gathering about them. One was to say that no communication had been received from his father, but that it was believed that he was somewhere in London-the other was from his banker, to remind him that he had overdrawn his credit-nearly the most disagreeable intelligence a man can hear when he possesses no immediate means of replenishing his drained purse. Ethel was grieved to see him pained, but she could not acutely feel these pecuniary distresses. She tried to divert his thoughts by conversation, and pointing out the changes which the advancing season made in the aspect of the country. "Yes," said Villiers, "it is a beautiful world; poets tell us this, and religious men have drawn an argument for their creed from the wisdom and loveliness displayed in the external universe, which speaks to every heart and every understanding. The azure canopy fretted with golden lights, or, as now, curtained by wondrous shapes, which, though they are akin to earth, yet partake the glory of the sky-the green expanse, variegated by streams, teeming with life, and prolific of food to sustain that life, and that very food the chief cause of the beauty we enjoy-with such magnificence has the Creator set forth our table-all this, and the winds that fan us so balmily, and the flowers that enchant our sight-do not all these make earth a type of heaven?" Ethel turned her eyes on him to read in his face the expression of the enthusiasm and enjoyment that seemed to dictate his words. But his countenance was gloomy, and as he continued to speak, his expressions took more the colour of his uneasy feelings. "How false and senseless all this really is!" he pursued. "Find a people who truly make earth, its woods and fells, and inclement sky, their unadorned dwelling-place, who pluck the spontaneous fruits of the soil, or slay the animals as they find them, attending neither to culture nor property, and we give them the name of barbarians and savages-untaught, uncivilized, miserable beings-and we, the wiser and more refined, hunt and exterminate them:-we, who spend so many words, either as preachers or philosophers, to vaunt that with which they are satisfied, we feel ourselves the greater, the wiser, the nobler, the more barriers we place between ourselves and nature, the more completely we cut ourselves off from her generous but simple munificence. "But is this necessary?" asked the forest bred girl: "when I lived in the wilds of the Illinois-the simplest abode, food and attire, were all I knew of human refinements, and I was satisfied.' Villiers did not appear to heed her remark, but continued the train of his own reflections. "The first desire of man is not for wealth nor luxury, but for sympathy and applause. He desires to remove to the farthest extremity of the world contempt and degradation; and according to the ideas of the society in which he is bred, so are his desires fashioned. We, the most civilized, high-bred, prosperous people in the world, make no account of nature, unless we add the ideas of possession, and of the labours of man. We rate each individual, (and we all desire to be rated as individuals, distinct from and superior to the mass,) not by himself, but by his house, his park, his income. This is a trite observation, yet it appears new when it comes home: what is lower, humbler, more despicable than a poor man? Give him learning, give him goodness-see him with manners acquired in poverty, habits dyed in the dusky hues of penury; and if we do not despise him, yet we do not admit him to our tables or society. Refinement may only be the varnish of the picture, yet it is necessary to make apparent to the vulgar eye even the beauties of Raphael. "To the vulgar eye!" repeated Ethel, emphatically. "And I seem one of those, by the way I speak," said Edward, smiling. “Yet, indeed, I do not despise any man for being poor, except myself. I can feel pride in showing honour where honour is due, even though clad in the uncouth and forbidding garb of plebeianism; but I cannot claim this for myself—I cannot demand the justice of men, which they would nickname pity. The Illinois would be preferable far. "And the Illinois might be a paradise," said Ethel. "We hope for a better-we hope for Italy. Do you remember Rome and the Coliseum, my love?-Naples, the Chiaja, and San Carlo? these were better than the savannas of the west. Our hopes are good; it is the present only which is so thorny, so worse than barren like the souls of Dante, we have a fiery pass to get through ...« before we reach our place of bliss; that we have it in prospect will gift us with fortitude. Meanwhile I must string myself to my task. Ethel, dearest, I shall go to town to-morrow. "And I with you, surely?" "Do not ask it; this is your first lesson in the lore you were so ready to learn, of bearing all for me——” "With you," interrupted his wife. "With me-it shall soon be," replied Edward; "but to speak according to the ways of this world, my presence in London is necessary for a few days-for a very few days; a journey there and back for me is nothing, but it would be a real and useless expense if you went. Indeed, Ethel, you must submit to my going without you-I ask it of you, and you will not refuse." "A few days, you say, " answered Ethel-" a very few days? It is hard. But you will not be angry, if I should join you if your return is delayed?" "You will not be so mad," said Villiers. "I go with a light heart, because I leave you in security and comfort. I will returnI need not protest-you know that I shall return the moment I can. I speak of a few days; it cannot be a week : let me go then, with what satisfaction I may, to the den of darkness and toil, and not be farther annoyed by the fear that you will not support my absence with cheerfulness. As you love me, wait for me with patienceremain with your aunt till I return. "I will stay for a week, if it must be so," replied Ethel. 