.

"I don't think I ever saw a prettier bridesmaid than Miss Ogilvie--Katharine, I believe they called her. Shall I hold the light for you, Mr. Wychnor?" said simple Mrs. Pennythorne, compassionating the glove-hunter.

Philip hurriedly apologised for the interruption. "But pray go on," he said; "we poor bachelors like to hear of these merry doings. Mrs. Frederick Pennythorne seems rich in handsome relatives: how many more attended her to the altar?"

"There were none but Miss Ogilvie; she is an only child. Her father and mother seem so proud of her!--and well they may. Perhaps, Leigh, she may come and stay with your new sister, and then you will see her."

"Shall I?--I don't much care," said the sick boy, wearily. "I don't mind seeing any one except you, mother, and Mr. Wychnor. Are you really going then?" and Leigh, taking his friend's hand, so as to draw him close, whispered in his ear: "Now, remember what we were talking about before they came in; it may do you good some time or other to think over what I said,--though I am so young,--perhaps stupid enough too, as they always told me:" and a smile of patient humility flitted over the boy's pale lips. "But never mind, there is the old fable of the Mouse and the Lion, you know; we'll act it over again, maybe."

"God bless you, my dear boy!" murmured Philip, as he took his leave. He had felt passing disappointment at not hearing that Eleanor was at Summerwood,--as he had framed that reason to account to himself for the fact of an unusual silence in her correspondence. This slight vexation returned again as he walked homeward, but it soon passed away. A man's strong heart is seldom entirely engrossed by a love-dream, be it ever so close and dear. And Eleanor herself would have been the last to blame her betrothed, if these tender thoughts of her became absorbed in the life-purpose which was awakening in him,--since therewith also she was connected, as its origin and aim.

Even while he smiled at Leigh Pennythorne's quaint fable, Wychnor acknowledged its truth. As he walked along, the boy's words came again and again into his mind; and he began to think yet more earnestly on his literary pursuits--what he had done, and what he purposed to do.

"How can a man touch pitch and not be defiled?" says the wise man of Israel; and Philip was not likely to have been thrown so much in the circle of Mr. Pennythorne's influence without being slightly affected thereby. His young heart, filled to enthusiasm with love of literature, and also with a complete hero-worship of literary men, had been checked in its most sensitive point. He found how different was the ideal of the book-reader to the reality of the book-writer. He had painted an imaginary picture of a great author, inspired by a noble purpose, and working always with his whole heart for the truth--or at least for what he esteemed the truth--and for nothing else. Now this image crumbled into dust; and from its ashes arose the semblance of a modern "littérateur," writing, not from his earnest heart, but from his clever head,--doling out at so much per column the fruit of his brains, no matter whether it be tinselled inanity or vile poison, so that it will sell; or else ready to cringe, steal, lie, by word or by pen, becoming "all things to all men," if by such means he can get his base metal puffed off as gold.

Philip Wychnor saw this detestable likeness in Mr. Pennythorne,--and it was variously reduplicated in all the petty dabblers in literature who surrounded him. A triton of similar magnitude is always accompanied by a host of minnows--especially if, as in this case, the larger fish rather glories in his train. And so, our young visionary began to look on books and book-creators with diminished reverence; and in the fair picture of literary fame, he saw only the unsightly framework by which its theatrical and deceitful splendour was supported. He had been behind the scenes.

Poor Philip Wychnor! He was too young, too inexperienced, to know that of all imitations there must be somewhere or other a vital reality--that if the true were not, its simulation would never have existed.

What is a man,
If his chief good, and market of his time,
Be but to sleep and feed? A beast, no more.
Sure He that made us with such large discourse,
Looking before and after, gave us not
That capability and godlike reason
To rust in us, unused.
I do not know
Why yet I live to say, This thing's to do,
Sith I have cause, and will, and strength, and mean

To do it. SHAKSPEARE.

Good Dame Fortune makes it her pleasure to walk about the world in varied guise; suddenly showing her bonnie face sometimes in the oddest way and under the oddest semblance imaginable--so that it is a considerable length of time before we begin to find out that it is really her own fair self. She came to Philip Wychnor that very night as he was returning home, meeting him under the shroud of a London fog. And such a fog!--one that people who are fond of elegant symbolisation would emphatically describe as being "like breathing ropes," or at least one that might be considered as a suspiration of small twine. It was a literal version of the phrase "jaundiced atmosphere," for the whole circumambient seemed to have grown suddenly yellow and bilious. Therein all London groped blindfold: New-road omnibuses finding themselves plunged against the inner railings of Woburn-place--and cabmen, while they threaded the mazes of Trafalgar-square, inquiring in tones of distracted uncertainty how far they were from Piccadilly. It was a time when each man's great struggle appeared to be the discovery of his own whereabouts; when the whole world seemed bent on an involuntary fraternisation--every body running into his neighbour's arms.

This was exactly what Philip Wychnor did, somewhere about Russell-square. Dame Fortune, hid in the fog, laughed as she knocked right into his involuntary embrace a chance passer-by.

A gentle voice, obviously that of an elderly man, expressed the usual apology; and added thereto the not uncommon inquiry--"Pray, sir, can you tell me whereabouts I am?"

"I fancy, near the British Museum," answered Philip.

"That's where I've been this hour and a half," said the voice, with a comic hopelessness that made Philip smile. "I live only a few streets off, and I can't find my way home."

"My case is not unlike yours," laughed Philip; "and most probably there are plenty more in the same predicament, especially strangers. Suppose, my good sir, we were to unite our fortunes--or misfortunes--and try to make out the way together. Mine is -- street. Which is yours?"

"The same; and I'm very much obliged to you, young gentleman,--for so I perceive you are, by your voice. May I take your arm? for I am old, and very tired."

"Gladly," replied Philip. There was something in the simplicity of the manner that pleased him. He liked the voice, and almost fancied he had heard it before. Perhaps the old man thought the same, since when they came to the nearest lamp the two wayfarers each stopped to look in the other's face. The recognition was mutual.

"Bless my life!" cried the elder one, "you are the very young man I found a year ago, near this spot, in a faint!"

"And most good-naturedly took home; for which kindness I have often longed to thank you. Let me do so now," answered Philip, grasping his companion's hand with a hearty shake.

"Really, my friend, your fingers are as young and strong as your arms," said the queer little old man of the omnibus. "Mine are rather too frozen and weak to bear squeezing, this raw day; and, besides they are not used to such a cordial gripe," he added, blowing the ends of the said fingers, which peeped up bluely from a pair of old cotton gloves:--yet he looked much gratified all the while.

"You don't know how pleased I am to meet you!" reiterated Philip. "I often kept a look-out in the streets and squares for every"--

"Every odd little old fellow, you mean? Well, for my part, I never passed down your street without looking out for you. Once I saw your head at the window, so I knew you were better."

"Why did you never come in? But you shall now." And Philip, trusting to gratitude and physiognomy, and following an impulse which showed how unsuspicious and provincial he was, took home his queer-looking acquaintance, inviting him to spend the evening without even asking him his name. The old gentleman, after a few shy excuses and some hesitation, settled himself in the easy-chair, and began to make himself quite comfortable and at home.

"Will you have some tea and eggs--as I always have when it is thus late?" said Wychnor, colouring slightly; for he had peered into his bachelor larder only to discover its emptiness--and hospitality is a virtue that poverty sometimes causes to grow rusty. "But perhaps you have not dined?"

"I never practise what the world in general considers dining--it's inconvenient," said the guest. "Meat is very dear, and not wholesome. I gave it up a long time ago, and am much the better, too. Pythagoras, my good sir--depend upon it, Pythagoras was the wisest fellow that ever lived. I keep to his doctrines."

Crossing his legs, he gazed complacently at the kettle which Philip put on the fire, thereby eclipsing its cheerful blaze. These housekeeping avocations, which the young man afterwards continued even to egg-boiling and toast-making, may a little dim the romance that surrounds--or at least ought to surround him, as a novel-hero; but as we began by avowing Philip Wychnor's utter dissimilarity from the received ideal of that fascinating personage, we shall not apologise for this little circumstance. And that the inner life of man goes on just the same, ennobling and idealising the commonest outward manifestation, is proved by the fact that while the young host continued his lowly domestic occupations, and the guest sat drying the wet soles of his clumsy boots, they talked--O ye gods! how they did talk!

The stranger was an original,--and that Philip soon found. In five minutes they had plunged into the depths of a conversation which sprang from the remark concerning Pythagoras. The little old man quoted with the most perfect simplicity recondite Greek authors and middle-age philosophers,--referring to them without the slightest pedantry or affectation of learning. Such things seemed to him part of his daily life, familiar as the air he breathed. He wandered from Pythagoras to Plato,--then to the Rosicrucian mystics,--and onwards to Jacob Bœhme,--finally landing in these modern times with Hegel, Kant, and Coleridge. He seemed to know everything, and to be able to talk about everything, except ordinary topics. While lingering among these latter he was shy, uneasy, and could not find a word to say; but the moment he found an opportunity of plunging into his native element, he rushed to it like a duck to the water, and was himself again.

Immediately his whole outer man changed. Throwing himself back in the chair--one foot crossed on the knee of the other leg, the tips of his long thin fingers oracularly joined together--this curious individual was set a-going like a well-wound-up watch. His bright eye flashed, his whole countenance grew inspired, and his tongue, now fully let loose, was ready to pour forth eloquent discourse. However, with him conversation resembled rather a solo than a duet--it was less talking than lecturing. Now and then he waited a second, if his companion seemed eager to make an observation,--and then he went off again in his harangue. At last, fairly tired out, he began sipping his tea with infinite satisfaction--meanwhile employing himself in a close inspection of his host's countenance and person, He broke silence at last by the abrupt question, "My young friend, what are you?"

Philip started at this unceremonious interrogatory; but there was something so kindly in the clear eyes, that he only smiled, and answered, "My name is"--

"I don't mean that," interrupted the old man--"I don't want to know your name; everybody has one, I suppose--I asked what you are?"

"My profession?"

"No--not your profession, but you, your real self, your soul--your ego. Have you found out that?" Philip began to think his visitor was rather more than eccentric--slightly touched in the head; but the old gentleman went on:

"I have a theory of my own about physiognomy, or more properly speaking, the influence of spirit over matter. I never knew a great man yet--and I have known a good many (ay, though I am an odd-looking fellow to look at)--I never yet knew a man of intellect whose mind was not shown in his face; not to the common observer perhaps, but to those who look deeper. Moreover, I believe firmly in sympathies and antipathies. Why should not the soul have its instincts, and its atmosphere of attraction and repulsion, as well as the body? We respect the outer machine sadly too much, and don't notice half enough the workings of the free agent within."

"Well, my dear sir?" said Philip, interrogatively, as his companion paused to take breath.

"Well, my friend; I daresay you think all this means nothing. But it does--a great deal. It explains why I liked you--why I followed you out of the omnibus--and also why I am here. You have a good face; I read your soul in it like a book; and it is a great, deep, true soul--thirsting after the pure, the lofty, and the divine. It may not be developed yet; I hardly think it can be; but it is there. Now I want to ask if you feel this in yourself--if you know what is this inner life of 'the spirit?'"

Philip caught somewhat of the meaning which these singular words unfolded, and the earnestness of his guest was communicated to himself. "I know thus far," he said--"that I have been a student and dreamer all my life; that I have tried to fill my head with knowledge and my heart with poetry; that I have gone through the world feeling that there were in me many things which no person could understand--except one."

"Who was he?"

Philip changed colour; but even had he wished otherwise, he could not but speak the truth beneath that piercing gaze. "It was no man--a woman."

"Ah!" said the old man, catching the meaning. "Well, such things are! Go on."

"I have had some trouble in my life: latterly, very much. It has made me think more deeply; and I am now trying to work out those thoughts with my pen."

"I imagine so. You are an author?"

"I cannot call myself by that name," said Philip, humbly; "I write, as many others do, for bread. But still I begin to see how great an author's calling might be made, and I long, however vainly, to realise that ideal."

"That's right, my boy!" cried the old man, energetically; "I knew you had the true soul in you. But how far had it manifested itself?--in short, what have you written?"--Philip enumerated his various productions.

"I have seen some of them; very fair for a beginning, but too much written to order--world-fashion--all outside. My young friend, you will begin to think soon. Why don't you put your name to what you do?"

"Because--though the confession is humiliating--I have written, as I before said, simply from necessity. It would have given me no pleasure to see my poor name in print. I worked for money, not reputation. I am no genius!"

The guest lifted himself up in his chair, and fixed his keen eyes on Philip. "And do you think every man of genius does write for reputation? Do you imagine that we"--his unconscious egotism was too earnest even to provoke a smile--"that we care whether Tom Smith or Dick Jones praises or abuses us--that is, our work, which is our true self much more than the curious framework on two legs that walks about in broadcloth? No! a real author sends forth his brain-children as God did Adam, created out of the fulness that is in his soul, and meant for a great purpose. If these, his offspring, walk upright through the world, and fulfil their being's end--angels may shout and devils grin--he cares as little for one as for the other."--Philip--quiet Philip--who had lived all his life in the precise decorums of L--, or in the rigid proprieties of the most orthodox college at Oxford, was a little startled at this style of language.

"I daresay you think me profane," continued his strange guest, "but it is not so; I am one of those who have had power given them to lift up a little of the veil from the Infinite and the Divine, and, feeling this power in their souls, are emboldened to speak fearlessly of things at which common minds stupidly marvel. I say with that great new poet, Philip Bailey--

That to the full of worship
All things are worshipful.
Call things by their right names! Hell, call thou hell;
Archangel, call archangel; and God--God!

but I do so with the humble and reverent awe of one who, knowing more of these mysteries, is the more penetrated with adoration." And the old man's voice sank meekly as a little child's, while his uplifted eyes spoke the deepest devotion.

Philip was moved. There was something in the intense earnestness of this man which touched a new chord in his heart. He saw, amidst all the quaint vagaries of the enthusiast, a something which in the world he had himself so vainly longed to find--a striving after knowledge for its own sake, a power to separate the real from the unreal, the true from the false. And the young man's whole soul sprang to meet and welcome what he had begun to deem almost an idle chimera.

"My dear sir," cried he, seizing the hand of his guest, will you let me ask you the same question you asked me--What are you?"

"Outwardly, just what you see--a little old man--poor enough and shabby enough; because, while other folk spend their lives in trying how to feed and clothe their bodies, he has spent his in doing the same for his soul. And a very creditable soul it is," said the old gentleman, laughing, and tapping with his forefinger a brow full, high, and broad enough to delight any follower of Spurzheim with its magnificent developments. "There's a good deal of floating capital here, in the way of learning, only it does not bring in much interest."

Philip smiled. "So your life has been devoted to study! Of what kind?"

