an early stroll, looked in at the door of some adjacent cottages, called with some trifling errand at a neighbouring shop, and at last fell in with a laundress who happened to be employed by the Lindens, and who was making a purchase at the same shop.

Philip Clifton had a frank and easy way of eliciting information from any one, and particularly from those who considered themselves his inferiors. They were the more delighted from that reason with his pleasant, cordial, and often playful manner. His fine open countenance, too, with its bright colour, and glowing look, had an irresistible charm for them; and the tricks he sometimes played, and the nonsense he could talk, when he liked, were all the more enchanting because he never laid aside altogether the air and manner of a gentleman. Thus, on the present occasion, the handsome youth found very little difficulty in drawing out the laundress into a rather confidential chat about the Lindens; for Grace was so universally admired, that the woman felt no small degree of pride in being even the getter-up of her frills and collars. From this incontestible authority, then, Philip soon learned that Mr. Linden, the old gentleman, was very rich "immensely rich," the woman said; "though, on account of the dear young lady's health, they didn't make no show, nor keep much company, nor live in anything like the style they might do."

And so the woman went on revealing, quite unconsciously, one or two facts in which Philip was deeply interested. One of these was that Miss Linden was "a very religious young lady," the woman said, "not religious like those low people at the Octagon." Philip did not know where nor what the Octagon was-" but, staunch to her church," the woman said, and bent upon marrying a clergyman that she heard from the lady's own maid, who knew it for a fact it was of no use any gentleman offering to Miss Linden if he was not a clergyman-no, not if he was the first lord in the land.

"Come, this will do very well," said Philip Clifton to himself; and, rather suddenly cutting short the colloquy, after this agreeable piece of information-"this will do admirably!"

It was after he had received this intelligence, and with the agreeable impression it had made still fresh upon his mind, that Philip joined his brother Seymour. The accustomed current of his thoughts had then received a check; he was more than half disposed to give himself really to his duties, at least he fancied that he was. It was extremely easy, and very natural, to indulge this fancy while wandering in green lanes with pleasant companions, and with such a prospect as his imagination now conjured up before him. Would it be equally easy on returning to his former associates?

Philip was not so far gone yet, however, but that he had certain qualis of conscience, and the very sight of his brother Seymour gave them double force. Hence his wild and incoherent talk; for if, on the one hand, he was more tempted to pursue his studies for the church-on the other he felt, perhaps, more than ever before, his own unfitness for the office.

The young man was fortunate that day in meeting with the brother and sister, and he so managed to fall in with them as to avoid all appearance of doing so by design. He was fortunate, too, in being permitted to take charge of the white pony, with its rider, while Henry Linden chatted with a friend whom he meet by the way; but he was more fortunate still in attracting the admiring gaze of the lovely being whose heart was so prepared to think kindly of every one, and especially of a young man studying for the church, that she felt no shrinking from him, no fear, and no suspicion, in consequence of the strangeness of his first introduction.

Philip was now himself, his better self in all respects, and he felt no wish to be otherwise. A sudden and strange gentleness seemed to be diffused over his whole nature. He could almost have wept, only that he was too happy to weep. He had a great mind, he said to himself, to begin a new life altogether. He wondered whether the delicate and beautiful being beside him knew much of the world, or had any idea what were the habits of young men like himself. He should think not. He would take good care that she never should know from him. He would school himself so far, at all events, if he did not altogether reform and become a saint. Not that he

to cast itself away. College associations were all so interesting and pleasant. The studies of a young man who was preparing for the church imparted so much of what was refined and gentlemanly to his mind and manner. In fact, in the instance before her, this seemed to be all that was wanted; and, "when in orders," Grace Linden amused herself with imagining what her fine handsome companion would be. His profession, she thought, would afford just the kind of restraint he required, and all would be well.

But what was Seymour Clifton doing while these rambling excursions occupied some parties so pleasantly? Sometimes all were together, and Seymour then made the best of things, schooling himself to his fate as well as he could. It was of no use rebelling, even in his heart, still less murmuring; he was not so unmanly as that; but he did think sometimes that if Grace Linden would only smile on him as she smiled upon his brother, he should be a happier man than his brother knew how to be. Yes; and he felt also that he could make her happier in return.

