was the matter. Her fears were soon dispelled, however; for as they were about to enter, David leaned out of window, his linen jacket looking very white in the light of the lamp, and assured her in cheerful tones that all was right. The child, he said, was asleep, and so were all the servants; and as for himself, he was busily engaged with his own follower packing up his traps, as he found, unfortunately, that he must leave by the steamer next morning.

It seemed to him, in his impatience, as if the mail from Boston would never arrive. He would have wished for the sandals of Mercury, or the wings of an eagle, if, by wishing, he could have obtained them, or any other means of very rapid locomotion; but as it was he had to put up with the more prosaic transit afforded by the steamer, which, in due course, landed him at Liverpool.

Hurrying through the streets, David was just in time to catch the early train to London, and the same evening saw him before the wooden gates of the Elliotts' villa at Twickenham.

Where else could he expect to gain the information he sought? But the hopes which he had so cherished were doomed not to be realised for the present. How, as the train had borne him on, had he pictured to himself the astonishment of the good old couple! Would she be there? Fate might, at least, afford him that happiness, that she should be the first to greet him, and give the lie to all his foolish doubts and fears.

He might even within the next half-hour see her from whom, as he believed, he had been separated for ever!

But had David not been lost to every feeling but one, he would not have indulged in the folly of anticipation, for whoever knew a meeting or an event of any kind take place in accordance with the anticipated when, where, or how?

The wooden gates were closed, but it was late, and David thought that, doubtless, it had been so ordered from motives of security. He hastily rung the bell, and, after a certain interval, an old crone advanced down the drive, looking as if she was suspicious of the designs of this applicant for admission at so late an hour.

Eagerly he entered, and demanded news of the inmates, when, to his great disappointment, she informed him that "the family was away; they had gone to the sea-side," she believed, though she did not know where, and that they might not be home for another month

or so.

To his numerous questions, she replied that the master and mistress were accompanied by a lady, who had been staying at the house for some time-that her name was Travers-that both the master and mistress were very well-that Mrs. Travers, although she had been ill last year in that very house, was now also very well-that she was sure the watering-place they had gone to was in England, and not abroad. But as she appeared to be getting impatient at being kept so long waiting in the open air at that late hour answering his questions, he had compassion on her years and infirmities, and, giving her a card with his address upon it, accompanied with a handsome gratuity, he tried to curb his impatience, and-as the old dame (in a happier frame of mind than when she left it) hobbled back to the house-reluctantly left the place.

Sybella was alive and well. What more could he desire? And he turned in thankfulness to procure a bed at an inn near, and to order the first meal which he had thought of sitting down to since he had landed at Liverpool that morning.

On his return to town he was undecided what to do next. It would be useless to write to Sybella or the Elliotts, and he did not wish— just yet, at least, or until his fate was decided-to call upon his aunt, who was perfectly ignorant of his return; so he determined to run down into Suffolk and see about setting his deserted house in order.

He must do something, he felt, to occupy his mind during the intervening month; for, although the news which he had received was most favourable to his hopes, and his faith in Sybella unbounded -although had any one whispered to him but a short time before, "You will hear that she is alive, in health, and perfectly free"-his joy would have known no limit; still, now that his greatest hopes seemed about to be realised, his impatience to see her again was beyond all control.

In fact, the happiness which he had just tasted only made him greedy of more, and then his very position placed him amongst those with whom time is well known to "trot hard withal."

When he left England to expatriate himself, as he deemed, for a lengthened term of years, the house which he had prepared with so much care for his future wife was shut up. No other eyes, no other hands, should profane what had been destined for her alone.

Thus the windows were closed and barred, and the doors locked. The garden was a wilderness; and although the place had been left in charge of a farm-bailiff, who had taken care that no one profaned its sanctity, it had been otherwise left to take care of itself.

The appearance which things presented after he had entered the house, and ordered all the doors and windows to be thrown wide open and let in the light of heaven once more to gladden the deserted rooms, was not so discouraging as he had expected to find it.

The dust was spread thickly over everything, it is true, and the mirrors and some other objects looked blurred and dull from want of cleaning; the webs of numerous spiders, who had found a safe retreat from attentive servants' brushes, also graced the ceiling, whilst the proprietors let themselves down by their frail ropes, or hurried back into their inmost recesses at his approach.