"Oh,I have contrived during sixty years to put into this pericranium some dozen languages, a good deal of mathematics and metaphysics, a little of nearly all the onomies and ologies, with fragments of literature and poetry, to lighten the load and make it fit tight together. As for my profession, it is none at all, if you ask the world's opinion; but I think I may rank, however humbly, with some honest fellows of old, who in their lifetime were regarded about as little as I am. In fact, my good friend, I may call myself a philosopher."

"And a poet," cried Philip; "I read it in your eyes."

The old man shook his head. "God makes many poets, but He only gives utterance to a few. He never gave it to me! Nevertheless, I can distinguish this power in others; I can feel it sometimes rising and bubbling up in my own soul; but there is a seal on my lips, and I shall remain a dumb poet to my life's end." So saying, Philip's guest rose, and began to button up his well-worn coat, as a preparative to his departure.

"We shall meet again soon," said the young man, cordially.

"Oh yes; you will always find me at the British Museum, in the reading-room! I go there every day. 'Tis a nice warm place for study; especially when one finds that dinner and fire are too great luxuries on the same day. I have done so now and then," said the old gentleman, with a patient smile, that made Philip's warm shake of the hand grow into an almost affectionate clasp. They seemed to feel quite like old friends, and yet to this minute they did not know each other's name. The elder one was absolutely going away without this necessary piece of information, when Philip, disclosing his own patronymic, requested to know his visitor's.

"My name, eh? Drysdale--David Drysdale. A good one, isn't it? My great-grandfather made it tolerably well known among the Scottish Covenanters. The Christian name is not bad, either. You know the Hebrew meaning, 'beloved.' Not that it has been exactly suitable for me--I don't suppose any one in the world ever loved me much"--and a slight bitterness was perceptible in the quaint humour of the tone. But it changed into softness as he added, "Except--except my poor old mother. Young man," he continued, "when you have lived as long as I have, you may perhaps find out that there are in this world two sorts of love only--which last until death, and after--your mother's love, and your God's." He took off his hat reverently, though they stood at the street-door, exposed to the bleak wind; then put it on again, and disappeared.

Oh, prophesy no more, but be the poet!
This longing was but granted unto thee
That, when all beauty thou couldst feel, and know it,
That beauty in its highest thou couldst be.--J. R.. LOWELL

I am a youthful traveller in the way,
And this slight boon would consecrate to thee
Ere I with Death shake hands, and smile that I am free.
KIRKE WHITE

Philip was in the habit of laying up in his memory a kindly store of his little daily adventures, in order to amuse Leigh Pennythorne. Also, as the boy grew more and more of a companion and friend, he shared many of Philip's most inward thoughts--always excepting the one, which lay in the core of the young man's heart. Therefore Leigh was soon informed of the singular acquaintance that Wychnor made in the last chapter.

"David Drysdale!" said Leigh. "Why, my father, nay everybody knows old Drysdale. I have seen him here sometimes, and watched those curious eyes of his--they seem to look one through."

"Does he come often?"

"No, my father can't endure him--says he is such a bear. Then Drysdale has a great deal of dry humour; and when two flints meet there is a blaze directly, you know."

"But still there is no quarrel between him and Mr. Pennythorne?"

"Oh no; my father would never quarrel with such a man as Drysdale. He has wonderful influence, in a quiet way, among literary people. He knows everybody, and everybody knows him. I have heard that his learning is prodigious!"

"I found that out very soon," said Philip, smiling.

"Ay, and so did I," Leigh continued. "In those old times of work--work--work--you know,"--and the boy seemed absolutely to shudder at the remembrance,--"my father once sent me down stairs to show off my Greek to Drysdale. How the old fellow frightened me with those eyes of his! I forgot every word. And then he told my father that I was not quite such a fool as I looked; but that I should soon be, if I went on with the classics. Perhaps he was right," said Leigh, sighing. "However, my father never asked him here again, but made me work harder than ever." Philip saw that the boy's thoughts were wandering in a direction not good for him; so he took no notice, but pursued the questions about the old philosopher. "How happens it, though, that Drysdale is so poor?"

"I have heard my father say it is because of his genius and his learning, which are never of any use to their possessors. But I do not exactly think that; do you?"

"No; however, your father has many peculiar opinions of his own," answered Philip, always careful in their various conversations to remember that Leigh was Mr. Pennythorne's son. "It seems to me that this man's tastes, while rendering him somewhat unfit for the ordinary world, also make him independent of it. If he had just enough to keep him alive, and plenty of opportunity for study, I fancy Drysdale would be quite happy."

"Very likely; but it is an odd taste," said Leigh. "I can understand genius--not learning."

"Our queer old friend has both, I think." And Philip repeated the substance of the last evening's conversation, which had clung closely to his memory. Leigh listened eagerly, partly because he comprehended some little of it, but more because he saw how deeply his friend was interested.

"Mr. Wychnor," he said at last, "if you understand and feel all this, you must have an equal intellect yourself. Otherwise you would not care for it in the least."

The simple argument struck home. It brought to the young author's mind the first consciousness of its own powers, without which no genius can come to perfection. It was not the whisper of vanity--the answering thrill to idle praise--but the glad sense of an inward strength to carry out the purpose which filled the soul. It was the power which made the new-born Hercules stretch forth among the serpents his babe's arm, and feel that in its nerves lay the might of the son of Jove. The thought was so solemn, yet so wildly delicious, that it brought a mist to Philip's eyes. "God bless you, Leigh!" he murmured. "You have done me good many a time; and if this should be true, and I ever do become what you say--why, I will remember your words, or you must remind me of them."

Leigh turned round, and looked for a moment fixedly and sadly in his companion's face. "You do not mean what you say; you know that I--But we will talk no more now," he said, hurriedly, as he caught sight of his mother entering the room. However, when he had minutely and affectionately discussed with her the important topic of what he could eat for dinner, the boy lay for a long time silent and pensive. It might be that upon him too had come a new and sudden thought--more solemn than even that which had cast a musing shadow over Philip Wychnor. Both thoughts passed on into the undefined future; but one was of life, the other--of death!

Mrs. Pennythorne, supposing her boy was asleep, went on talking to his friend in her own quiet, prosy way, to which Philip had now grown quite accustomed. His fondness and care for Leigh had touched the mother's heart, and long since worn away her shyness. On his part the young man was an excellent listener to the monotonous, but not unmusical flow of mild repetitions which made up Mrs. Pennythorne's conversation. On this occasion it chiefly turned upon Frederick's wedding, his new house and furniture, which she accurately catalogued, beginning with the drawing-room carpets, and ending with the kitchen fire-irons. Philip tried to attend, but at last his thoughts went roaming; and his answers subsided into gentle monosyllables of assent, which, fortunately, were all that the lady required.

Of Leigh his mother did not speak at all, except to say that the pony-carriage, which Mrs. Frederick had thought indispensable, would be useful to take the boy country-drives when the spring came--supposing he needed them by that time, which was not likely, as he had been so much better of late. And then, as she glanced at the face which lay back on the sofa-pillow, with the blue-veined, shut eyelids, and the dark lashes resting on the colourless cheek, in a repose that seemed almost deeper than sleep, the mother shivered, looked another way, and began to talk hastily of something else. A few minutes after, the peculiar rap with which Mr. Pennythorne signalled his arrival was heard at the hall-door. Those three heavy strokes had always the effect of an electric shock on the whole household, producing a commotion from cellar to attic. Mrs. Pennythorne jumped up with alacrity, only observing, timidly, that she hoped the knock would not awaken Leigh.

"I am not asleep, mother," said the boy, rousing himself as she quitted the room in answer to the marital summons. "Mr. Wychnor, come here a minute," he added, hurriedly, the flush rising into his white cheek at the very sound of his father's step. "Don't tell him you know Drysdale--it might vex him. He is rather peculiar, you know."

"How thoughtful you are grown, my dear kind boy! And was that what you lay pondering upon when we fancied you asleep?"

"Not quite all," Leigh replied, suddenly looking grave, "but--but----we'll talk of that another time. You must go to the Museum Reading-room; it would be such a nice place for you to work in, far better than your own close little room. You don't yet feel what it is to be shut up all day, until you grow sick, bewildered, ill. No, no, you must not get ill," cried the boy, earnestly; "you must live--live to be a great man. And remember always what we talked about to-day," he continued, dropping his voice to a whisper as his father entered the room.

Mr. Pennythorne whisked about in his usual style, skipping hither and thither, and shaking his coat-tails whenever he rested, after a fashion which gave him very much the appearance of a water-wagtail. He was evidently in high feather, too--asked Leigh how he felt himself; and only called him "stupid" twice within the first ten minutes. Then he turned to Philip.

"Well, and how does the world treat you, young Norwych?" (Mr. Pennythorne had an amusing system of cognominising those about him by some ingenious transposition of their various patronymics; and this was the anagram into which Philip Wychnor's surname had long ago been decomposed.) "Where do you put your carriage and pair, my young friend? I have not seen it yet."

Philip smiled; but he was too well accustomed to the bitter "pleasantries" of his would-be patron to take offence, and he always bore it patiently for Leigh's sake.

"Ay, that's all the good of being a gentleman with a large independence--in the head, at least;" and Mr. Pennythorne laughed at what he considered his wit. "Now, here's my Fred--clever fellow! knows how to make his way in the world !--just come from his house in Harley Street--splendid affair! furnished like a duke's--as, indeed, Mrs. Lancaster observed. By-the-by, Cillie, my dear!"

"Yes, Pierce," was the meek answer from behind the door.

"I met Mrs. Lancaster in the Park--charming woman that! moves in the highest circles of literature. Of course you are acquainted with her, St. Philippus of Norwich?"

"No," answered the young man, shortly; "except once in your hall, I never heard the name." In truth he never had, notwithstanding Eleanor's acquaintance with the lady. But Mrs. Lancaster was the last person likely to have place in the memory, or the letters, of Philip's betrothed.

"Then you have a pleasure to come--for, of course, the fair Lancastrian will strain every nerve for an introduction to such a desirable young man, that you may embellish her literary soirées with your well-earned fame." Mr. Pennythorne drew the bow at a venture; and, as he saw Philip's cheek redden, congratulated himself on the keen shafts of his irony, quite unconscious how near sarcasm touched upon the truth. "And this reminds me, Cillie, my dear, that, hearing what a beautiful and talented woman I have the honour to call my wife, Mrs. Lancaster has invited you to grace with your presence the next soirée."

Poor Mrs. Pennythorne drew back aghast.--"You know, Pierce, I never go out," she feebly remonstrated; "I had rather stay with Leigh."

"My dear, the whole party would languish at your absence, and I cannot allow it. Besides, you will have to matronise your fair daughter-in-law, for Mrs. Lancaster is well acquainted with the Ogilvies, knows every branch of the family, and will ask them to meet us. The matter is decided--Friday the 17th sees us all at Rosemary Lodge." So saying, he hopped up-stairs, but not before Philip's quick ears had caught the whole of the last sentence. Indeed, of late he had been ever on the watch for some chance information which might have reference to Eleanor, whose long and unwonted silence had made him feel somewhat anxious. And even as he walked home that night, his memory retained with a curious tenacity the date and the place of this réunion of the Ogilvie family. He recurred to the circumstance again and again, in spite of the more serious thoughts which now occupied him; and almost wished that there had been some truth in the sneering remarks of Mr. Pennythorne as to his own future invitation to Rosemary Lodge.

There is an old Norse fable about the Nornir, or Fates, who sit weaving the invisible threads of human destiny, stretching them from heaven to earth, winding them in and out about man's feet, intercepting and intervolving him wherever he moves. One of these gossamers, stirred by the breath of Philip's idle wish, thereupon fell in his pathway and entangled him. But the web, at first light as air, grew afterwards into a heavy coil, woven of the darkest fibres with which humanity is bound.

You may rise early, go to bed late, study hard, read much, and devour the marrow of the best authors; and when you have done all, be as meagre in regard of true and useful knowledge as Pharaoh's lean kine after they had eaten the fat ones.--BISHOP SANDERSON.

I do not think any poet or novelist has ever immortalised that curious place well known to all dabblers in literature or science, the Reading-room at the British Museum. Yet there is hardly any spot more suggestive. You pass out of the clear daylight into large, gloomy, ghostly rooms, the walls occupied by the mummied literature of some centuries, arranged in glass cases. You see at various tables scores of mute readers, who sometimes lift up a glance as you pass, and then, like Dante's ghosts in purgatory, relapse into their penance. Indeed, the whole scene, with the spectral attendants flitting to and fro, and the dim vista extending beyond the man who takes the checks (alas for poetic diction!), might easily be imagined some Hades of literature, where all erring pen-guiders and brain-workers were doomed to expiate their evil deeds by an eternity of reading. Not only the lover of poetic idealisation, but the moralising student of human nature, would find much food for thought in the same reading-room. Consider what hundreds of literary labourers have toiled within these walls! Probably nearly all the clever brains in the three kingdoms have worked here at some time or other--for nobody ever comes to the reading-room for amusement. If a student had moral courage enough to ask for the last new novel, surely the ghosts of sombre ponderous folios would rise up and frown him into annihilation. The book of signatures,--where every new comer is greeted by the politest of attendants, handing him the most detestable of pens,--is in itself a rich collection of autographs, comprising almost every celebrated name which has risen year by year, and many--oh, how many !--that the world has never chronicled at all.

The Reading-room is fertile in this latter class--meek followers of science, who toil after her, and for her, day by day, and to whom she only gives her livery of rags. You may distinguish at a glance one of these habitués of the place, shabby, at times almost squalid in appearance, plunged up to the ears in volumes as rusty and ancient as himself. At times he is seen timidly propitiating some attendant with small fragments of whispering conversation, listened to condescendingly, like the purring of a cat which has become a harmless household appendage. Possibly the poor old student has come daily year after year, growing ever older and shabbier, until at last the attendants miss him for a week. One of them perhaps sees in the papers a death, or some mournful coroner's inquest; and recollecting the name, identifies it as that of the old bookworm. Then there is a few minutes' talk by the ticket-keepers' den at the end of the rooms--one or two of the regular frequenters are told of the fact, and utter a careless "Poor old fellow, he seemed wearing out of late!"--the books put by for his daily use are silently replaced, and one more atom of disappointed humanity is blotted from the living world.

This illustrative exordium may be considered as heralding the advent of a new Museumite in the person of Philip Wychnor. Speculations something like the foregoing occupied him during the time that he was awaiting the asked-for book, and trying to discover among the thick-set plantation of heads--brown, black, fair, red, and grey--young, old, ugly, handsome, patrician, and plebeian--the identical cranium of his new acquaintance, David Drysdale. First, he thought of promenading the long alleys and peering over every table, but this sort of running the gauntlet was too much for his nerves. So, inquiring of the head attendant--the tutelary Lar of the place, who knew everybody and helped everybody--a sort of literary lion's-provider, with good-nature as unfailing and universal as his information--Philip soon learned the whereabouts of old Drysdale.--There he was, with his bald head peering from a semicircle of most formidable books; looking by the daylight a little older and a little more rusty in attire. He greeted his young friend with a pleased look, and began to talk in the customary Museum under tone. It was a drowsy murmur, such as a poet would liken to the distant humming of the Hybla bees; and perhaps the simile is not inapt with regard to this curious literary hive.