But these thoughts were of no use. The spell was already working, the invisible chain was strengthening link by link. He knew his fate, and he had nothing left to do but to look it fairly in the face. People are apt to talk as if with one great wrench such grinding miseries are got rid of; as if the first agony was the worst, and that being endured, all the rest became more easy. But is it really so? Is there not rather in the first encounter of the enemy -the first recognition of a frightful truth is there not a kind of energy called forth, a heroism brought to bear upon the encounter, of such force and vigour, that it gives vitality and strength to all the powers of mind and body, and so, in the very greatness of our calamity, we feel great, and live!

It was in this state of feeling that Seymour went about at present, quite a hero, and not a little proud of his own heroism. To himself he talked of sacrifice, and made verses under his old trees about the merit of giving up to another, as if he had anything to give. And all this pleased him for a while, though it made him, as his sister Kitty said, very poor company. It was the writing of those verses with

which she quarrelled, as being a solitary employment; with their theme she was not yet conversant, for Seymour, like all under his circumstances, had no very eager desire to speak of an attachment for one whose preference was so evidently given to another.

After all, we are not attaching to these sudden fits of admiration more than their real worth; for how seldom are amiable, pleasant, and happy young people much thrown together in this idle unoccupied way, without feeling or fancying something like especial interest in each other. A drawing-room acquaintance is quite a different affair; but long country rambles, early recognitions in the cheerful morning, sunset watchings beneath the shade of softly whispering trees, lendings of books, gatherings of flowers, studies pursued together, and idleness perpetual master of the easy gliding hours-who has ever known a party of young people so situated for days and weeks, without some symptoms of especial tenderness stealing over the scene, and colouring, with hues more rosy and beautiful, the whole aspect of nature?

Thus, without plunging into the depths of these young hearts, as if they were about to be seized upon at once and for ever as victims to the tender passion, we would simply indicate that, according to acknowledged custom, that passion was doing its utmost to set all the parties at work upon cross purposes, as if its especial business and calling in this world was to make people miserable rather than happy.

Henry Linden was perhaps an exception to this rule; for Catherine Clifton began to discover, and reported faithfully to her brother Seymour, as she thought by way of amusing him, that Henry was always talking now, whenever he could, with her sister Helen.

Catherine wondered very much at this fact. She could not think what they could have in common. But so it was. She felt more and more sure of it every day. certainly Helen was very beautiful.

And

Seymour, under present circumstances, did not care a straw whether this fact was so or not, and consequently he felt a little teased by the minuteness and frequency with which his sister reported progress in

this matter; so much so, that he spoke rather sharply to her on one occasion, saying, what did it matter to him or to any one, if it was so?"let them please themselves."

"Only," said Kitty, pertinaciously, "it is so very strange."

"Why strange?" asked her brother. "Helen, you know, is so grave, so learned, so wise."

He re

"So much the better for him. quires a companion of that kind to give him a little more wisdom than he seems to possess of his own."

"But Helen is so stately-so cold." "Not the worse for that either; she will be the less hurt by his flippancy." "He is flippant, I think, rather."

"Rather? My astonishment, if I felt any, would be that Helen should listen to his nonsense; only that the tastes of women are wholly unaccountable."

"Oh! but he can make his nonsense very pleasant sometimes."

"Not to me."

his cheek to hers, only that her face was rather turned away, and she did not look up as usual and read the language of his eyes, and so speak with hers; for though far from being eyes to write verses about, Kitty had eyes that saw a great deal, and could speak, too, as well as some that are called beautiful. Now, however, she did not once look into her brother's face, but gazed as it seemed into the trees, and bushes, or down upon the grass at their feet; though all the while she pressed his hand so tightly to her bosom, that his glove came half off in the pressure, and on his wrist he felt such hot tears falling, as he never thought before could come from Kitty's eyes.

"Kitty! child!" said her brother, and he tried to turn the weeping face to his; but this time the obstinate little chin was set in opposition to his hand, and the face could not be turned.

Ah! how was the landscape-the prospect-everything around them changed to the brother and the sister. It was dark

"To whom?"

The

66 Why, to Grace, to be sure." "Who could be otherwise to her? sternest stoic, the most savage monster, would be kind to her."

"Henry can be kind to other people too. I have known him often very kind to a plain-looking little stupid girl, who, but for him, would have had to walk by herself, neglected and forgotten."

"What?" said Seymour, now looking alive to what his sister was saying, and catching, as he fancied, a slight glimpse of the truth-"What, has my own little Kitty had to feel that she was neglected and alone?"