David's heart smote him as he looked into a cage and saw the whitened skeleton of a poor little squirrel which he had bought for Sybella. She had said that she remembered petting them at Wilmington, and this was the last thing which he had ordered to be sent down for her. A diminutive heap of bones and fur was all that remained of the unfortunate little animal.

"I forgot it in my despair," he murmured, regretfully.

The conservatory boasted of a long line of pots containing the stalks of what had once been flowers; and as he passed out and relocked the doors, David turned his steps in the direction of the spot where (nearly to the day) a year ago he had found Sybella sitting alone. How vividly the recollection of it came across him as he approached the place! It seemed as if but a week had passed instead of a year, and he fancied that he could almost see her before him.

Suddenly he stopped. Was it the force of his imagination that made her form now distinctly visible to him? For there it was, sure enough. He waited as if expecting to see it melt away into thin air. How long he would have stood there transfixed it is impossible to say, had not a slight movement he made caused her to turn her head quickly in that direction. No further doubt remained; it was Sybella herself. With a cry of joy he bounded towards her, and in another moment was holding her almost lifeless in his arms.

Sybella's presence there was easily accounted for, for the part of the coast where she was staying with the Elliotts was situated within a few miles of the place. Happening that day to drive over with these friends to visit some ruins in the neighbourhood, she could not resist the opportunity of making a pilgrimage alone to the spot where she had been so happy. She had suffered too much of late to allow herself now to be killed by joy; but she often wondered afterwards how she could have borne her great happiness so quietly.

Again they sat there together, the same charming view spread out before them, but this time without the shadow of a cloud in their horizon, and they both felt that the intensity of their present happiness exceeded even that of their past misery.

How long they remained there lost to everything but a sense of their own bliss I will not say, but before they quitted the place, David had extracted a promise from Sybella (after overcoming by his eloquence certain scruples which she entertained) that they should be married on his approaching birthday, and it was to announce this important fact, and to ask his relatives to grace his wedding, that he had made that startling call in Hertford-street, when he came so suddenly upon his Aunt Dora and Theodosia.

It was found that Captain Travers had made a will, leaving the whole of his property to his wife, and on the income derived from this she had been living until the arrival of David Chetwynde from Bermuda. A few days before their wedding, Sybella, at David's request, made over (through Mr. Elliott) a large portion of it to the asylum where the unfortunate Marie had been so long an inmate. Mrs. Robson also received an annuity equal to that which she had lost, and a hundred a year was settled upon poor old Sawney, in order to render her latter days a little more comfortable.

Captain Chetwynde's income, although moderate, was large enough for their requirements, and the idea of deriving any pecuniary advantage from Captain Travers's death jarred upon his feelings.

There were not many persons present at the marriage of David and Sybella; their happiness was of too deep a nature, and the storm in which it had so nearly suffered shipwreck had too recently passed away, to allow of a pompous celebration of it being otherwise than distasteful to them; it was, therefore, as private as it well could be.

Mr. and Mrs. Pierrepont of course were present with Theodosia and her gallant old colonel, but they had to regret the absence of Master Willie, who was at sea. The Elliotts were also invited, and the heartfelt joy which beamed on the faces of the good old couple at the prospect of Sybella's happiness was most gratifying to both David and herself. Sawney, strange to say, contributed smiles instead of tears on this occasion. The frequent calls which had been made upon her

sympathies during the past terrible year had probably exhausted her resources that way, but if there were no grounds for this supposition, and the fountains, on the contrary, were in their usual fine order, and she yet actually denied herself the gratification of making them play, it must be acknowledged that she fully merited the applause afterwards bestowed upon her by the bride for her heroic conduct. One more scene, and my tale is told.

In the month of September, that same year, two travelling-carriages, both containing English tourists, drew up at the porte cochère of one of the principal hotels in the town of Berne.

The postilions, as is the wont of such gentry, cracked their heavy whips, and forced their tired steeds to assume an air of great activity as they drove through the quaint old streets, where the cognisance of the Bear was visible at every turn.