"Glad to see you here, my young friend--very glad--shows you're in earnest," said Drysdale. "Ever been here before?"

Philip answered in the negative.

"Isn't it a fine place--a grand place? Fancy miles of books, stratum upon stratum; what a glorious literary formation! Excuse me," he added, smiling, "but I've been reading geology all the morning, and then I always catch myself 'talking shop,' as some would elegantly express it. You don't study the science, I believe?"

"No," said Philip; "the earth's beautiful outside is enough for me; I never wished to dive beneath it."

"Mistaken there, my good sir," answered the other, in a tone of gentle reproof; "you should try to learn a little of everything. I always do. When I hear of any science or study, I feel quite uncomfortable until I have mastered it, or at least know enough of it to form a judgment on the remainder. You would be astonished at the heterogeneous mass I have collected here,"--he pointed to his forehead,--"and I am still working on. Indeed, I should lament something like Alexander the Great when he reached the world's end, if I thought there were no more sciences for me to conquer. But that is not likely," said the philosopher, with an air of great consolation, as he eyed affectionately the pile of books that surrounded him.--Philip hoped he was not interrupting any work.

"Bless you, no! I can settle to it again directly."

"This would seem a capital place for the study, not only of books, but of human nature," observed Philip. "I never saw such a collection of odd people."

Drysdale laughed. "Yes! I believe we are an odd set--we don't care at all for our outward man. There lies the difference between your man of science, the regular old bookworm, and your man of genius--a poet, for instance. The latter sort has the best of it, for with him the soul has greater influence over the body. I never knew a genius yet--mind you! I use the word in its largest sense--who did not bear with him, either in face, or person, or in a certain inexplicable grace of manner, the patent of nobility which heaven has bestowed upon him; while the hardworking grubbers in science and acquired learning often find the mud sticking to them! Their pursuits are too much of this world to let them soar like those light-winged fellows. One class is the quicksilver of earth--the other, its plain useful iron. You couldn't do well without either, I fancy--eh?" The old philosopher rubbed his hands, and pausing in his oration, sat balancing himself on the edge of one of those comfortable chairs with which a benign government indulges Museum-frequenters. Philip, much amused, tried to draw the conversation into its original channel.

"You have a few fair students also; I see a sprinkling of bonnets here and there."

Drysdale shrugged his shoulders. "Ah, yes! Much good may it do them! Some of them seem to work hard enough, poor little souls! but they had far better be at home making puddings. I don't like learned women in general;--not that I mean women of real intellect, regular workers in literature; but small philosophers in petticoats, just dipping their pretty feet into the cold water of the sciences, and talking as if they had taken the whole bath. Here's one of them!" added the old gentleman, with visible discomfiture, as a diminutive dame in all the grace of fashionable costume floated up the centre-aisle, we were about to write, and may still do so, considering what a great temple of literature we are now describing.

"Ah, Drysdale! you are just the very person I want," lisped the new comer; and Philip at once recognised both face and voice as belonging to the lady he had once glanced at in Mr. Pennythorne's hall. He began to notice with some curiosity the well-known Mrs. Lancaster. Rather surprised was he to find so stylish a dame on terms of condescending familiarity with old David Drysdale. He did not know that lion-hunters often prefer for their menageries the most rugged and eccentric animals of that royal breed. Besides, the shabbiness and singularities of the queer-looking philosopher were tolerated everywhere, even among the elegant clique who honoured literature by their patronage.

Philip Wychnor was too courteous to gratify his curiosity by much open observation, still he could not but be amused by the visit of this fair devotee to literature. The excellent presiding Lar before mentioned, who was especially the good genius of feminine bookworms, found himself perpetually engaged in foraging out for her ponderous volumes which she carelessly turned over,--to the imminent peril of her lemon-coloured gloves,--and then as carelessly threw aside. One or two quiet, elderly readers, at the other side of the table, had their studies grievously interrupted by the quick, sharp voice; and, no doubt, devoutly wished all female literati, and this one especially, in some distant paradise of fools not particularly specified. At last Mrs. Lancaster began to look about her, and talk in an under tone to David Drysdale. Wychnor thought it was some literary secret, and with quite needless delicacy made for himself an errand to the catalogue-stand.

Now Mrs. Lancaster, besides her widely-professed admiration for literature, had a slight mania for Art. At least, so she said; and was for ever hunting up models of living physical perfection wherewith to fill her drawing-rooms. She had been watching for some time Philip's exquisitely-marked profile, as he stooped over his book, and now inquired: "By-the-by, Drysdale"--(Mrs. Lancaster affected, in common with many literary ladies, the disagreeable and mannish custom of addressing her male acquaintance without the Mr.)--"by-the-by, Drysdale, who is that clever-looking, handsome youth? He who was talking to you when I came in?"

With all his unworldliness, old David had a great deal of shrewdness, especially with regard to other people. He knew how almost impossible it is for a literary man to work his way without entering into the general society of the fraternity, and making personal interests, which materially aid his fortune, though it is his own fault if he suffer them to compromise his independence. Therefore Drysdale saw at once what an advantage it would be to Wychnor to gain admission into Mrs. Lancaster's clever circle. Immediately he set to work to clear the way, by judicious commendations.

"Really, is he so very talented? I knew I was right. My instinct never fails!" exclaimed the gratified lady. And she began to debate upon and criticise Philip's face and head, in order to prove her full acquaintance with physiognomy and phrenology. Old Drysdale shrugged his shoulders and listened. He never wasted words on persons of Mrs. Lancaster's stamp--"preferring," as he often said, "to let himself be pelted with swine's chaff, rather than cast his own pearls before them."

However, as soon as Philip returned to the table he performed the introduction for which the Mistress of Rosemary Lodge was so anxious. Wychnor was agreeably surprised to find himself graciously invited to accompany her "excellent friend Drysdale" to join the constellation of literary stars that were to illuminate the Lodge with their presence on the identical 17th.

"By-the-by, Drysdale," continued the lady, "you who have such a fancy for youthful geniuses will meet one that night--a Miss Katharine Ogilvie." Here Philip's heart beat quicker,--it always did so at the name of Ogilvie. Mrs. Lancaster went on. "She is wonderfully clever, and so lovely!--quite a Corinne at nineteen. I never was more surprised than when I met her last week; for three years ago I was staying at her father's, Sir Robert Ogilvie of Summerwood Park, and she seemed the most ordinary little girl imaginable."

"Humph! dare say she is the same now. Mrs. Lancaster's swans are always geese," muttered Drysdale, in an aside.

Philip's heart beat quicker than ever, for he remembered Eleanor's Christmas visit long ago.

Mrs. Lancaster, as she prepared to depart, turned from the imperturbable old philosopher to her new acquaintance. "I am sure a man of genius like yourself, Mr. Wychnor, will be delighted with my young improvisatrice, as I call her; indeed, she is quite an ideal of romance. Only be sure you do not fall in love with her, for people say she is engaged to a cousin of hers, who is always at Summerwood. A propos, Drysdale, in this said Christmas visit our friend Lynedon accompanied me. You know him--indeed, you know everybody. He has not written to me this long while. What has become of him?"

"Can't say, and don't care," replied the old man, rather gruffly, for his patience was getting exhausted.

"You never chanced to meet Paul Lynedon, Mr. Wychnor?" Philip made a negative motion of the head, and the voluble lady continued. "You would have exactly suited each other--he was such a charming creature--so full of talent. But I must not stay chattering here. Adieu! au revoir." And Mrs. Lancaster vanished gracefully from the reading-room.

David Drysdale shook himself with an air of great relief, somewhat after the fashion of an old house-dog round whose nose a troublesome fly has been buzzing. Then he settled down among his books in a silence which Philip did not feel inclined to interrupt.

Mrs. Lancaster's idle talk had stirred a few conflicting thoughts in the young man's bosom. With a natural curiosity, he looked forward to seeing this young cousin of Eleanor's, who, as report said, was likely to become her sister too. Forgetting how false rumour sometimes is, and how complete was the seclusion of L--, he felt surprised--almost vexed--that his affianced had not alluded to the fact. He wondered also that she had never made mention at any time of this fascinating Paul Lynedon whom she must, nevertheless, have intimately known at Summerwood.

It might have been an error in judgment, and yet it was from a noble and truly feminine delicacy, that Eleanor never told her betrothed of the love she had refused. She had none of that contemptible vanity which would fain carry about as a trophy a string of trampled and broken hearts, ready to flourish them before the eyes of the accepted lover, should the warning be required. Even amidst her own happiness she had sighed over the wound she gave, and kept the knowledge of that rejected love sacred from all, as every generous, delicate-minded woman will. But her silence now aroused more than one doubt in the mind of Philip Wychnor. This was wrong; he knew it, too; yet, being restless and uneasy, framed excuses for this idle jealousy over every action of his beloved Eleanor. But Philip Wychnor was a man, after all, and no man living ever can trust as a woman does.

My mind misgives
Some consequence, yet hanging in the stars,
Will bitterly begin its fearful date
From this night's revels.--SHAKSPEARE

Each word swam in on my brain
With a dim, dilating pain,
Till it burst * * *
--I fell--flooded with a Dark
In the silence of a swoon.
When I rose, still cold and stark,
There was night!--E. B. BROWNING.

Nothing could be better arranged than Mrs. Lancaster's soirées. She collected and grouped her guests as artistically as a fashionable bouquetière disposes her flowers. They were not all literary people--far from it: the hostess was too well acquainted with the idiosyncrasies and peculiarities of the fraternity to risk any such heterogeneous commixture. She adroitly sprinkled here and there a few of those fair scentless blossoms--evening-party demoiselles--who might be considered as hired only for the night, like the flowers on the staircase, to adorn the mansion. And then, amidst the gay cluster of ordinary humanities, might be distinguished some homely-looking plant, whose pungent aroma nevertheless diffused itself throughout the whole parterre--the poet of nature's making, who brought into refined saloons all the freshness, and a great deal of the mud, from the clods among which he was born. There, too, was the dandy author, who, when deigning to handle the pen, considered literature much the obliged party,--the keen sarcastic wit, the porcupine of society, whom everybody hated, yet treated with respect for fear of his quills--and the timid aspirant, who sat in a corner and watched the scene with reverent and somewhat fearful eyes. All these were ingeniously amalgamated, so as to form the very perfection of réunions. Nobody felt obliged to "talk blue;" and while the heavy conversationalists had full play in snug corners, there were interludes of dancing and music to lighten the hearts and heels of the rest.

Philip Wychnor watched this moving panorama with considerable interest. At Oxford, the compulsion of honest poverty and his own inclinations had caused him to lead the life of a very hermit: in fact, to few young men of his age could that great raree-show, Society, appear so new. David Drysdale, who kept close beside him, took quite a pleasure in witnessing the almost child-like amusement of his young acquaintance, and in pointing out to him the various concomitants which made up the soirée.

"There stand the Merry-go-rounds," said he, pointing to a curiously-mingled group, in which the most prominent were a very big man and a very little one. "They all belong to the Merry-go-round paper--you may know that by their talk, a whole artillery of fun and jest. But they have a character for wit to keep up, and must do it, well or ill, like the king's fools of old."

"Amateur assumers of the cap and bells, I presume?" observed Philip, smiling.

"Just so, but not all of them. Look at that man to whom everybody listens whenever he opens his lips. He buzzes about like a wasp, and wherever he settles for a minute, it is ten chances to one that he does not leave a sting behind. But he is a clever fellow, nevertheless--brimming over with wit; his tongue and his pen are like lancets; and if they do bleed Dame Society pretty freely, it is most frequently to keep down the lady's own plethora, and remove all bad humours."

"Who is that gay butterfly of a young man, who seems to set himself in opposition to your wasp? He keeps up an incessant rattle of small witticisms, chiefly directed to the ladies, with whom he appears quite a pet."

"Did you ever know true coin that had not its counterfeit? He is a small mimic of the other--a mushroom-wit, sprung up in a night out of the very refuse-bed of literature. He belongs to the Young England school of authorship--impudent jesters who turn the most earnest things of life into farce--who would parody Milton, and write a Comic History of the Bible.

I'd put in every honest hand a whip
To lash the rascals naked through the world,"

cried worthy old David, with an energy that, while it made Philip smile, touched him deeply. That one grain of true earnestness seemed to purify the whole heartless, worldly mass around him. The young man grew stronger in heart and purpose every hour of his association with Drysdale.

"There are two of another set. You will find all this literary world divided into sets," observed the old philosopher, glancing towards a couple who were talking together a little aloof from the rest.

"You mean that patriarchal old man, with a grand massive head, and the younger one, with hair parted in the centre, and a face that reminds one of Raphael's angels? I have been watching them some time--they talk so earnestly, and are such a picturesque couple to look at; only I don't like that outré affected style of dress."

"Yet there is a great deal of good in them, for all that. They belong to the Progress movement--people sincere and earnest in their way, only they are ever trying to move the world with their own small Archimedean lever. Now, though I hold that every man ought quietly to put his shoulder to the wheel and give society a shove onward, as far as he can in his petty lifetime, yet I don't like much talking about it. With these Progress people it is often 'great cry and little wool.' They are always bemoaning, with Hamlet, that

The time is out of joint,

but rarely attempt to 'set it right.'"

"I agree with you," said Philip; "I believe less in universal than individual movements. If every man began the work of reformation in himself first, and afterwards in his own circle, there would be no need for public revolutions at all. To use your own favourite system of symbolisation, Mr. Drysdale," continued the young man, with a good-humoured smile, "I think that quietly undermining a rock is far better than blowing it up with gunpowder, because in the latter case you never know how far the work of destruction may extend, and you run a chance of being knocked on the head by the fragments."--Drysdale patted his young friend on the arm, with an air of gratified approval. "That's right--quite right! Learn to think for yourself; and don't be afraid of speaking what you think, my dear boy--excuse me for calling you so, but you are a boy to me."

Philip was about to express his sincere pleasure in this new friendship of theirs, when Mrs. Lancaster glided through the still increasing crowd.

"Drysdale, where are you? Here in a corner! Fie, fie! when every one wants to talk to you."

"I wish I could return the compliment, ma'am," answered the old man, abruptly enough, for any cynical propensities he had were always drawn out by the flippant tongue of Mrs. Lancaster.

"Now, really, that's too bad! What a nice, good, disagreeable, comical creature you are! Here is your old acquaintance, Mr. Pennythorne, asking for you." And as she spoke the individual alluded to made his appearance, shook hands with Drysdale, and then turning round caught sight of Philip Wychnor. A slight elevation of the eyebrows marked Mr. Pennythorne's extreme astonishment at the recognition, but he was too much a man of the world to seem discomposed by anything. He hopped up to Philip with a cordial greeting.