"Yes," said Kitty, trying to smile; "often, and often, I have felt so, but I did not mind it in the least; especially when Henry looked back, and came and walked with me. We talked a great deal of nonsense, to be sure, and quarrelled continually; for you know he is a great fright; but I am quite alone now, Seymy, for you don't seem to care for me as you did."

Seymour drew his arm round his sister's neck, and made her walk close by his side; so close that he could have pressed

could neither of them say to the other whence the clouds came, nor why the rain was falling. They were rich, however, in one kind of wealth. They had a boundless store of sympathy each for the other, which they could draw upon and appropriate without any idle curiosity, questioning, or remark. They could look this sympathy, and speak it in a thousand modulated tones, which scarcely needed corresponding words; they could press it out in soft but earnest touches of the hand or cheek; and nothing could rob them of this. It was the household language which they had learned in childhood at their father's hearth; and let them wander where they would, or learn what other speech they might, on returning to each other, this language would be fresh upon their lips, and in their eyes, to both as easy of utterance, and as intelligible as when they parted.

And so this pleasant holiday time, to which all had looked forward with so much joy, had a shadow upon it, a cloud over one portion of the scene, chiefly where those old trees, which Seymour loved so, stretched their branches across the grassy footpath; for it was here that he and Kitty often wandered together when the

sun was setting, or after the moon had risen smiling over the tops of those old trees. The brother and the sister were more together now than ever, but they were more silent in their intercourse. When they did converse, it was frequently about death, and Heaven, both being themes of far-off interest, as they not unfrequently are when talked about the most; but especially, they spoke of the world as a scene of trial, disappointment, and heart sacrifice. Very wearisome would have been that talk of theirs to a listener unconcerned; but it was the best they had under such circumstances, and what were they to do?

In the meantime, there were those not far distant who found and made every subject interesting, who felt no necessity for calling up images of death, and who, when they spoke of Heaven, were very much in danger of thinking they had already found it on the earth they were so lightly treading.

The young party had by this time become divided, as such parties frequently are, into regular couples, who fall naturally into their respective places whenever a walk has to be taken in green lanes, or over sunny downs. And pleasant beyond description were these rural rambles, pleasant the summer weather, the blue sky overhead, the scented thyme on which they trod, the wild flowers in the hedges along which they passed, the song of the nevertiring birds, who seemed to welcome them to bower and brake. All things seemed to welcome them, they were so welcome to each other, so happy in themselves. The hard-working peasants whom they passed looked up and welcomed them; the traveller gazed smiling from his carriage window and wished he was one of them; the cottage woman at her door called to her daughters to come out and see. All who beheld them acknowledged their beauty, and offered some heart-warm tribute to their unquestionable happiness.

After all, is the world so envious as we often call it? Will not glowing health, and radiant beauty, heightened by the warm gush of innocent enjoyment, command its approbation wherever they are found?

would have thought that that genial influence which is considered the most harmonizing of all on earth, was in reality sowing the seeds of discord and of sorrow so closely around their feet, that, tread where they would, some flower of pleasant promise was crushed, some weed of evil omen struck out into life and vigour? Especially, who was he, proud as a conqueror, who led the party along; walking ever foremost, as if his agile feet scarcely felt the earth which supported them? His was not a figure formed for air or for aërial flights-rather for the substantial purposes of a more earthly existence. Yet, why, and how has he found sympathy and companionship with one who looks as if her place on earth would only be like that of the butterfly upon the flower, the moonbeam on the dewy grass, or, at most, the nightingale upon the summer spray?

What may not the gentle nature require, which is characterized by such a face and such a form? What of purest love, and gentlest care-of patience, forethought, self-denial, affection most faithful and most holy? And how is he prepared, or even anxious to prepare himself, for rendering all this? As little does he think of these things, or of anything in short beyond the beauty and the rapture of the present moment, as the swallow fluttering past him thinks about the autumnal winds, or the cattle grazing in the fields about the frost that is to crisp the verdant herbage on which they now so plentifully feed.

But if man under these circumstances cannot, or will not think of anything beyond his own pleasure, what is woman doing with her mind? Oh! she is pouring it all out into her feelings, too, but in a very different way. She is thinkingdreaming, rather, of all she will be to him as mistress, mother, sister, friend-of a golden, glorious future, through which they are to walk together, it may be heavenward-of boundless confidence, immeasurable love, and peace which passeth understanding. Yes; to her the experience of such moments has a religion in it, of a certain sort. Would that such religion were not so omnipotent over the affections, nor so often mistaken for the