As they came in front of the inn, the smiling, fat-faced landlord, with his German assistants, bowed to the "Milords Anglais," and advanced to receive their commands. The faces of the new arrivals are, I think, not unfamiliar to us. Surely that tall stiff figure, deferentially handing out of the carriage that handsome but shrewish-looking lady, must be our old friend, the important Mr. Bernard Watson. If that is the lady whom he has so recently made his second wife, we can hardly wish him a worse fate than to be continually in the companionship of so uncongenial-looking a partner.

The new Mrs. Bernard Watson's temper does not belie her looks, and she already rules her husband with a rod of iron. The very day after her marriage she had a mortal quarrel with her two sisters-inlaw, who are not again likely to disturb their brother's ménage.

But what strange fatality led him here, of all the places in the world, on his wedding tour?

Ah! my friend, you will never cease to regret having chosen the Simplon instead of the Splugen Pass on your journey to Italy, for, before another day has passed over your head, your amiable bride will be in possession of the whole of the facts connected with a certain tragical occurrence which happened on this spot not three years ago, and ever afterwards, when you open your mouth in remonstrance to your wife, it will be stopped by a small display of oratory on her part, which, with but slight variations, will inevitably conclude with:

"If you think to goad me into doing wrong by your cruelty and unkindness, as you did your first wife, or that you will drive me away to die in a foreign land, you are greatly mistaken, Mr. Watson!" until at last you feel that you would only be too thankful if you could.

But as the second carriage is drawing up, let us stand back a little and watch its occupants alight.

The handsome open countenance of the gentleman, which lights up with a tender smile as it is raised to his companion's, who is preparing to descend, and who throws him her cloak from off the seat beside her, betrays an amount of happiness which in the presence of the pair who arrived before him is almost insulting. Its brightness is a little tempered by the "grey which somewhat (prematurely) mingles with the brown" on the temples, showing that the tempest has passed by, leaving him not altogether unscathed, but the look of calm content visible in every feature telling of hopes realised to their full, affords

plain evidence that the storm has served also to clear the atmosphere of all noxious vapours.

Tenderly he receives the lady in his strong arms as she springs from the steps of the carriage. The bloom on the cheek and the sunny look (which, unlike that of her companion, exhibits no trace of past suffering) shows that her happiness equals his own. The reader need scarcely look over the list of visitors in which the gentleman has just written in a clear bold hand the names of Monsieur et Madame Chetwynde, to find out who they are.

David and Sybella, in short, are spending their time, whilst their Suffolk home is being put in readiness for their reception, in travelling about at their pleasure.

Neither have any cause to regret the past; on the contrary, the event which at one time seemed so entirely to have wrecked their happiness has been productive of so much consolation to both, that, without it, they agree in thinking their happiness would not have been so complete, and grateful they feel for this additional proof that "There's a divinity which shapes our ends, rough-hew them how we will."

THE GAY SCIENCE-THE SCIENCE OF CRITICISM.*

In the attempt now first made, and which cannot but be hailed with approbation by all true lovers of literature, to settle the first principles of criticism, and to show how alone it can be raised to the dignity of a science, it would appear as if the dictum of the poet, "Grammatici certant et adhuc sub judice lis est," stood true at the very threshold, and, indeed, trammelled the inquiry throughout. Wherefore, also, if criticism is a science, designate it as the "gay science"? The troubadours gave that name to their art of poetry; Mr. Dallas gives it to the science of criticism for the same reason, that is to say, because the immediate aim of art is the cultivation of pleasure, and the science of criticism must of necessity be the science of the laws of pleasure, "the joy science," "the gay science."

As Mr. Dallas remarks, it so happens that no critical doctrine is in our day more unfashionable than this-that the object of art is pleasure. Those who cleave to the old creed, which has the prescription of about thirty centuries in its favour, are supposed to be shallow and commonplace. Nearly all thinkers now, who pretend to any height or depth of thought, abjure the notion of pleasure as the object of pursuit in the noble moods of art. But what if these highflyers are wrong and the thirty centuries are right? What if not one of those who reject the axiom of the thirty centuries can agree with another as to the terms of a better doctrine? What if theirs be the true common-place which cannot see the grandeur of a doctrine, because it comes to us clothed in unclean

*The Gay Science. By E. S. Dallas. Chapman and Hall.