66 Indeed, my love, it must-nor will I task you beyond-before a week is gone by, you shall see me. She thought it that he should Ethel looked wistfully at him, but said no more. hard-she did not think it right that he should go toil and suffer without her; but she had no words for argument or contention, so she yielded. The next morning-a cold but cheerful morning at seven o'clock, she drove over with him in Mrs. Fitzhenry's little pony chaise to the town, four miles off, through which the stages passed. A first parting is a kind of landmark in life-a starting post whence we begin our career out of illusion and the land of dreams, into reality and endurance. They arrived not a moment too soon: she had yet a thousand things to say-one or two very particular things, which she had reserved for the last moment; there was no time, and she was forced to concentrate all her injunctions into one word," Write!" "Every day-and do you." "It will be my only pleasure," replied his wife. yourself." "Take care of He was on the top of the stage and gone; and Ethel felt that a blank loneliness had swallowed up the dearest joy of her life. She drew her cloak round her-she gazed along the road-there were no traces of him-she gave herself up to thought, and as he was the object of all her thoughts, this was her best consolation. She reviewed the happy days they had spent together-she dwelt on the memory of his unalterable affection and endearing kindness, and then tears rushed into her eyes. "Will any ill ever befall him?” she thought. "O no, none ever can! he must be rewarded for his goodness and his love. How dear he ought to be to me! Did he not take the poor friendless girl from solitude and grief; and disdaining neither her poverty nor her orphan state, give her himself, his care, his affection? O, my Edward! what would Ethel have been without you? Her father was gone-her mother repulsed her— she was alone in the wide world, till you generously made her your own!" With the true enthusiasm of passion, Ethel delighted to magnify the benefits she had received, and to make those which she herself conferred nothing, that gratitude and love might become yet stronger duties. In her heart, though she reproached herself for what she termed selfishness, she could not regret his poverty and difficulties, if thus she should acquire an opportunity of being useful to him; but she felt herself defrauded of her best privileges, of serving and consoling, by their separation. Thus, now congratulating herself on her husband's attachment, now repining at the fate that divided them,—agitated by various emotions too sweet and bitter for words, she returned to Longfield. Aunt Bessy was in her arm-chair, waiting for her to begin breakfast. Edward's seat was empty-his cup was not placed—he was omitted in the domestic arrangements; tears rushed into her eyes; and in vain trying to calm herself, she sobbed aloud. Aunt Bessy was astonished; and when all the explanation she got was, "He is gone!" she congratulated herself, that her single state had spared her the endurance of these conjugal distresses. CHAPTER XXXIII. How like a winter hath my absence been SHAKSPEARE. ETHEL cheered herself to amuse her aunt; and, as in her days of hopeless love, she tried to shorten the hours by occupation. It was difficult; for all her thoughts were employed in conjectures as to where Edward was, what doing-in looking at her watch, and following in her mind all his actions—or in meditating how hereafter she might remedy any remissness on her part, (so tender was her conscience,) and best contribute to his happiness. Such reveries beguiled many hours, and enabled her to endure with some show of courage the pains of absence. Each day she heard from him—each day she wrote, and this entire pouring out of herself on paper formed the charm of her existence. She endeavoured to persuade him how fortunate their lot might hereafter be-how many of his fears were unfounded or misplaced. 66 Remember, dearest love," she said, "that I have nothing of the fine lady about me. I do not even feel the want of those luxuries so necessary to most women. This I owe to my father. It was his first care, while he brought me up in the most jealous retirement, to render me independent of the services of others. Solitude is to me no evil, and the delight of my life would be to wait upon you. I am not therefore an object of pity, when fortune deprives me of the appurtenances of wealth, which rather annoy than serve me. My devotion and sacrifice, as you are pleased to call the intense wish of my heart to contribute to your happiness, are nothing. I sacrifice all, when I give up one hour of your |