"My dear young friend--delighted to meet you so unexpectedly, and in such charming society too. And so you know that excellent old Drysdale: how surprising: how pleasant!" And he bustled away to another part of the room, wondering within himself what the--(Mr. Pennythorne's expletives were always confined to mere thoughts) brought the young rascal there!

"You must come with me, Drysdale," pursued Mrs. Lancaster, laying her tiny white-gloved hand on the rough coat-sleeve of the shaggy-looking old fellow, who looked in that gay assemblage something like the dog Diogenes amidst the train of canine Alexanders in Landseer's picture; "I want to introduce you to my young Corinne--my improvisatrice." But Drysdale still hung back He had an unpleasant recollection of innumerable dainty MSS. and scores of young-ladyish poems with which he had been deluged in consequence of doing the civil to Mrs. Lancaster's literary protégés.

"It is I who particularly wish to be introduced to Mr. Drysdale," said a sweet young voice behind; and the old man could not resist either the voice or the bewitching smile that adorned the lips through which it passed.

Philip turned gently round, and looked at Katharine Ogilvie. She was indeed dazzlingly beautiful--the more so perhaps from the extreme simplicity of her white dress, which contrasted strongly with the be-laced and be-furbelowed throng around. Her small, Greek-shaped head had no ornament but the magnificent purple-black hair, which was gathered up in a knot behind, giving to her classic features a character more classic still. But there was no impassive marble beauty about the face. It was all woman--the lips now dimpling with smiles, now trembling with ill-concealed emotion, as some sudden thought passed through her mind. How different from the shy girl who, years before, had moved timidly amidst the same scene, in the same place!

Katharine felt it so; and her heart was full--running over with the delicious memories that every moment renewed, and dilating with a joyful pride as she compared the present with the past. She felt she was beautiful--she saw how every eye followed her admiringly: she knew that even over that gay and gifted circle the spell of her talents and her fascinations was cast. She gloried in the knowledge.

"He would not be ashamed of me now," she murmured to herself with a proud happy smile. "No; when he comes again he will find Katharine not unworthy, even of him." And the thought kindled a new lustre in her eyes, and lent an unwonted softness to every tone of her melodious voice. How happy she was! how she seemed to cast everywhere around her an atmosphere of gentle gladness! She inclined particularly towards old David Drysdale; and he, on his part, thawed into positive enthusiasm beneath the sunshine, of her influence.

"I wished much to see you, Mr. Drysdale," she said at last, though somewhat timidly, when the conversation with him had grown into quite a friendly chat. "I have heard of you before, from--from an old acquaintance of yours;" and the quick colour rose slightly in her cheek.

"My dear young lady, I am really honoured--delighted!" answered the old man, charmed almost into compliment. "Who could it be?"--Katharine's lips trembled while they framed the name of Paul Lynedon.

"Lynedon--Ah! I remember him--fine fellow to look at, with a great deal in him. But ours was a very slight acquaintance. I have heard nothing of him since he went abroad. Ever been abroad, Miss Ogilvie?" added Drysdale, unconsciously turning the conversation; at which Katharine felt a vague disappointment, for it was pleasant even to hear a stranger utter the name that was the music of her heart.

"No!" she replied. "I know scarcely anything of the world except from books."

"And perhaps the knowledge thus gained is the best, after all; at least so says my young friend Philip Wychnor here," said Drysdale, good-naturedly turning to where his new favourite sat aloof. Philip was trying to alleviate his rather dull position with looking over various books.

"Philip Wychnor!" echoed Katharine, suddenly recollecting the name. It caught the owner's ear, and the eyes of the two young people met. "This must be Eleanor's friend; Hugh told me he was in London"--she thought to herself; and an instinct of something better than curiosity made her ask for an introduction.

"I believe you are not quite unknown to me, Mr. Wychnor," said Katharine, as Philip--answering Drysdale's summons--came up to them. "Are you not a friend of my two cousins, Hugh and Eleanor Ogilvie?" Philip answered in the affirmative.

Katharine thought his hesitation sprang from the shyness of one unused to society; women have so much more self-possession than men. She tried to reassure him by continuing to talk. "I am quite delighted to meet you. I remember perfectly how warmly my cousins spoke of you--Eleanor especially. You have known her many years?"

"Many years. And her brother--how is he?" continued Wychnor, not daring to trust his voice with a more direct question.

"Hugh is quite well, I believe--I hope. He left Summerwood some days since," said Katharine, while a shadow of annoyance passed over her face, and the clear brow was contracted for a moment.

"To L--, to join, his sister, I conclude?"

"Oh no! Eleanor is gone abroad, you know."

"Gone abroad!"

"Yes, to Florence, with Mrs. Breynton, her friend, and your aunt--is she not? I thought, of course, you were aware of the fact."--Philip felt sick at heart; muttering some unconnected words, he turned to look for Drysdale, for he had no power to sustain the conversation. However, the old man was gone. At another time Katharine's curiosity and sympathy would have been excited; but now her attention was drawn away from him by a chance word--one that, whenever uttered in her hearing, pierced through any buzz of conversation, compelling her to listen--the name of Paul Lynedon.

Katharine and Philip chanced to sit together on one of those round ottomans which seem made for double tête-à-têtes; and behind them were a lady and gentleman chatting merrily.

"Mr. Lynedon!" repeated the latter. "So, my dear Miss Trevor, you really know my excellent friend Paul Lynedon."

"I should rather say I knew him--since it is several years since we met. He went on the Continent, I believe? A sudden departure, was it not, Dr. Saville?"

"Hem! my dear madam. Therein hangs a little mystery that I would not mention to any one but to you, who were his very particular friend. In fact, poor Lynedon was in love."

"You don't say so?"

"Oh yes; he told me all about it at the time:--long attachment--lady engaged to another gentleman. But--heigh-ho--people's minds change so. I think Lynedon will get her after all--and so does Lizzie."

"'All's well that ends well.' When is he likely to be married?"

"Lynedon?--Why--though you must never breathe a word of this--I have every reason to believe it will be very soon. In fact, the happy event may have come off already. For, he tells me, he has lately met her at Florence, where she lives with an old lady. He sees her every day. Sly fellow--he says nothing of the wedding; but he writes full of happiness. I think I have the letter in my pocket now,--if I did not send it home this morning to Lizzie.--No! here it is."

Every word of this mixture of truth and falsehood fell on the stunned ear of Katharine Ogilvie. Yet she sat immovable, her fingers still turning over the book on her lap, her lips still fixed in the courteous smile of attention. Once only her eyes wandered, with uncertain incredulousness, over the letter which Dr. Saville held. It was the known handwriting--his hand! Passionate in all her impulses, she drank in, undoubting, the fatal truth. Her heart died within her, and was turned to stone.

The next moment Dr. Saville moved to make way for Mrs. Lancaster, who fluttered up all empressement, and entreated her "sweet Katharine" to sing. Katharine arose, and crossed the room with a steady footstep. Philip Wychnor sat down in her place.

"What a lovely girl that is, and with what intense feeling she sings!" observed a gentleman to Miss Trevor, as Katharine's voice came from the inner room, clear, full, and pure, without one tremulous tone, "Yes; she is a sweet creature--a Miss Katharine Ogilvie."

"Ogilvie--how singular! Has she any sisters?" inquired Dr. Saville.

"No, I believe not. Why do you ask?"

"Because the name of Paul Lynedon's old love--the young lady he is going to marry--was Ogilvie--Eleanor Ogilvie." There was a movement of the fashionable crowd, as one of the guests hastily wound his way through, and passed out at the door. When David Drysdale came to inquire for his young friend, Philip Wychnor was already gone. Still the gay throng fluttered, laughed, and chattered, for an hour or two more, and then dispersed.

"My dear Katharine, how silent you are!" remarked Lady Ogilvie, as the carriage drove homewards.

"I am tired--so tired. Let me alone!" was the answer, in a cold, sharp tone, that excited the mild reproach:

"Really, my dear, I hope you will not get spoiled by the admiration you receive." There was no reply, and the two parents dozed off to sleep.

Katharine reached her own room, and locked the door. Then she flung her arms above her head with a wild cry of agony--half-sob, half-moan--and fell heavily on the floor.

There I maddened. . . . Life swept through me into fever,
And my soul sprang up astonished--sprang, full-statured in an hour;
--Know you what it is when anguish with apocalyptic Never
To a Pythian height dilates you and despair sublimes to power?
E.B. BROWNING.

Am I mad, that I should cherish that which bears such bitter fruit?
I will pluck it from my bosom, though my heart be at its root.
TENNYSON.

O ye cold clear winter stars, look down pityingly on that solitary chamber where was poured out the anguish of first passionate love! Erring it might be--hopeless, visionary, even unmaidenly--but it was pure, nursed in solitude, and hidden from all human eyes. With strength such as woman only knows, Katharine for hours had sung, talked, and sat in smothered silence; but when she was alone the terrible cry of her despair burst forth. It was indeed despair--not pining, girlish sorrow--utter despair. She neither fainted nor wept; but crouched on the floor, swaying to and fro, her small hands tightly clenched, her whole frame convulsed with a choking agony.

"O God!--O God!--let me die!" rose up the almost impious cry of the stricken heart that in happiness had rarely known either thanksgiving or prayer,--while moan after moan broke the night-stillness. She breathed no word--not even his name. All that she felt then was a longing for silence--darkness--death. But this stupor did not last. Her burning, tearless eyes, wandering round the room, fell first on the flowers she wore--his favourites--then on a book he had given her--alas! her whole daily life was full of mementos of him. At once the flood of anguish burst forth unrestrained,

"Oh, Paul, Paul, must I think of you no more?--is the old time gone for ever? A life without you, a future wherein the past must be forgotten--where even to think of it will be a sin--a sin. Oh, God, that I could die!" And then, like a lightning-flash, came the thought, that even that old time over which she mourned had been only a self-beguiling dream. He had never loved her, not even then; but he had made her believe so. That moment a new storm of passion arose in her heart.

"He deceived me; he deceived me even then! I in my madness have given him all--life, hope, youth; and he has given me--nothing! Paul! Paul Lynedon!" (and rising up she stood erect--pride, indignation, scorn, on every feature) "how dared you! How dared you to call me your Katharine--your 'own Katharine'--when all the while you loved another woman? And now, maybe, you are laughing with her over the poor foolish girl who trembled and blushed in your sight, who had given you her whole heart's love, and would have died for yours! Died?--Shall I die?--shall I?"--She went to and fro with quick wild steps, her cheeks burning like hot coals. No tears--no, poor wretch--to allay her misery came not one blessed tear! Suddenly she stopped before the mirror, and surveyed herself from head to foot, regarding intently the beauty in which she had so gloried for his sake.

"Shall he say that I pined for him in unrequited love--I, Katharine Ogilvie, who might have been admired, loved--ay, worshipped?" And her memory pictured the face of Hugh, as when he had last bade her good-bye, pale, sad, with tears in the kind eyes that had watched over her for so many years. His love, if rude, was deep and sincere, and hardly merited a rejection so cold and scornful as she had lately given. Then in her heart dawned a purpose, sprung from the passion which for the time had almost changed to hate, and now warped every feeling of her impulsive nature. It was a purpose from which every woman who loves with a holy and pure love, however hopeless, would turn shuddering aside, feeling how great was the sin.

"You shall never triumph over me--you, Paul, and that wife of yours! you shall never laugh together at the girl who broke her heart for you. No; I will live--live to make the world know, and you know, what I am! Yes, you shall hear of me--my beauty, and my talents!" And a strange bitter laugh of self-derision broke from those white lips, over which a few hours before had dimpled the sweet, happy girlish smile. But that never came again--no, never more!

You, O Man! who with your honey words and your tender looks steal away a young girl's heart for thoughtless or selfish vanity, do you know what it is you do? Do you know what it is to turn the precious fountain of woman's first love into a very Marah, whose bitterness may pervade her whole life's current--crushing her, if humble, beneath the torture of self-contempt,--or, if proud, making her cold, heartless, revengeful--quick to wound others as she has herself been wounded! And if she marry, what is her fate? She has lost that instinctive worship of what is noble in man, which causes a woman gladly to follow out the righteous altar-vow, and in "honouring" and "obeying" her husband, to create the sunshine of her home. And this is caused by your deed! Is not such deed a sin? Ay, second to that deadly one which ruins life and fame, body and soul! Yet man does both towards woman, and goes smiling back into the world, which smiles at him again!

It may be said, and perhaps truly, that with most young girls, love is a mere fancy; that the pain, if any, is soon forgotten, and so the infliction of it becomes no crime. But how few hearts are ever read, even by those nearest and dearest! There may be in the inmost core of many a worm of which the world never knows. And every now and then, undistinguished outwardly from the vapid fickle tribe, may be found some nature like Katharine Ogilvie's,--of such an one, a blow like this makes either a noble martyr-heroine, or a woman over whom the very demons gloat; for they see in her their own likeness--she is a fallen angel too.

The distant clanging of Summerwood church-clock resounded above the moaning of the bleak November wind--one, two, three, four, Katharine heard the strokes, and paused. Twelve hours before, she had counted them and longed for the passing of the brief winter twilight, that the pleasant night might come. It would perhaps bring--not the sight of Paul Lynedon, that she knew was impossible--but at least some tidings of him. Now--oh, terrible change! It was from a world of sunshine, to the same world encompassed by a thick darkness--not that of holy, star-spangled night, but the darkness of a heavy mist, which pierced into the very soul. Yet she must walk through it, and alone! The dull blank future lifted itself up before her with terrible distinctness. Year after year to live and endure, and she scarce twenty yet! Katharine shuddered; one wild thought of death--blessed, peaceful death, self-summoned-----entered her soul; but that soul was still too pure to let the evil spirit linger there. Flinging herself on her knees, she buried her head in the little white bed,--where night after night she had lain down; reserving always, when the day's cares or pleasures were thought over, a few minutes to muse in the still darkness upon her secret maiden love; and then had gone calmly to sleep, breathing, with a tender blessing, the one beloved name. Now, that name must never be uttered more!

"O God!" she moaned, forgetting her usual form of nightly prayer--alas for Katharine! in forms only had she learned to pray--"O God! have mercy--have mercy on me!"--Let us speak no more of this night's agony. It was such as no human being has ever witnessed, or ever will, for the heart's most terrible struggles must be borne alone. But a few have felt it--God help those few! He only who gave to mortal nature the power of thus loving, can guide, and sway, and comfort in a like hour. But Katharine Ogilvie knew not this; therefore, ere the wild prayer which despair had wrung forth passed from her lips, its influence had vanished from her heart. Into that poor torn heart entered misery unknown before; and its chambers, no longer swept and garnished, became the habitation of legions of evil thoughts--to be exorcised thence no more.

The world's daily round goes on, heedless of life, death, love--the three elements which compose its chief sorrows and its best joys. Katharine lay down and slept--yes, slept; for terrible suffering often brings such torpor. In the morning she arose and dressed--calmly, without a tear or moan. Only once--as she stood arranging her long, beautiful hair, in which she always took great pride, for his hand had rested on it--the remembrance struck into her heart like a dagger. She could have torn the magnificent tresses from her head, she could have cursed the beauty that had failed to win Paul Lynedon! Henceforward, if she regarded at all the self-adornment which in due measure is charming in a woman, it would be, not from that loving desire to be fair in one beloved sight, but from a desperate, vainglorious pride. She would drive men mad with her beauty, dazzle them blind, set her foot on their necks and laugh them to scorn!

Katharine passed down the staircase. The study-door was open, and her grandfather's great cat came purring about her feet, inviting her in. But to cross the threshold of the well-known room! Everything in it cried out with a fiend-like mocking voice,--"Fool--fool--self-deceiving fool! The past, the precious past--is nothing,--was nothing. Blot it out for ever!"--She shivered, locked the door, and fled down the hall. On the table lay some greenhouse flowers--the old gardener's daily offering. Above them her bird sang to her its morning welcome; the gladder because the clear winter sunshine reached it even in its cage. Mechanically Katharine placed the flowers in water; gave the bird his groundsel; stooped down to stroke her ever-attendant purring favourite:--but the great change had come. Girlhood's simple pleasures were no more for her; she had reached the entrance of that enchanted valley which is either paradise or hell--crossed it, and shut the gate behind her--for ever.

"Don't stay here longer than you like, my dear," said Lady Ogilvie, as, long after breakfast was over, and Sir Robert had ridden off to London, Katharine, contrary to her custom, lingered in the room, sitting motionless by the fire, with her hands--those dear active little hands, generally always employed--folded listlessly on her lap. She turned round, bent her head assentingly, and then gazed once more on the fire.

"Still here, Katharine!" again mildly wondered Lady Ogilvie, pausing, an hour after, in some housekeeping arrangements. "Pray, my love, do not let me keep you from your studies. I am not at all dull alone, you know; do run away if you like."

"I can't, mamma, I am tired," said Katharine, wearily. "Let me stay with you."

"By all means, dear child. Really you do not look well; come and lay your head on my lap, as you know you always like to do."

She drew her daughter to her feet, and began smoothing her hair with motherly tenderness, talking all the while in her mild, quiet way. She was very much surprised when Katharine, burying her face in her knees, began to weep violently; murmuring amidst her sobs,--"O mother, mother! you love me;--yes, I know you do! Tell me so again. Let me feel there is some one in the wide world who cares for me."

"My darling Katharine--you are quite ill. This comes of late hours. Indeed, my child, you must cease going to parties. Tell me how you feel exactly." And she commenced various maternal questionings and advice, which, if tender, were rather prosy and out of place, as they entirely related to the physical welfare of her child. Such a thing as a tortured and diseased mind never entered into simple Lady Ogilvie's calculations.

Katharine understood this, and drew back into herself at once. Her good and tender mother was very dear to her, so far as natural and instinctive affection went; but in all else there was a wide gulf between them--now wider than ever. Unfortunate Katharine! there was in the whole world no tie close enough to satisfy her soul, no hand strong enough to snatch her from the abyss into which she was already about to plunge.

"You shall go and lie down again, my dear," said the mother. But Katharine refused. She dared not be alone, and she longed for an opportunity to say that for which she had nerved herself. So, suffering her mother to place her comfortably on the sofa, she rested in apparent quiet for half-an-hour. Lady Ogilvie went in and out softly, and then settled herself to an occupation which was always heavy and irksome to her--writing a letter. Looking up with a sigh, after five minutes spent over the first three lines, she saw her daughter's eyes fixed intently upon her.

"Dear me, Katharine, I thought you were asleep," she said, trying to conceal the note.

"No, I cannot sleep. Who are you writing to, mamma?"

"Only to Hugh--poor Hugh! I promised him I would. But you need not be angry at that, my child."

Katharine saw the opportunity had come: she seized it with a bold, desperate effort. "Mother, put away the letter and come here; I want to speak to you about Hugh." Her voice and face were both quite calm; the mother did not see that under the folds of the shawl with which she had covered her child, the damp hands were so tightly clenched that the mark of the nails remained on the rosy palm.

"Do not let us talk about Hugh, my darling; it was very sad, and your father and I were troubled and disappointed at the time, because we wanted to see our Katharine happy, and we liked Hugh so much. But if you could not love him, why, you know, my child, we shall never tease you any more on the subject. Pray be content."--Katharine rose up and looked her mother in the face. Years after, when gentle Lady Ogilvie lay on a death-bed, she described that look, and said it ever haunted her, with the rigid colourless lips, the dark stony eyes, "neither smiling nor sorry."

"Mother," said the girl, "do not wonder at me--do not question me--but I have changed my mind. I will marry Hugh, when he or you choose. Write and tell him so."--She put her hand to her heart for a moment, as if the effort of speaking had brought a pain there--as indeed it had, a sharp bodily pain; but she hardly felt it then. She sat up, and bore her mother's startled, searching glance without shrinking.

"Do you really mean what you say, Katharine? Will you make poor Hugh--make us all, so happy! Will you indeed marry him?"

"I will."--Lady Ogilvie, much agitated, did what nine out of ten gentle-hearted and rather weak-minded women would do on such an occasion--she caught her daughter to her bosom, and wept aloud. Katharine repulsed not the caresses, but she herself did not shed a tear. A faint misgiving crossed the mother's mind.

"My darling Katharine, you are happy yourself, are you not? You are not doing this merely to please your father and me? Much as we wished this marriage, we never will consent to the sacrifice of our child."

"I am not sacrificing myself, mother."

"Then you really do love Hugh--not in a sentimental, girlish way--but enough to make you happy with him as your husband?"

"My husband--Hugh my husband!" muttered Katharine with quivering lips, but she set them firmly together. The next moment her old manner returned. "Mother, I marry Hugh because I choose; and when I say a thing I mean it--ay, and do it, too. You know that. Is this reason sufficient? I can give half-a-dozen more if you wish."

"No, my dear love, no. Pray be quiet. I am only too happy--so happy I don't know what to do with myself" And she moved restlessly about, her eyes continually running over, even while her mouth wore its most contented smile.

"Now, mamma, come here," said Katharine once more, drawing the letter from its hiding-place. "Finish this. Tell Hugh that I have thought over the matter again, and have changed my mind. I will marry him whenever he chooses. Only it must be soon, very soon."

"How strange you are, my love! You do not seem to feel at all like other young girls."

"Of course not--I never did. Now write as I say."

"I will, I will, dear! Only why must the marriage be so soon?"

"Because I might change my mind," said Katharine, bitterly. "I have done so once before. My nature must be very fickle; I want to guard against it, that is all. Now write, dear mother, write."

The letter was written and despatched. Then Katharine's strange manner passed away, and she seemed calm. So, the prisoner who writhes in agony on his way to the scaffold, on reaching it mounts with a firm and steady step;--he shrank from the doom afar off; it comes, and he can meet it without fear.

Lady Ogilvie kept near her child the whole day. In Katharine's demeanour she saw only the natural agitation of a young girl in such a position. She was most thankful that her dear child had made up her mind to marry Hugh, such an excellent young man as he was, and so suitable in every respect. This marriage would unite the title and estate, keep both in the family beside, and prevent Katharine's leaving Summerwood. No doubt they would be very happy; for if Katharine was not positively in love with her cousin, she liked him well enough, and it was always best to have most love on the husband's side. So reasoned Lady Ogilvie, sometimes communicating her thoughts aloud. But Katharine received them coldly, and at last begged her to change the subject. The mother, ascribing this to natural shyness and sensitiveness, obeyed,--as, indeed, she generally did--and only too glad was she to have her daughter by her side the whole day.

"You have quite deserted your own little room, though I know you like it far better than this large dull drawing-room. Come, dear child, let us both go, and you shall sing for me in the study."

"Not there, not there!" answered Katharine, shuddering, "I will not go into that room. I hate it."

"Why so?" gravely said the mother, surprised, and rather uneasy at these sudden whims. Katharine recovered herself in a moment.

"Did I not tell you how fickle I was? There is a proof of it." And she forced a laugh--but, oh, how changed from the low, musical laugh of old! "Now, don't tease me, there's a dear mother. I have a right to be fanciful, have I not? Let me try to sing my whims away."--She began to extemporise, as she often did, composing music to stray poetry. First came an air, not merely cheerful, but breathing the desperation of reckless mirth. It floated into a passionate lament. When she ceased, her face was as white as marble, and as rigid. She had poured out her whole soul with her song; and, absorbed in a deep reverie, she had called up the past before her. She had filled the half-darkened, desolate room with light, and music, and gay laughter. Beside the dear old piano she had seen standing a figure, every attitude, gesture, word, and look of which she knew by heart. A moment, and she must shut it out for ever--from fancy and memory. This song was the dirge of her youth and its love. She closed the instrument, and in that room or in that house Katharine vowed never to sing more. She never did!

Worthy Sir Robert Ogilvie was mightily astonished, when he came home next day, to find his nephew hourly expected as a future son-in-law. He kissed his daughter--a ceremony performed solemnly at Christmas and Easter, or when he went on a journey--told her he was much gratified by her obedience, and felt sure she would be exceedingly happy in her marriage.

"Only," observed the sedate baronet to his wife, when they were alone together, "it would have saved much trouble and annoyance if Katharine had known her own mind at first. But I suppose no women--especially young women--ever do."

Deep as love,
Deep as first love, and wild with all regret,
O death in life--the days that are no more!
TENNYSON.

It was the eve of the wedding-day; the day which was to unite, in newspaper parlance, "Katharine, only child and heiress of Sir Robert Ogilvie, of Summerwood Park, to Hugh Ogilvie, Esq., only son of the late Captain Francis Ogilvie, of His Majesty's Service." Never was there a better match--and so said every gossiping party in the village, from the circle round the blacksmith's warm, welcome forge, to that round the doctor's equally welcome tea-table. Everybody had guessed how it would end, and only wondered it had not come off before. All the world and his wife were making ready for the next day; for the wedding was to be at the village church, with all necessary accompaniments of green boughs, young girls dressed in white, charity children, etc. etc.

Love would ever fain seal its vows unobserved, in glad and solemn privacy; but no such impediment came between Sir Robert and his desire for a little aristocratic ostentation. "It was proper," he said; "for the Ogilvies were always married and buried in public, with due ceremony." Katharine assented; and if there came a deeper and bitterer meaning to the set smile which her lips now habitually wore, her father never noticed it. She let them all do with her just what they pleased; so the joint conductors of the affair, Lady Ogilvie, Mrs. Fred Pennythorne, and Sir Robert, arranged everything between them.

On the wedding-eve the two former sat with the young bride in her dressing-room. It was strewed with attire of every kind--laces, silks, and satins, tossed about in beautiful confusion. The female ministrants at this shrine had been trying on the wedding-dress, and it hung gracefully over the back of a chair, with the wreath and veil. Lady Ogilvie was just wiping, for the thousandth time, her ever-tearful eyes, and saying she did not know what she should do without Katharine, even for a month.

"I dare say you will have to learn, aunt," said Mrs. Frederick, who had been quite in her element of late, administering consolation, lectures, and advice, with all the dignity of a newly-married lady. "For my part, I wonder that Katharine likes the thought of coming back to Summerwood. I never would have married Frederick at all if I could not have a house of my own."

"I believe you," said a cold satirical voice, as Katharine looked up for a moment, and then continued her work, making white favours for some old servants, who had begged for this token from the bride's own hands.

"Really, my dear, how sharply you take one up! you quite forget I am married," said Mrs. Pennythorne, tossing her head. "But I suppose we must humour you. However, things will be different when you are settled again at Summerwood."

"When I am," was the pointed reply.

"When you are!" echoed Mrs. Frederick. "Why, I thought the matter was quite settled. Your father wishes it--and your future husband. Ah, when you are married, Hugh will make you do whatever he likes!"

"Hugh will do whatever I like," said Katharine, haughtily, and she knew she spoke the truth; the humble, loving slave of one man was fast becoming the tyrant of another. It is always so. "Ask him the question yourself, Isabella," she added, as the bridegroom put his beaming face in at the door.

Hugh Ogilvie was a fine specimen of mere physical beauty--the beau ideal of a young country squire: most girls would have thought him a very Apollo, at a race-course or a county ball. And though somewhat rough, he was not coarse, else how could Katharine have liked him?--as she certainly did while they were only cousins. And since his affection for her had grown into the happiness of assured love, his manner had gained a softness that was almost refinement. If with others he laughed loudly, and talked with some vulgarity, he never came into her presence, or within the sphere of her influence, but his tone at once became gentle and suppressed. He loved her very dearly, and she knew it; but the knowledge only brought alternately scornful triumph and torturing regret.

"Cousin Hugh! cousin Hugh!--here's a pretty attempt at rebellion in your bonnie bride!" said Isabella, flippantly. "It vows and declares that it will not obey its husband, and does not intend to live at Summerwood."

"What is that about not living at Summerwood?" said Lady Ogilvie, turning round uneasily, with her pocket-handkerchief at her eyes; "Katharine does not surely mean to say that! To lose her so would break my heart."

"It must not do that, mother; I hope it will not," answered Katharine, steadily, "but I may as well say at first as at last, that I cannot live here any longer; I am quite wearied of this dull place, and Hugh must take me away; as he promised he would, when I engaged to be his wife. Is it not so, Hugh?"

"Yes, yes--but I thought--that is, I hoped"--stammered the bridegroom, with a disappointed look.

"You thought I should not expect you to keep your promise? Well, then, I see no necessity to keep my own."

"My darling Katharine, don't say so!" cried the lover in new anxiety, as he flew to her side and took her hand. She drew it away, not in coquettish anger, but with a proud coldness, which she had already learned to assume. Already--already--the tender womanliness was vanishing from her nature, and she who had once suffered the tortures of love was beginning to inflict them.

"Here's a pretty lover's quarrel; and the very day before the wedding too!" cried Isabella; "aunt, aunt, you and I had better leave them to make it up alone." And Mrs. Fred Pennythorne led through the open door the still weeping and passive Lady Ogilvie, who now more than ever was ready to be persuaded by anybody. To tell the truth, Isabella, who had not lost a jot of her envious temper, rather hoped that the slight disagreement might end in a regular fracas, and so break off the marriage.

Katharine was left alone with her bridegroom. She saw that the time was come for using her power, and she did use it. No statue could be more haughtily impassive than she, though not a trace of that contemptible quality--feminine sullenness--deformed her beautiful face. She ruled her lover with a rod of iron: in a minute he was before her, humbled and penitent.

"Katharine--dear Katharine--don't be angry. I will do anything you like; only we should be so happy living here."

"I will not stay at Summerwood. I hate it. Hugh, you promised to take me away:--remember that promise now, if you love me, as you say you do." And Katharine, restless from the thought of the battle she had to win, and a little touched by Hugh's gentleness, spoke less freezingly than before.

"If I love you? You know I do," answered Hugh, fondly winding his arm round her neck. She thrust it back a moment, and then, smiling bitterly, she let it stay. He had a right to caress her now. "Katharine," continued he, "don't you remember the time when we were children--at least, you were--and I used to carry you in my arms through the fields? Don't you remember the old times--how we went gathering blackberries--how I led your pony and taught you to ride;--do you think I did not love you even then? And though when we grew up we began to like different pursuits, and you were a great deal cleverer than I, didn't I love you as much as ever--more, perhaps?"

"You did--you did. Good, kind cousin Hugh!" murmured Katharine, with a pang of self-reproach. She thought of her old happy childish days, before the coming of that wild, delicious, terrible love.

"Well, then, Katharine, let us stay at Summerwood. It will please your father and mother, and me too--though I don't say much on that score, and I care little about myself in comparison with you; but it would be rather hard to give up the shooting and farming, to shut oneself up in a close nasty London square. I really don't think I can consent to it."--Katharine rose from her seat--all her passing softness gone. She was resolved to rule, and this was the first struggle. The victory must be gained.

"Hugh Ogilvie," she said, with a cold firmness, "I never deceived you from the first. I told you even when you came back to--to be my husband"--she said the word without trembling or blushing--"that I did not love you as you loved me. But I liked you--had liked you from a child. I respected, esteemed you; I was willing to marry you, if you chose. Is not that true?"

"It is--it is," murmured the bridegroom, shrinking beneath her proud eye.

"But I made the condition that you should take me to live elsewhere--to see the world; that I should not be cooped up here--it tortures me--it kills me! I want to be free--and I will! Otherwise no power on earth shall persuade or force me to marry you--not even though tomorrow was to have been our wedding-day."

"Was to have been! Oh, Katharine, how cruel you are! Say, shall be, for indeed it shall. We will live wherever you like--only don't give me up, Katharine. I know how little you care for me, I feel it; but you may come to care more in time, if you will only let me love you, and try to make you happy. Indeed--indeed--I would." And the young man, perfectly subdued, knelt before her as she stood, clasping her knees, with tears running down his cheeks. One flash of evil triumph lighted up Katharine's face, and then, for the second time, a pang of remorse pierced her soul. The wickedness, the falsehood of the coming marriage-vow--the cruel trampling upon a heart which, whatever its shortcomings, was filled with love for her--rushed upon her mind. For a moment she thought of telling him all; there was a whisper within, urging her to implore his forgiveness, and rather brave the humiliation of hopeless, unrequited love, than the sin of entering a married home with a lie upon her soul. But while she hesitated, outside the door rang the light mocking laugh of Isabella; and the world--its idle jests, its hateful pity--rose to her remembrance. Her proud spirit writhed. One struggle--the whisper grew fainter, and the good angel fled.

"Katharine, say you forgive me," pleaded Hugh; "you shall have your own way in this and everything else, if you will only try to love me, and be my sweet, dear, precious wife!"

"I will," answered Katharine. If, as the Word saith, "there is joy in heaven over one sinner that repenteth," surely there must have been sorrow then over one fallen soul!

The same night, long after the whole house was hushed, a light might have been seen burning in one of the upper windows at Summerwood. It came from Katharine's chamber. There, for the last time, she kept vigil in the little room which had been her shut-up Eden in childhood, girlhood, womanhood. The very walls looked at her with the old faces into which her childish imagination had transformed their shadowy bunches of flowers, when she used to lie in bed--awake, but dreaming many a fanciful daydream, before her mother's morning summons and morning kiss--always her mother's--broke upon this paradise of reverie. Then there was the bookcase, with its treasure-laden shelves arranged so as to form a perfect life-chronicle. The upper one was filled with old worn child's-books, two or three of Mrs. Hofland's beautiful tales, such as the 'Clergyman's Widow,' the 'Young Crusoe,' and the 'Barbadoes Girl'--books which every child must love; beside them came a volume of Mrs. Hemans', and the delicious 'Story without an End,' showing the gradual dawning of fancy and poetry in the young mind. And so the silent history went on. The lower shelf was all filled with works, the strong heart-beatings of heavenly-voiced poets and glorious prose writers--Shelley, Tennyson, Miss Barrett, Carlyle, Bulwer, Emerson. And in this era of the chronicle, each volume, each page, was alive with memories of that strong love which had been the very essence of Katharine's life; out of which every development of her intellect and every phase of her character had sprung.

She sat by the fire, rocking to and fro, on the little rocking-chair, which had been one of her fancies, and the soothing motion of which had many a time composed and quieted her in her light passing troubles. Beside her, on the table, lay the old worn-out desk she had used when a child, and in which, afterwards, she kept her "treasures." She opened it, and looked them all over.

They were many, and curious, but all relating in some way or other to the great secret of her life. There were numberless fragments of stray poetry, or rather rhyme; some her own--some which she had copied--fragments made ever after sacred by some comment or praise of Paul Lynedon's. As she read these over, one by one, her breast heaved with convulsive sobs. She choked them down and went on with her task. Other relics were there--the usual girlish mementos--a heap of withered flowers--which day after day he had given her--and she had kept them all. Likewise some verses of a song, written in a bold, manly hand--Lynedon had done it to beguile the time, while she was copying music, and had scribbled all along the sides of the page her name and his own.

Apart from these, in a secret drawer, lay Paul's letter--his first and only letter. Katharine tore open its folds, and read it slowly all through. But when she reached the end, she dashed it to the floor.

"'His Katharine!--his own Katharine!' And it was all false--false! Oh, poor fool that I was--poor vain, credulous fool--But it shall be so no more; I will crush him from my heart--thus--thus!"

Her foot was already on the letter; but she drew back, snatched it once again, and pressed it wildly to her lips and her heart.

There was one more relic; that sketch which bore such a curious resemblance to Paul Lynedon--the head of Keats. Katharine took the long-hoarded treasure from its hiding-place, and gazed fixedly on it for a long time. Then the fountain of her tears was unlocked, and sobs of agony shook her whole frame.

"Oh, Paul!--heart of my heart!--why did you not love me? Is there any one in the world who would have worshipped you as I? I--who would have given my life to make you happy--who would now count it the dearest blessing only to lean one moment on your breast, to hear you say, 'My Katharine!' and then lie down at your feet and die. Die?--Shall I die for one who has thus cruelly deceived me? Nay, but I beguiled myself; I only was vain--mad--blind! What was I, to think to win him? Paul--Paul Lynedon--no wonder that you loved me not! I was not worthy--oh, no--I was not worthy. I am fit for nothing but to die!"

In this fearful vigil of despair, fierce anger, and lingering love, the night wore on. It seemed an eternity to the miserable girl. At last, utterly exhausted, Katharine sank into a deadly calm. She sat motionless, her arms folded on the little desk, and her cheek leaning against the mournful relics of a life's dream. Suddenly she heard the twitter of a bird, and saw her lamp grow pale in the daybreak.--Then she arose, gathered up her treasures, laid them solemnly, one by one, on the embers of the dying fire, and watched until all were consumed.

The next day--nay, the same day, for it was already dawn--Katharine Ogilvie was married.

Seldom hath my tongue pronounced that name.
* * * *
But the dear love, so deeply wounded then,
I in my heart with silent faith sincere
Devoutly cherish till we meet again.

SOUTHEY.

We are about to break through all dramatic unity of place, and to convey our readers abroad. Suppose, then, the scene transferred to the Continent--Italy--Florence. But the reader need not shudder at the name, and expect long-winded descriptions of scenery--chapters taken at random from Murray's Handbook; since, for various excellent reasons, we shall eschew all landscape-painting.

There is, we understand--for truth forbids us to speak without this qualification--in Florence a pleasant square, which forms a general lounge for idlers, rich and poor, native and foreign, inasmuch as it contains a market, a curious antique building--called, not inappropriately, the Palazzo Vecchio--and the town post-office. This latter place is of course the perpetual resort of foreigners who are anxious to snatch their precious home-remembrances from the well-known carelessness of Italian officials. Thus, almost all the British residents, or passing visitors to Florence, may be seen at different times strolling round this square.

Among them, one day in winter, were two ladies walking slowly, the elder leaning on her companion's arm. Beneath the close black bonnet and veil of the taller one appeared the sharp, regular features of Mrs. Breynton. She looked a little older perhaps, and a little more wrinkled; but still she was the same Mrs. Breynton, the widow of the Dean, with her tall, straight figure, and her canonically-flowing black robes.--The young girl on whom she leaned was, it is needless to say, Eleanor Ogilvie.

Dear Eleanor--the much-tried but yet happy, because loved and loving one! let us look once more on that slight drooping figure, like a willow at a brook-side--that pale clear brow--those sweet calm eyes! But adjectives and metaphors fail; she is of those whom one does not even wish to describe--only to look upon, murmuring softly, "I love you--I love you!" evermore. And where there is love there must be beauty, perhaps the more irresistible because we cannot tell exactly in what feature or gesture it lies.

Time passes lightly over all equable natures;--it had done so over Eleanor Ogilvie. Her mind and character were nearly matured when we first saw her, and a few years made little difference. Perhaps the fair cheek was somewhat less round, and the eyes more deep and thoughtful, especially now, when a care heavier than ordinary weighed on her gentle spirit. But it caused no jarring there; no outward sign of impatient trouble. To a heart so pure, even sorrow comes as a veiled angel.

"How cold it is, Eleanor!" said Mrs. Breynton, as the occasional east wind, which makes a Lombard winter almost like a northern one, swept round the tower of the Palazzo Vecchio; "I do not see that I am any the better for coming to Italy; it was much warmer at L--." And as she spoke, one might perceive that her voice had changed from the slow preciseness of old, to a sharp querulous tone, which seemed to ask, as if through long habit, for the soothing answer that never failed.

"It is indeed very cold; but this bleak wind only comes now and then. We may be sure that Doctor B--was quite right when he ordered you to the South; and I think your cough is better already."

"Is it?" said the invalid, and to disprove the fact she coughed violently. "No, no--I shall die of asthma, I know; like my father, and my great-uncle, Sir Philip Wychnor." Here there was a slight movement in the arm on which the old lady rested; it caused her brow to darken, and the thin lips, through which had unconsciously issued this rarely uttered name, were angrily compressed. She did not look at her companion, but walked on in silence for some minutes.--Nor did Eleanor speak, but her head drooped a little lower; and the moistened eyelash and trembling lip could have told through how much forbearance and meekness, daily exercised, had Philip's betrothed kept her promise to him. She was indeed as a daughter unto the stern woman who had once shown kindness towards her lover. It was a strange bond between the two, and formed of many conflicting elements. On one side, the very wrath of Mrs. Breynton towards her nephew made her heart cling with a sort of compassion to the young girl whom she deemed he had slighted; while, on the other hand, Eleanor forgot at times even the present wrong done to her lover, remembering that Mrs. Breynton was Philip's near kinswoman, and had once been, as far as her cold nature allowed, in the stead of a mother to him. There was still a lingering warmth in the ashes of that olden affection. Eleanor saw it many a time, even in the sudden anger aroused by some chance memento of Philip's childhood; and, day by day, her whole thought, her whole aim, was to revive this former love. Thus silently, slowly, she pursued the blessed work of the peacemaker.

She advanced towards the post-office, where, as usual, was a cluster of people anxiously struggling for letters. It would have been an amusing scene for a psychologist or a student of human nature; but the English ladies had too much interest on their own account to notice those around. They were trying to make their way through the crowd, which, trifling as it was, inconvenienced the precise Mrs. Breynton exceedingly.

"Let us stay in the rear of this gentleman, who is probably waiting for the English letters," whispered Eleanor, glancing at a tall, cloak-enveloped personage who stood in front. Softly as she spoke he seemed to catch the tone, for he turned round suddenly, and Eleanor recognised the face of Paul Lynedon.

She had seen him more than once before--at least she fancied it was he--in their walks about Florence. But he had never indicated the slightest wish for a recognition. Now, it was difficult to avoid it. Their eyes met, her colour rose, and there was a slight contraction of his brow; but the next moment he bowed with an easy grace and a polite smile that at once banished from Eleanor's mind all regretful thought of the lover she had rejected. She held out her hand with a frank kindness; he took it with the same. There was no agitation, no pain, visible in his countenance, for there was none in his heart. A little annoyance or mortification he might perhaps feel, on being unpleasantly reminded of the time when he had "made such a fool of himself;" but he was too polite and too proud to betray the same in word or manner.

Paul Lynedon quite overwhelmed Mrs. Breynton with his expressions of gratification at meeting with two "fair countrywomen." He was as agreeable as of old; but his manners wore less of the graceful charm which springs from a kindly heart, and more of that outward empressement which sometimes assimilates to affectation. It was evident that he had become a complete man of the world. He easily procured their letters. There were several for Mrs. Breynton, and two for Eleanor. Hugh's large careless handwriting marked one of the latter. She opened it, and started in joyful surprise at the intelligence it contained--the announcement of the intended marriage of her brother and cousin. In sisterly exultation, she proclaimed the news aloud.

"How glad I am!--how I always wished for this! Dear Hugh! dear Katharine!--You remember Katharine, Mr. Lynedon?" were her hurried exclamations.

Mr. Lynedon "remembered her quite well, as every one must--a sweet girl! He was indeed happy to hear she was married." This was not exactly true, as, in running over the list of fair young creatures who had looked favourably on himself, Paul had unconsciously fallen into the habit of including Katharine Ogilvie. She was a mere child then to be sure, but she might grow up pretty; and if so, supposing they ever met again, the renewal of his slight flirtation with her would be rather amusing than otherwise. At hearing of her marriage, he felt an uncomfortable sensation--as he often did at the wedding of any young girl who had appeared to like himself. It seemed to imply, that Paul Lynedon was not the only attractive man in the world. Even when Eleanor, chancing to draw off her glove, had unconsciously exhibited the unwedded left hand, he had glanced at it with a pleasurable vanity. Though he was not in love with her now, and really wondered how he ever could have been, still he felt a degree of self-satisfaction that no other man had gained the prize which he now blushed for ever having sought. How gradually the rust of vain and selfish worldliness had crept over Paul Lynedon's soul!

"They must be married by this time," observed Eleanor, referring to the letter. "Hugh says, I think, that it was to be very soon,--ah yes, the 27th."

"Then to-morrow is the wedding-day," said Lynedon. "Allow me thus early to offer you my warm congratulations, with every good wish to the happy couple."--Eleanor thanked him, her heart in her eyes. Then he made his adieux, and disappeared among a group of Florentine ladies. There was a ball that night in Florence, at which none were more brilliant or admired than the young Englishman. He smiled as he listened to his name, brokenly and coquettishly murmured by many a fair Italian dama. He did not hear from afar the wild moan of one stricken heart, that in lonely despair sobbed forth the same. O Life! how blindly we grope among thy mysteries!

Mrs. Breynton expressed the proper degree of pleasure in a few formal congratulations; but her knowledge of Hugh was small, and her interest in him still less, for the range of the good lady's sympathies had never been very wide. Besides, she was somewhat shocked at the impropriety of reading letters in the street, and had carefully gathered up her own budget for a quiet home perusal. However, on reaching their abode, she condescended so far as to ask to see Hugh's letter. Eleanor gave it before she had herself quite read through the long and rambling effusion of a lover's delight.

Over it the aged eyes seemed slowly to journey without a single change of expression. Eleanor watched the immovable face, and marvelled. A love-history of any kind is regarded so differently at three-and-twenty and three-and-sixty. But when Mrs. Breynton in her slow perusal reached the postscript, her countenance changed, grew pale, and then darkened. She hastily refolded the paper, laid it on the table, and snatching up her own packet of letters quitted the room.

Eleanor again took Hugh's epistle, and read:--"Cousin Bella was married lately to a Mr. Frederick Pennythorne. By-the-by, through this wedding, our old friend, or rather yours, Philip Wychnor, has turned up again. The Pennythornes know him, and Katharine met him at a grand literary party. He asked after you, but he did not speak about Mrs. Breynton. Is there any breeze between him and the old aunt? He is growing a celebrated author, having turned out quite a genius, as Katharine says--and she must know, being so clever herself," etc. etc. And the lover returned, of course, to the praises of his beloved.

Eleanor paused, oppressed with many mingled feelings. It was now a long season since she had heard from Philip, though she herself had written regularly. At first his sudden silence pained her; and, casting aside all girlish caprice and anger, she had sent more than one letter asking the reason, but no answer came. She then felt, not doubt of his faithfulness, but terror for his health; until this fear was lightened by her continually tracing his name in various literary channels, and on one occasion receiving, addressed to her in his own handwriting, Philip's first published book. She marvelled that even her loving and delighted acknowledgment of this still brought no reply. And yet she trusted him still She would have doubted the whole world rather than Philip Wychnor's truth.

Truthful and candid as she was, Eleanor had never sought to make her correspondence with her betrothed a clandestine one. Between herself and Mrs. Breynton there was a perfect silence on the subject, without attempt either at explanation or concealment. Month after month the post-bag of the palace had been trusted with these precious love-messages from one true heart to the other; therefore now no doubt of foul play ever crossed the mind of the young betrothed: she would have scorned to harbour such an unworthy suspicion of Philip's aunt. Still, Eleanor had need of all her courage and faithful love to bear this suspense. Even now, when she rejoiced at these good news of him, her gentle heart was sorely pained that Philip himself should not have been the first to convey it.

She dried a few gathering tears, and determined to write to him and trust him still, until the near termination of this Italian journey should enable her to visit Summerwood, when some blessed chance would bring her face to face with her betrothed. Then she mechanically opened the second letter, which had been neglected for Hugh's.

It informed her that Sub-Dean Sedley, the unwearied backgammon-player of the Close, at L--had died and left her, Eleanor Ogilvie, sole legatee of all his little fortune!

Cym. O disloyal thing,
That should repair my youth; thou heapest
A year's age on me.
Imo. I beseech you,
Harm not yourself with your vexation:
Am senseless of your wrath; a touch more rare
Subdues all pangs, all fears.
Cym. Past grace? obedience?
SHAKSPEARE.

Mrs. Breynton had the character of being a strong-minded woman; but no one would have thought so to see her when, after leaving Eleanor, she proceeded to her own apartment and walked restlessly up and down, her whole countenance betraying the inward chafing of her spirit. She glanced carelessly at the letters she still held, and threw them down again. She was just beginning to grow calm, when another packet was brought her with "Mr. Lynedon's compliments, and he felt glad to have been able to rescue the enclosed from further delay at the post."

Mrs. Breynton returned a polite message, put on her spectacles, and prepared herself to read the second edition of correspondence. The first of the batch was evidently interesting--as it might well be--for it looked the facsimile of that lawyer's epistle which had communicated to Eleanor such important tidings. Mrs. Breynton was rising to summon her young friend, when the second letter caught her eye. It was addressed to Miss Ogilvie, yet she snatched it up, and eagerly examined the handwriting.--It resembled that of many a schoolboy letter which at Midsummer and Christmas had come to the palace, which she had deciphered--not without pleasure--from the flourishing "Dear Aunt," to the small, cramped ending, "Your dutiful and affectionate nephew." It was still more like the careless college scrawl which had weekly informed her of Oxford doings in a frank easy style, whose informality sometimes gained a grave reproof. As she held the letter to the light, her fingers trembled even though her brow was angrily knitted. Then she turned to the seal--a rather remarkable one. It was her own gift--she remembered it well--with the Wychnor crest and a cross underneath. What trouble she had taken to have it engraved in time for his birthday. How dared he think of this, and use it now!

Mrs. Breynton had never been a mother. No child had ever clung to her bosom and nestled near her heart, to charm away all the coldness and harshness there. Marrying without love, she had passed through life, and never felt a single strong affection. Perhaps the warmest feeling of her nature had been that which in her girlhood united her to her only brother. After this tie was broken, her disposition grew cold and impassive, until the little Philip came--a softened image of the past, a vague interest for the future. Every lingering womanly feeling in her frost-bound heart gathered itself around the child of her dead brother; and with these new affections came a determination, springing from her iron will and inflexible prejudices, to make the son atone for the still unforgiven dereliction of the father, in quitting that service of the sanctuary which had become part of the family inheritance.

A female bigot is the most inveterate of all. The Smithfield burnt-offerings of Mary Tudor were tenfold more numerous than those of the kingly wife-murderer who called her daughter. Had Mrs. Breynton lived in those days, she would have rejoiced in a heretic-pyre. Therefore, when she tried to constrain her nephew to enter the Church, it was with the full conviction that she was doing her best for his soul as well as for his temporal interests. She loved him as much as a woman like her could love; she desired his welfare; but then all good must come to him through one way--the way she had planned. To this road she had alternately lured and goaded him. In his destiny she proposed to include two atonements,--one on the shrine of the Church, the other, by his union with Eleanor,--to the memory of the girl's forsaken mother.

When the conscientious scruples of the young man thwarted this great scheme of her life, Mrs. Breynton was at first paralysed. That Philip should venture to oppose herself--that he should dare to doubt those ecclesiastical mysteries, without the pale of which she conceived all to be crime and darkness, was a greater shock than even the shortcomings of his father. She felt overwhelmed with horror and indignation; an indignation so violent, that both then and for a long time afterwards it caused her, like most bigots, to confound the sinner with the sin, until she positively hated the nephew who had once been to her a source of interest and pride. But, this first tempest of wrath over, she began to incline towards the lost one; and with a strange mingling of affection, obstinate will, and that stern prejudice which seemed to her darkened eyes the true spirit of religion, Mrs. Breynton determined, if she could not win, to force her nephew into the path for which she had destined him.

Long she pondered upon the best method of accomplishing her will; and, embittered as she was against Philip, it was some time before she could reconcile her pride and her conscience to do that which, by driving him to despair, would at last bring home the repentant prodigal. But when, in her blindness, she had fully satisfied herself that "the end sanctified the means," she commenced the plan which suggested itself as best. No more letters were received either by Philip or Eleanor. All were intercepted and consigned to the flames, in Mrs. Breynton's room.--She did not open or read a single one; for, while persuading herself that she was fulfilling a stern duty, the Dean's widow would have scorned to gratify idle curiosity or malice. She could, self-deceived, commit a great crime, but she could not stoop to a small meanness. Unmoved, she saw Eleanor's cheek grow pale with anxiety, and fancied that all this time she was working out the girl's future happiness; that the recreant lover would be brought to his senses, would immediately seek his betrothed. Once more under her roof--and Mrs. Breynton longed with a sickly longing to have him there once--she doubted not her influence over him. She could not lose him again.

It would be a curious study for those who rightly and justly believe in the perfectibility of humanity, to trace how often at the root of the darkest woe-creating crime lurks some motive, which, though warped to evil, has its origin in good. So it was with this woman. She stood looking at the letter, and thinking over the news which had come to her knowledge concerning Philip. It had irritated and alarmed her to hear of her nephew's success. She feared lest her own hold over him should grow weaker as he prospered in the world. Indignant beyond endurance, she crushed the letter in her hand, and--the seal broke! But for this chance she might have withstood the desire which prompted her, by plunging still deeper into deceit, to arrive at a clear knowledge of Philip's motives and intentions, so as thereby to guide her own. For a moment she paused irresolute, and then the evil wish conquered--Mrs. Breynton opened the letter. It seemed to have been written at various times, the first date being many weeks back.

"Eleanor!" it began--and the handwriting, which often betrays what words succeed in concealing, was tremulous and illegible--"you said one day--that soft spring morning, do you remember?--when we stood together in the window, looking on the palace-lawn--your hand on my shoulder, and my arm encircling you, as it had a right to do then,--you said that we must have no secrets from one another; that we must never suffer the faintest shadow to rise up between us. There has been none until now! Eleanor, dearest,--still dearest--shall I tell you what troubles me? A doubt--idle, perhaps wrong, and yet it weighs me down. I heard last night, by chance, a few words that I would only have smiled at, but for your long silence, and your departure from England. You have gone, as I understand, and without informing me. Was this quite right, my Eleanor? Still there may have been a reason. My aunt--but I will not speak of her. Let me come at once to this idle rumour. They say--though I do not believe it--that three years ago,--which must have been at the very time, the blessed springtime, when I first told you how precious was your love,--another did the same. In short, that you were wooed--willingly wooed--by a Mr. Paul Lynedon, whom you met at Summerwood. Why did you never speak of this acquaintance--for, of course, he was nothing more? You could not--no, my Eleanor, my all-pure, all-true Eleanor!--you could not have deceived me, when you confessed that I--such as I am, inferior in outward qualities to many, and doubtless to this Paul Lynedon, if report be true--that I was dearer to you than all the world. How I hesitate over this foolish tale!--let me end it at once. Well, then, they say this same Lynedon is now with you at Florence; that fact is certainly true. As for the rest, O my kind and faithful one! forgive me; but I am anxious, troubled. Write, if only one line. Not that I doubt you--do not think it; but still--However, I must wait, for I have to find out your address by some means before I can send this."

The letter continued, dated later, "You do not know what I suffer from your silence, Eleanor. I have seen Hugh, your brother--mine that is to be. His careless greeting pained me. It was perhaps best to keep our engagement so secret, and yet it is humiliating. Hugh chanced to speak of your visit at Summerwood long ago; of Paul Lynedon too,--with that name he jestingly coupled yours. He said but few words: for his mind was too full of his approaching marriage,--of course you are aware of it, Eleanor? But these few words cut me to the heart. And I must wait still, for Hugh has lost your address. No! I cannot wait--it is torture. I must go to L----.

"L--, March 20th.

"You see I am here--on the very spot, so sacred--but I dare not think of that now. Eleanor, I have learnt--believe me, it was by mere chance, not by prying rudely into your affairs--I have learnt that this story was not all false, that Paul Lynedon was here--with you. And yet you never told me! What must I think? There is a cloud before me. I see two images--Eleanor, the Eleanor of old--true, faithful, loving, in whom I trusted, and would fain trust still; and the other Eleanor, secretly wooed of Lynedon, the heiress of Dean Sedley--you see I know that too. You need not have concealed your good fortune from me, but this is nothing compared to the other pang. I try to write calmly; yet if you knew--But I will rest until tomorrow. . . . .

"I think the madness--the torture is over now. All day--almost all night--I have been walking along our old walks; by the river, and beneath the cathedral-shadow; in your very footsteps, Eleanor, as it seemed. I can write to you now and say what I have to say--calmly, tenderly, as becomes one to whom you were ever gentle and kind. Eleanor, if you love this man, and he loves you--he could not but do that I--then let no promise once given to me stand between you two. Mr. Lynedon is, as I hear, not unworthy of you--high-minded, clever, rich, and withal calculated to win any woman's heart. If he has won yours I have no right to murmur. Perhaps I ought rather to rejoice that you will be saved from sharing the struggles and poverty which must be my lot for many years; it may be whilst I live. Be happy; I can endure all; and peace will come to me in time. Eleanor, my Eleanor!--let me write the words once more, only once--God bless you! He only knows how dearly I have loved, how dearly I do love you! But this love can only pain you now, so I will not utter it.

"One word yet. If all this tale be false--though I dare not trust myself to think so--then, Eleanor, have pity; forget all I have said in my misery; forgive me--love me--take me to your heart again, and write speedily, that I may once more take to mine its life, its joy, its lost treasure! But if not, I will count your silence as a mute farewell. A farewell! and between us, who"-

Here two or three lines were carefully obliterated, and the letter ended abruptly with one last blessing, the mournful tenderness of which would have brought tears to any eyes but those cold hard ones that read it.

Mrs. Breynton now discovered, like many another shortsighted plotter, that her scheme had worked its own ruin. With Philip's final parting from Eleanor she herself would lose her remaining influence over his future destiny. And such a separation must be the inevitable consequence of the silence which could be the only answer to her nephew's letter, unless she made a full confession of her own duplicity. And even then, what would result? A joyful reconciliation, and Philip's speedy union, not with the portionless Eleanor, but with Dean Sedley's heiress, thus for ever excluding that ecclesiastical life which now more than ever Mrs. Breynton wished to force upon her nephew. She was taken in her own toils. She writhed beneath them; and while helplessly she turned over in her mind some means of escape, a knock came to the door.--The dull red mounted to her pale withered cheek as Mrs. Breynton, with an instinctive impulse, tottered across the room, and hid Philip's letter in her escritoire.

"May I come in, dear friend?" murmured a tremulous voice outside. And Eleanor entered, almost weeping, yet with a strange happiness shining in her face and mien. She had the lawyer's letter in her hand, and, without speaking, she gave it to Mrs. Breynton.--The latter read it mechanically, glad of any excuse to escape those beaming innocent eyes. Then she rose up and touched Eleanor's brow with her frigid lips.

"I wish you joy, my dear. You are a good girl, and deserving of all happiness. Mr. Sedley was right to leave his fortune where it would be worthily used. I hope that it may prove a blessing to you."

"It will! it will! Oh, how glad, how thankful I am!" cried Eleanor, as her thoughts flew far over land and sea to where her heart was. Thither she herself would soon journey, to drive away with one word, one smile, the light cloud which had come between her and Philip; and then pour out all her new store at his feet, joyful that she could bring to him at once both riches and happiness, worldly fortune and faithful love.

Mrs. Breynton regarded her with a cold, suspicious glance.

"I do not often seek to know your concerns," she said, sharply. "Indeed, I have carefully abstained from interfering with them in any way ever since you have resided with me, Miss Ogilvie."

"Do not call me thus. Say Eleanor," was the beseeching answer.

"Well, then, Eleanor, may I be excused for asking why a not very worldly-minded girl like you should be so extraordinarily happy at receiving this legacy? What do you intend to do with it?"--Eleanor was accustomed to the sudden changes of temper which the invalid often exhibited; but now there was a deeper meaning in Mrs. Breynton's searching, irritated look. It brought a quick blush to the girl's cheek; and though she did not reply, she felt that her silence was penetrated and resented.

"Are you going to leave me, now that you are become an independent lady?" was the bitter question which deepened the flush still more.

"I always was independent--Hugh took care of that--and if not, I would have made myself so," said Eleanor, rather proudly. "But you know I stayed with you by your own wish--and my own too," she added, in her gentlest tone, "to love you, and be a daughter to you. How could you think I should forget all this, Mrs. Breynton?"

"Well, we will not talk about that," muttered the old lady, with a slight change of feature. "You will stay, then? Other people may not be more forgetful of kindness shown to their old age than was Dean Sedley. You will not leave me, Eleanor?"

Eleanor threw herself on her knees beside Mrs. Breynton's chair. "We will not leave you," she whispered. "Oh, dear friend! now this good fortune has come, let me be your very own--your child--your niece, and forgive us both. Indeed we have suffered very much--I and--Philip!" The long-forbidden name burst from her lips accompanied by a flood of tears. Mrs. Breynton started and stood upright.

"Do you mean to tell me that you will marry that ungrateful fool! that beggar! who has insulted his aunt, and disgraced his family? Is this the way you show your love for me? Eleanor Ogilvie, you may become my niece if you will, but it shall be an empty name, for you shall never see my face again. So choose between me and him whose name you have dared to utter. If I hear it spoken in my presence again, it shall be echoed by my lips too, but after it shall come a curse!"--And the aged woman, overpowered by this storm of anger, sank back in her chair. Eleanor, trembling in every limb, sprang up to assist her, but she pushed her aside.

"Call Davis, I want no one else. Go away." Eleanor dared not disobey, for she was terrified at this burst of passion, the first she had ever seen in Mrs. Breynton. She summoned the maid, and was gliding out of the room, when the old lady called her back, and said in a low hoarse whisper: "Remember, Eleanor, before either of us sleep this night, I will know your intention one way or the other. I must have your promise, your solemn promise, to last your life long, or if not"--Her voice ceased, but her eyes expressed the rest. That look of anger, doubt, threatening, and yet entreaty, haunted Eleanor for many hours.--How sore a strait for one so young! Her heart was almost rent in twain. It was the old contest, old as the world itself--the strife between duty and love.

Most writers on this subject are, we think, somewhat in the wrong. They never consider that love is duty--a most solemn and holy duty! He who, loving and being beloved, takes upon himself this second life, this glad burden of another's happiness, has no right to sacrifice it for any other human tie. It is the fashion to extol the self-devotion of the girl who, for parental caprice, or to work out the happiness of some love-lorn sister, gives up the chosen of her heart, whose heart's chosen she knows herself to be. And the man who, rather than make a loving woman a little poorer in worldly wealth--but oh, how rich in affection proudly conceals his love in his own breast, and will not utter it,--he is deemed a self-denying hero! Is this right?

You writers of moral fiction, who exalt to the skies sacrifices such as these, what would you say if for any cause under heaven a wife gave up a husband, or a husband a wife, each dooming the other to suffering worse than death? And is the tie between two hearts knitted together by mutual love less strong, less sacred, before the altar-vow than after it? Is not the breaking of such bond a sin, even though no consecrated ordinance has rendered the actual perjury visible guilt?

When will you, who with the world-wide truths of the ideal show forth what is noblest in humanity, boldly put forward this law of a morality, higher and more wholesome than all your tales of sacrifices on filial and paternal shrines,--that no power on earth should stand between two beings who worthily, holily, and faithfully love one another?

By this law let us judge Eleanor Ogilvie.

Countess. Now I see
The mystery of your loneliness, and find
Your salt tears' head
Helena. My dearest madam,
Let not your hate encounter with my love,
For loving where you do.

SHAKSPEARE.

It was almost night before Eleanor was summoned to the chamber of Mrs. Breynton. The latter had already retired to rest; and Davis, on quitting the room, whispered that her mistress had seemed anything but well for several hours. In truth, the thin, white, aged face that lay on the pillow was very different from the stern, haughty countenance of old. If Mrs. Breynton had any idea of working out her purpose by touching Eleanor's feelings, she certainly went the right way to do so. The poor girl, strong as she had been a few minutes before, felt weak, almost guilty now. She sat down beside the bed, silent and trembling.

Mrs. Breynton did not speak; but the imperious eyes which anger had lighted up with all the fires of youth, implacably asked the dreaded question. Eleanor trembled still more. "Dear Mrs. Breynton, do not let us talk now; it is so late, and you are wearied. Let me wait until to-morrow."

"But I will not wait. I never break my word. I told you I must have an answer, and I will. Eleanor Ogilvie, before I sleep you must promise that you will not throw away yourself and your fortune by marrying that vile, dishonoured, ungrateful nephew of mine."

Eleanor's spirit was roused. Is there any loving woman's that would not be? "You are mistaken, Mrs. Breynton; such appellations are not meet for Philip Wychnor."

"Ah! you dare utter his name after what I said! Have you forgotten?"

"I have forgotten all that was wrong--all that you yourself would soon wish to forget. Why do you feel so bitterly towards him? You whom he loved so dearly, you who loved him too, once; and thought him so good, and so noble-minded--as he is still"

"It is a lie! and you defend him to my face!"

"Because he has no one else to defend him. And who but I should have a right to do so? I, who love him, and have loved him since I was a girl? I, who have known every thought of his heart--who am his plighted wife in the sight of Heaven? Oh, Mrs. Breynton, how can you ask me to give him up?"--The speech, begun firmly, ended with tearful entreaty. Even the storm of invective that had risen to Mrs. Breynton's lips died away unuttered. It might be, that for the moment she saw in the pale drooping face and clasped hands the likeness of Eleanor's dead mother, with all her struggles and sufferings. The harsh voice became a little softer when she said, "You are blinded, Eleanor, or you would see that it is for your own good I ask this. You do not give up him--he gives up you. Nay, do not speak--I say he does. Where is the honour of a man who keeps a young girl waiting for him year after year? A worthy lover he is, who talks of his sentimental affection, and forsooth says he is too poor to marry, while by his own folly he chooses to remain so? This is how he would treat you--until you grow old; and then he would marry some one younger and richer. It is like men; they are all the same!" The old lady paused a moment to look at the young creature before her. Eleanor had risen and stood by the bedside, not weeping but composed.

"Mrs. Breynton," she said in a low, quiet tone, "you have been ever kind to me, and I am grateful. Besides, you are dear to me for your own sake, and for his, whose name I will not speak if it offends you. But I can go no further. It pains me very much to hear you talk in this way. I owe you all respect, but I also owe some to him whose wife I have promised to be."

"And you will,--in spite of all,--you will be his wife?"

"Yes!"

The word was scarcely above a breath, but it said enough. Love had given to the timid, gentle-hearted girl a strength that was able to stand firm against the world. To that "Yes!" there came no answer. It controlled even the outburst of Mrs. Breynton's wrath. She lay silent, unable to remove her eyes from this young girl, so meek and yet so resolute--so patient, yet so brave. But though restrained by this irresistible influence, the storm raged within until it shook every fibre of the aged frame. It seemed as though in her life's decline Mrs. Breynton was destined to feel the vehement passions which in her dull youth and frigid middle age had never been awakened.

Eleanor, startled by her silence, yet drawing from it a faint ray of hope, gathered courage. Kneeling down by the bedside, she would have taken one of Mrs. Breynton's hands, but they were too tightly clenched together.

"Dear friend--my mother's friend!" she cried, "do not try me so bitterly. If you knew what it costs me to say this one word--and yet I cannot but say it. How can I give up my own Philip?" And in the sorrow and struggle of the moment she spoke to Mrs. Breynton as in her maiden timidity she had never spoken to any human being. "Has he not been my playfellow, my friend, these many years? Did not you yourself first teach me to love him, by telling me how good he was, and by bringing us constantly together, boy and girl as we were?"

"I did, I did. I wished to atone to poor Isabel's child for the wrong done to her mother. Fool that I was, to trust the son of such a father!"

Not hearing, or not noticing the words, Eleanor went on with her earnest pleading,

"How could we help loving one another; or, loving, how could we by your will break at once through these dear ties, and never love each other again? Mrs. Breynton, I owe you much, but I owe Philip more. He chose me; he gave me his true, noble heart; and I will keep it faithfully and truly. He loves me, he trusts me; and I will never forsake him while I live."

Mrs. Breynton saw her last chance of regaining power fading from her, and yet she dared not speak. Goaded on almost to madness, she gazed on that young face, now grown serene with the shining of the perfect faith and perfect love which "casteth out fear." It did not shrink even from those gleaming eyes, wherein the wild fires of stormiest youth contended with the dimness of age.

"Eleanor Ogilvie," she said, hoarsely, "what do you intend to do with this fortune?"

"To wait until I again meet him who has a right to all my love--all my riches; and then, if he so wishes, to make both his own."

At these words, Mrs. Breynton, driven to desperation alike by wrath and fear of discovery, snatched blindly at any means of keeping asunder, for a time at least, those two to whom a few words of heart-confidence would reveal all her own machinations.

"You are mad--deceived," cried she, vehemently. "How do you know that he remembers you still? What does your brother's letter say?--that he is gay, prosperous."

"There is nothing in that to pain me. Philip, happy, loves me as well as Philip, sorrowful," she murmured, saying the last words in a musing tone.

"Then why does he not show his love? Why does he not come and claim you to share his fortune? But I tell you, Eleanor Ogilvie, you are blinded by this folly. I know"--and for the first time her lips shrank not from a deliberate lie--"I know more than you do of his selfishness and unworthiness. He only waits an excuse to cast you off. He has said so."

Eleanor shrank back a little, and a slight pain smote her heart. "Will you tell me"--

"No, no, I will not tell you anything," hastily said the conscience-stricken woman. "They who informed me spoke truth, as I firmly believe."

"But I do not--I ought not." And once more the beautiful light of confiding love returned to the face of the young betrothed. "Who knows Philip Wychnor so well as I? Therefore it is I who should trust him most. And I do trust him!"

"Then you will leave your mother's friend, who would have been a mother to you--leave her without a child to comfort her old age."

"What shall I do?--what ought I to do?" cried Eleanor, her gentle heart wrung to the very core by this conflict.

"Go away--go away. I never wish to see your face again!" And the voice rose sharper and sharper. Mrs. Breynton lifted herself up in bed, with flashing eyes and outstretched hands, which she shook with a threatening gesture, as though the malediction which Philip had scarce escaped were about to fall on his affianced.

Eleanor, mute with horror, instinctively moved towards the door; but on reaching it, she stood irresolute. It was one of those crises which sometimes occur in life, when right and wrong seem confounded, when we feel ourselves driven blindly along without power to say, "This is the true way--I will walk therein, God helping me." Poor Eleanor! in either course she took, all seemed darkness, suffering, and, still more, sin. Strong as she was in her faithful devotion to Philip, when she thought of Philip's aunt, she felt almost as if she had done wrong. From an impulse more than a settled intent, she laid her hand again on the door, paused a moment, and then re-entered the chamber.

Mrs. Breynton was leaning forward with her face on her hands; the storm of passion had spent itself and tears were dropping fast between her poor thin fingers. Eleanor's heart sprang towards the desolate woman with resistless tenderness. She put her arms round her; she laid the aged head on her young bosom,--just as she had used to rest her own mother's during many a long night of suffering,--as she had done on that last night until the moment when suffering merged into the peace of death. The action awoke all these memories like a tide. The orphan felt drawn with a fulness of love to her who bad been the friend of the dead; and the motherless and the childless clung together in a close embrace.

"You will not send me away from you, Mrs. Breynton?"

"Never!" was the answer. "And you will stay with me, Eleanor, my child; that is, until--No, I cannot talk about it yet--but in time--in time"--

Mrs. Breynton said no more; and this was the only explanation to which they came. Yet Eleanor felt satisfied that a change had passed over the mind of Philip's aunt,--slight, indeed, but greater than she had ever dared to hope. From that night the icy barrier seemed broken down between them. Though Mrs. Breynton never spoke of her nephew, still she bore at times the chance mention of his name; and often, even after it had been uttered, she would regard Eleanor with a vague tenderness, and seem on the point of saying something which yet never rose to her lips. This filled the young girl with happy hope; so that she bore patiently the long silence between herself and Philip, waiting until her return home should solve all doubt, and show him that even this temporary alienation was a sacrifice for his sake, in order that the work of the peacemaker might be finished with joy.

Eleanor never guessed from how much of remorse sprang the new gentleness which the Dean's widow continually showed towards her. After a little longer sojourn abroad, Mrs. Breynton began restlessly to long after home, instancing the necessity for Eleanor's being at L--to look after her own little fortune. The young girl prepared gladly for the journey, and tried to see in the reason urged only an excuse framed by this still haughty spirit, willing and yet half-ashamed to make the concession that would give so much happiness. And with such diverse feelings did Mrs. Breynton and her young companion again set foot in L--.

Most men
Are cradled into poesy by wrong:
They learn in suffering what they teach in song.--SHELLEY.

Life is real--life is earnest,
And the grave is not its goal;
"Dust thou art--to dust returnest,"
Was not spoken of the soul.--LONGFELLOW.

"So your young bridesmaid has really followed your example, and is gone on her honeymoon trip," said Mrs. Pennythorne, as she nervously prepared herself for the martyrdom of a drawing-room tête-a-tête with her stylish daughter-in-law. This was after the usual Sunday dinner--the hebdomadal sacrifice on the family shrine--which its new member always considered a "horrid bore."

"Yes, indeed, and has come back again, too," answered Mrs. Frederick, throwing herself on a sofa by the window, while the elder Mrs. Pennythorne sat bolt upright by her side on one of the frail comfortless fabrics which her husband's omnipotent taste had provided for the drawing-room chairs. "They made a short wedding tour, did Hugh and Katharine--Mr. and Mrs. Ogilvie, I mean; but one can't get over old habits, and my cousins and I were such friends, especially Hugh," simpered the young bride.

"Were you, indeed!--oh, of course, being relations," absently replied Mrs. Pennythorne. She made the quietest and most submissive mother-in-law in the world to Isabella; indeed, to tell the truth, she was considerably afraid of her son's gay fashionable wife. "They seemed both very nice young people; I hope they will be happy," added she, in a vain attempt to converse.

"Happy? Oh, I suppose so! She is not the best of tempers, to be sure; and I don't think Hugh would have married her if he had not been dragged into it, so to speak. He used to pay me a great deal of attention once."--Mrs. Pennythorne opened her eyes a little wider than usual. She thought this style of conversation rather odd in her son's wife, but it was perhaps the way of fashionable young ladies. She merely said "Indeed!" and looked out of the window, watching the people of the square going to evening service, and listening to the heavy m